This first song is perhaps the most openly misogynist song I've ever heard, yet it's so brazen I actually like it. And the video, though the motif has been done before, is a lot of fun. This is Fiction Plane, the band formed by Sting's oldest son, who, oddly enough, plays the bass and sings in a trio. Hmmm. The song is "It's a Lie."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P-dPhHfTUi4
The guilty pleasure? I'm not even going to tell you what it is. You have to click to find out. If you want answers, you can comment or message me on Facebook and I'll defend myself.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nsWm3U1w_cA
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Don't like Obama, W.Va.? It's OK, you're just racist
Wow, there's a punch in the mouth right out of the gate. How ya like me now, West Virginia?
Not a lot? Well, my apologies.
But I've come to some conclusions over the past five years of working in the Mountain State.
And, no, not every West Virginian is a racist who bases their decisions on racism.
However, there are a list of things to consider, here.
1. 40 percent of Democratic voters voted for a convicted felon incarcerated in Texas instead of President Barack Obama in the May primary. Yeah, that made the national news. Didn't make the state look too good.
2. Democratic Gov. Earl Ray Tomblin, who made his fortune off of his mother's racing greyhound breeding business (classy), said he will not attend the Democratic National Convention in Charlotte.
3. U.S. Rep Nick Rahall, D-W.Va., and Sen. Joe Manchin, D-W.Va., have made similar declarations. Sen. Jay Rockefeller, D-W.Va., is the only federal Democrat from the Mountain State not to have made such a pledge.
4. West Virginians continue to rage against the Health Care Act, despite the fact that tens of thousands of West Virginians don't have health care, and the state is crippled by indigent patients who go to an emergency room instead of a family doctor when they have a cold, because the hospital can't turn them away.
5. Mining. Coal mining is employing less workers than ever, is providing less power to our nation than ever, miners are dying in horrible disasters, companies ignore safety regulations and prefer just to blow up a mountain and then "surface mine" it, rather than pay miners to go into it. Somehow, this is Obama's fault.
6. The racist comments I have to pull off of my employer's website forums every day pretty much speak for themselves.
7. Let's not forget the 2008 Democratic primary, which also garnered national media attention, after several voters gave interviews saying they didn't like Obama because he was a Muslim, and they didn't like that his middle name is "Hussein." One of those is a fact, another isn't. Neither should have played a role in an informed voter's decision.
8. The frequent argument that Obama did not kill Osama bin Laden, Navy Seals did. (This in not just from W.Va., but more on this later.)
9. The birther issue? Still alive and well here.
10. 20 percent of eligible West Virginia voters polled in May admitted that race was a factor in their decision not to support Obama. That's one in five. And those are just the people who are admitting it.
Now, I know a lot of West Virginians who are pleasant, rational people. And I'm not saying that you have to vote Democrat to be pleasant and rational. I know several Republicans, independents and libertarians in West Virginia who I think are intelligent, shrewd voters. I respect their decisions and opinions. I, myself, have voted Republican when I thought it was the best choice. Turns out I was wrong, but still.
I'm just saying West Virginia, as a whole, has not made a good showing of itself publicly lately.
Look, I live in Kentucky, and we have the same image problems. In our state 40 percent of voters chose "no preference" over Obama.
But in West Virginia it's a different vibe. It's never good when both candidates for governor, including the aforementioned Earl Ray and his Republican challenger, aren't attacking each other, but are instead talking about how they will fight the Obama administration. Hmmm, governor in a poor state that ranks near dead last in everything (again, Kentuckian here, I understand) and they're going to try and defy the highest office in the U.S. tooth and nail? Sounds like a recovery plan to me.
Now, West Virginia, like Kentucky in days past (I think all of our federal office holders are Republicans now), likes to elect Democrats but expects them to behave in discord with their party.
They are Democrats in name only.
The first few items on my list, mainly the skipping of the convention (which is a flat out disgrace) and the whole coal issue, are intertwined.
Obama is viewed as anti-coal by the voters of West Virginia. It's not that he's environmentally friendly, wants to find new ways of producing energy that would also create jobs, and make coal cleaner for the environment and safer for workers. No, he is a "Marxist commie" (I've actually seen that phrase used frequently) who wants to stamp out freedom with his EPA stormtroopers to establish federal power and control.
As coal has been declining for years, this argument makes little sense, and frequently falls back on "He took our jerbs" after peeling the first line of defense away. Break that next one down and the voters just plain hate Obama. They won't tell you why. But I think those exit poll interviews gave a pretty clear picture.
Other facade arguments include the deficit (which no one cared about until now), and the aforementioned Health Care Act, which, as stated, would actually HELP thousands of West Virginians.
A local news station recently interviewed a health care worker and a woman who was getting a free screening about the health care issue.
The worker said she hopes it is upheld because she sees and treats so many people that don't have insurance and access to regular health care.
The woman, who was receiving a free screening, mind you, said she wants to see it struck down. When asked why, she didn't give a very clear answer, but finally mumbled "people don't understand it and they need time to understand it."
Well, the health care crisis is happening sort of nowish.
Anyway, the people in office know that their constituents flat out hate the president. And I don't mean they disagree on a few things. They HATE him. So, the politicians have to make a show of defying the president, which comes at the cost of losing the respect of their party bretheren, and, well, the president. So, in the end, nothing gets accomplished that helps the state, other than these people getting re-elected.
When Republican John Raese lost his Senate bid to Joe Manchin, he didn't say "We will get this Senate seat back." No, the guy who compared having to put no-smoking signs in one of his businesses to Jews having to wear yellow stars during the Holocaust said "We will get Obama."
What does that even mean?
As far as some other things on the list, if any other president was on watch and was the Commander in Chief when the world's number one terror threat was eliminated, they would be lauded as a hero. And, even if they didn't literally pull the trigger, you know they would be including that as part of their resume for re-election. So why is it a problem when Obama does it? I think I know.
I know Obama has had his policy ups and downs, like many other presidents, but you'd think he'd get some slack for being in charge when bin Laden was killed.
The birther thing? Well, I was born in Hawaii and it's never been a problem. You all know the actual details of the the argument and I won't even get into it as it doesn't bear repeating.
Let's face it, if Mitt Romney were running against a typical WASP, everyone in a red state would be trying to come to terms with the fact that Romney's a Mormon. In fact, it is a problem with the GOP voter base. Should it be? Again, no. But this is how a large majority of the voting public thinks, and you know it. You can say "I don't think that way" and, likely, it's true. But look at the aggregate voting population, and the picture is clear.
Romney only trumps Obama to uninformed voters because he is white.
Obama knows West Virginia hates him. That is why he rarely, if ever, campaigns in the Mountain State.
And, in the end, the state's few electoral votes will likely mean little in the grand scheme of things.
Haters can say he's trying to take their guns (which he's not), their jobs (which he's not) and make them have health insurance (God forbid).
However, when you're in that booth, and nobody but Fox News is spying on you, you know why you fill out which ballot, in your heart of hearts. Whatever decision you make, I urge you to deny hate as a motivation.
Not a lot? Well, my apologies.
But I've come to some conclusions over the past five years of working in the Mountain State.
And, no, not every West Virginian is a racist who bases their decisions on racism.
However, there are a list of things to consider, here.
1. 40 percent of Democratic voters voted for a convicted felon incarcerated in Texas instead of President Barack Obama in the May primary. Yeah, that made the national news. Didn't make the state look too good.
2. Democratic Gov. Earl Ray Tomblin, who made his fortune off of his mother's racing greyhound breeding business (classy), said he will not attend the Democratic National Convention in Charlotte.
3. U.S. Rep Nick Rahall, D-W.Va., and Sen. Joe Manchin, D-W.Va., have made similar declarations. Sen. Jay Rockefeller, D-W.Va., is the only federal Democrat from the Mountain State not to have made such a pledge.
4. West Virginians continue to rage against the Health Care Act, despite the fact that tens of thousands of West Virginians don't have health care, and the state is crippled by indigent patients who go to an emergency room instead of a family doctor when they have a cold, because the hospital can't turn them away.
5. Mining. Coal mining is employing less workers than ever, is providing less power to our nation than ever, miners are dying in horrible disasters, companies ignore safety regulations and prefer just to blow up a mountain and then "surface mine" it, rather than pay miners to go into it. Somehow, this is Obama's fault.
6. The racist comments I have to pull off of my employer's website forums every day pretty much speak for themselves.
7. Let's not forget the 2008 Democratic primary, which also garnered national media attention, after several voters gave interviews saying they didn't like Obama because he was a Muslim, and they didn't like that his middle name is "Hussein." One of those is a fact, another isn't. Neither should have played a role in an informed voter's decision.
8. The frequent argument that Obama did not kill Osama bin Laden, Navy Seals did. (This in not just from W.Va., but more on this later.)
9. The birther issue? Still alive and well here.
10. 20 percent of eligible West Virginia voters polled in May admitted that race was a factor in their decision not to support Obama. That's one in five. And those are just the people who are admitting it.
Now, I know a lot of West Virginians who are pleasant, rational people. And I'm not saying that you have to vote Democrat to be pleasant and rational. I know several Republicans, independents and libertarians in West Virginia who I think are intelligent, shrewd voters. I respect their decisions and opinions. I, myself, have voted Republican when I thought it was the best choice. Turns out I was wrong, but still.
I'm just saying West Virginia, as a whole, has not made a good showing of itself publicly lately.
Look, I live in Kentucky, and we have the same image problems. In our state 40 percent of voters chose "no preference" over Obama.
But in West Virginia it's a different vibe. It's never good when both candidates for governor, including the aforementioned Earl Ray and his Republican challenger, aren't attacking each other, but are instead talking about how they will fight the Obama administration. Hmmm, governor in a poor state that ranks near dead last in everything (again, Kentuckian here, I understand) and they're going to try and defy the highest office in the U.S. tooth and nail? Sounds like a recovery plan to me.
Now, West Virginia, like Kentucky in days past (I think all of our federal office holders are Republicans now), likes to elect Democrats but expects them to behave in discord with their party.
They are Democrats in name only.
The first few items on my list, mainly the skipping of the convention (which is a flat out disgrace) and the whole coal issue, are intertwined.
Obama is viewed as anti-coal by the voters of West Virginia. It's not that he's environmentally friendly, wants to find new ways of producing energy that would also create jobs, and make coal cleaner for the environment and safer for workers. No, he is a "Marxist commie" (I've actually seen that phrase used frequently) who wants to stamp out freedom with his EPA stormtroopers to establish federal power and control.
As coal has been declining for years, this argument makes little sense, and frequently falls back on "He took our jerbs" after peeling the first line of defense away. Break that next one down and the voters just plain hate Obama. They won't tell you why. But I think those exit poll interviews gave a pretty clear picture.
Other facade arguments include the deficit (which no one cared about until now), and the aforementioned Health Care Act, which, as stated, would actually HELP thousands of West Virginians.
A local news station recently interviewed a health care worker and a woman who was getting a free screening about the health care issue.
The worker said she hopes it is upheld because she sees and treats so many people that don't have insurance and access to regular health care.
The woman, who was receiving a free screening, mind you, said she wants to see it struck down. When asked why, she didn't give a very clear answer, but finally mumbled "people don't understand it and they need time to understand it."
Well, the health care crisis is happening sort of nowish.
Anyway, the people in office know that their constituents flat out hate the president. And I don't mean they disagree on a few things. They HATE him. So, the politicians have to make a show of defying the president, which comes at the cost of losing the respect of their party bretheren, and, well, the president. So, in the end, nothing gets accomplished that helps the state, other than these people getting re-elected.
When Republican John Raese lost his Senate bid to Joe Manchin, he didn't say "We will get this Senate seat back." No, the guy who compared having to put no-smoking signs in one of his businesses to Jews having to wear yellow stars during the Holocaust said "We will get Obama."
What does that even mean?
As far as some other things on the list, if any other president was on watch and was the Commander in Chief when the world's number one terror threat was eliminated, they would be lauded as a hero. And, even if they didn't literally pull the trigger, you know they would be including that as part of their resume for re-election. So why is it a problem when Obama does it? I think I know.
I know Obama has had his policy ups and downs, like many other presidents, but you'd think he'd get some slack for being in charge when bin Laden was killed.
The birther thing? Well, I was born in Hawaii and it's never been a problem. You all know the actual details of the the argument and I won't even get into it as it doesn't bear repeating.
Let's face it, if Mitt Romney were running against a typical WASP, everyone in a red state would be trying to come to terms with the fact that Romney's a Mormon. In fact, it is a problem with the GOP voter base. Should it be? Again, no. But this is how a large majority of the voting public thinks, and you know it. You can say "I don't think that way" and, likely, it's true. But look at the aggregate voting population, and the picture is clear.
Romney only trumps Obama to uninformed voters because he is white.
Obama knows West Virginia hates him. That is why he rarely, if ever, campaigns in the Mountain State.
And, in the end, the state's few electoral votes will likely mean little in the grand scheme of things.
Haters can say he's trying to take their guns (which he's not), their jobs (which he's not) and make them have health insurance (God forbid).
However, when you're in that booth, and nobody but Fox News is spying on you, you know why you fill out which ballot, in your heart of hearts. Whatever decision you make, I urge you to deny hate as a motivation.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
The H is O ...
There's a big heatwave coming for most of the eastern U.S., so I thought it would be fun to break out this oldie about the dog days of summer. An aside, the percentage marks you see ran as bullet points in the actual news publication.
http://dailyindependent.com/columns/x1192745548/Ben-Fields-Heat-of-the-moment-08-03-06
http://dailyindependent.com/columns/x1192745548/Ben-Fields-Heat-of-the-moment-08-03-06
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Songs/Videos of the week
The first is my favorite music video of all time. And no, it doesn't come from Rush or the Police or the Cure. It's three lads from Oxford who have an amazing catalog of songs and equally clever videos. I present Supergrass, with "Late in the Day."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NrBE3VRc8mc
This week's guilty pleasure is one of those songs that I can remember playing on top 40 radio while I was at the pool with friends in those vague, hazy 1980s summers. This songs hook just crawled under my skin and has stayed there. Now, I had a pretty good mullet back in the day, but I've got nothing on this Aussie frontman. It is Icehouse. It is "Electric Blue."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IUFOVu1CurM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NrBE3VRc8mc
This week's guilty pleasure is one of those songs that I can remember playing on top 40 radio while I was at the pool with friends in those vague, hazy 1980s summers. This songs hook just crawled under my skin and has stayed there. Now, I had a pretty good mullet back in the day, but I've got nothing on this Aussie frontman. It is Icehouse. It is "Electric Blue."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IUFOVu1CurM
Friday, June 22, 2012
A throwback, but worth the time
This is a column I wrote in my waning days with The Independent, about Bitch McConnell. (Excuse me, I have a cold.) I don't often write about politics, but McConnell's arrogance, which persists to this day, made me very angry.
http://dailyindependent.com/columns/x1192756906/Ben-Fields-Senator-helped-him-see-the-light-06-21-07
http://dailyindependent.com/columns/x1192756906/Ben-Fields-Senator-helped-him-see-the-light-06-21-07
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Songs/videos of the week
First up, we have "Not a Job" from the Manchester outfit Elbow. The video component is basically photos of them on tour. It says "with lyrics" but they're not there. So I'll give you one of my favorites from the song "Words to make her stay, you said 'Leave me and the plants die,' a panicked smile across your face." I find in the most dire situations I make a joke instead of saying what I need to say, and it all goes to hell, so that's why I like that particular line.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_WXHoh63lTI
Ah, now the guilty pleasure, "Dance Hall Days" by Wang Chung. I'm not a fan of their other hit. I just love those chorused-out, clean 80s guitar sounds, along with the strings and horns and all of that. I even like the video. And, if it's been bugging you for ages, the line toward the end is "and in her eyes two sapphires blue. And you need her and she needs you." The phrasing comes off as gibberish. Enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LKwO1aB1W3I&feature=related
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_WXHoh63lTI
Ah, now the guilty pleasure, "Dance Hall Days" by Wang Chung. I'm not a fan of their other hit. I just love those chorused-out, clean 80s guitar sounds, along with the strings and horns and all of that. I even like the video. And, if it's been bugging you for ages, the line toward the end is "and in her eyes two sapphires blue. And you need her and she needs you." The phrasing comes off as gibberish. Enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LKwO1aB1W3I&feature=related
Friday, June 15, 2012
Live by the snake, die by the snake
Mark Randall "Mack" Wolford, of southern West Virginia, died at age 44 in late May.
Cause of death? Snake bite.
Was he hiking the Appalachian Trail? Working in high weeds? Visiting a reptile house at a negligent zoo?
No.
He was at church. Leading services, I should add.
Wolford was a snake handler. According to an Associated Press interview, they prefer to be called "serpent handlers," but, as the fictional Dr. Julius Hibbert once said "And hillbillies prefer 'sons of the soil,' but it ain't going to happen."
Snake handling, while banned in most states, is still legal in West Virginia. Even if it weren't, it wouldn't stop someone like Wolford.
After all, his father was a snake-handling preacher. And, wait for it, he died of a snake bite at age 39 in 1983.
So where does all of this come from?
Well, like many beliefs that are held firmly in what many of us would consider the most "normal" of churches, temples, mosques and so on, it comes from a single passage in the book of Mark. (16:17-18 if you're following along).
The passage varies depending on what version of the Bible you're reading, but this is what it says:
"In My name they will cast out demons; they will speak with new tongues; they will take up serpents; and if they drink anything deadly, it will by no means hurt them; they will lay their hands on the sick, and they will recover."
Notice it says if you "drink" anything deadly, it won't harm you. It doesn't say anything about the snake biting you. All it says is "they will take up serpents."
Now, here's the part where I explain that I am no Biblical scholar. Like a lot of people, I go to church, try to get something out of it, control my rage triggers (those being attacks on the media and preachers saying that the United States was founded on Christian principals while leaving out the rather startling details that state otherwise) and try to live a life where I don't steal walkers from old ladies in the middle of the street.
We can all be selective about what we follow in the Bible and what we disregard. Again, I am no expert. I'm just glad my eyes didn't fix on "they shall take up serpents" and have some sort of epiphany that sent me off to PetSmart.
For me, unless there's a passage in the Bible (and there could be) that said "And the Lord did say unto them, you shall juggle snakes or I will smite thee on June 15, 2012" I'm not picking up a snake. Not even a tiny one.
I should point out that, even though snake handling is legal in West Virginia, it is fairly rare. That's according to the Associated Press, so, like the Bible, view it how you view it.
But, at least from my own experience, that statement seems to be true. I've been to a lot of different churches, and no one has ever said to me "Here's your bulletin, and would you prefer rattlesnake or copperhead?"
You can find snake handlers, but you have to look. They don't generally find you, unless you're coming to after one hell of a bender that landed you in a place you never intended to visit.
Having said all of that, I do have some respect for this Wolford guy. Mainly because, even though I, and probably a good portion of the U.S. consider what he practiced to be crazy, he didn't shy away from it.
Many who engage in this practice are suspicious of outsiders and shut themselves away from the rest of the world.
Not Wolford. He had no problem with reporters or photographers and took some on snake hunts, according to the AP.
A friend of Wolford's, who happens to be a professor at the University of Tennessee Chattanooga, said Wolford was "trying to revitalize a strong tradition that doesn't make a distinction between beliefs and practices."
That's where I have to disagree. When you're inviting actual physical harm to yourself or others in the name of any religion, bad things usually happen.
Leaps of faith are spiritual risks, not jumping off a building.
The professor went on to say that snake handlers aren't under the illusion that they won't be bitten, and said that they would say the point is "no one gets out of this alive," and "It's not a question of how you live; it's a question of how you die."
Well, there's a refreshing and uplifting take on things.
People who knew Wolford said this is the way he would have wanted to go.
If that was true for him, that's great. It's not true for me.
Cause of death? Snake bite.
Was he hiking the Appalachian Trail? Working in high weeds? Visiting a reptile house at a negligent zoo?
No.
He was at church. Leading services, I should add.
Wolford was a snake handler. According to an Associated Press interview, they prefer to be called "serpent handlers," but, as the fictional Dr. Julius Hibbert once said "And hillbillies prefer 'sons of the soil,' but it ain't going to happen."
Snake handling, while banned in most states, is still legal in West Virginia. Even if it weren't, it wouldn't stop someone like Wolford.
After all, his father was a snake-handling preacher. And, wait for it, he died of a snake bite at age 39 in 1983.
So where does all of this come from?
Well, like many beliefs that are held firmly in what many of us would consider the most "normal" of churches, temples, mosques and so on, it comes from a single passage in the book of Mark. (16:17-18 if you're following along).
The passage varies depending on what version of the Bible you're reading, but this is what it says:
"In My name they will cast out demons; they will speak with new tongues; they will take up serpents; and if they drink anything deadly, it will by no means hurt them; they will lay their hands on the sick, and they will recover."
Notice it says if you "drink" anything deadly, it won't harm you. It doesn't say anything about the snake biting you. All it says is "they will take up serpents."
Now, here's the part where I explain that I am no Biblical scholar. Like a lot of people, I go to church, try to get something out of it, control my rage triggers (those being attacks on the media and preachers saying that the United States was founded on Christian principals while leaving out the rather startling details that state otherwise) and try to live a life where I don't steal walkers from old ladies in the middle of the street.
We can all be selective about what we follow in the Bible and what we disregard. Again, I am no expert. I'm just glad my eyes didn't fix on "they shall take up serpents" and have some sort of epiphany that sent me off to PetSmart.
For me, unless there's a passage in the Bible (and there could be) that said "And the Lord did say unto them, you shall juggle snakes or I will smite thee on June 15, 2012" I'm not picking up a snake. Not even a tiny one.
I should point out that, even though snake handling is legal in West Virginia, it is fairly rare. That's according to the Associated Press, so, like the Bible, view it how you view it.
But, at least from my own experience, that statement seems to be true. I've been to a lot of different churches, and no one has ever said to me "Here's your bulletin, and would you prefer rattlesnake or copperhead?"
You can find snake handlers, but you have to look. They don't generally find you, unless you're coming to after one hell of a bender that landed you in a place you never intended to visit.
Having said all of that, I do have some respect for this Wolford guy. Mainly because, even though I, and probably a good portion of the U.S. consider what he practiced to be crazy, he didn't shy away from it.
Many who engage in this practice are suspicious of outsiders and shut themselves away from the rest of the world.
Not Wolford. He had no problem with reporters or photographers and took some on snake hunts, according to the AP.
A friend of Wolford's, who happens to be a professor at the University of Tennessee Chattanooga, said Wolford was "trying to revitalize a strong tradition that doesn't make a distinction between beliefs and practices."
That's where I have to disagree. When you're inviting actual physical harm to yourself or others in the name of any religion, bad things usually happen.
Leaps of faith are spiritual risks, not jumping off a building.
The professor went on to say that snake handlers aren't under the illusion that they won't be bitten, and said that they would say the point is "no one gets out of this alive," and "It's not a question of how you live; it's a question of how you die."
Well, there's a refreshing and uplifting take on things.
People who knew Wolford said this is the way he would have wanted to go.
If that was true for him, that's great. It's not true for me.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Thanks and keep visiting
Just a quick note that the blog officially hit exactly 2,000 page views today. I really appreciate everyone who visits and I especially appreciate the dirty dozen who signed up as members. I know it isn't about page views, and there are YouTube videos that get 2,000 views in 30 seconds, but it's a good motivator for me to keep doing this and it makes me feel like people out there are enjoying it. So thanks everybody, and please keep stopping by. I'll be here.
Cheers,
Ben
Cheers,
Ben
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Song/Video of the week
"Vaccination Scar" by The Tragically Hip. I know that sounds like a heavy metal song, but, trust me, it's not.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CaXJc_EhPg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CaXJc_EhPg
Friday, June 8, 2012
Of pools, procrastination and prophecy
I have a heap of science fiction books that I keep in a box in the furthest corner of our basement.
I keep them there out of an irrational fear that one day one of my former English professors will pop by and, were said books on a bookshelf, find out that I've read nothing but crap since I finished college.
I would try to placate them by saying I've been working on various novels since I got my degree. But I graduated nearly 14 years ago, and nothing has been finished or published, so I doubt they would be impressed.
"I wrote a column that reached 25,000 readers each week for several years at a local newspaper," I would plead.
"Did it win any awards?"
"Uh, no."
"I see ..."
Accusatory furrowing of brow would follow.
Someone actually did stumble upon my treasure trove of what my professors used to call "airport literature" last year.
We were having our pool redone. An aside here, never buy a house with a pool. Buy a house near someone who owns a pool, and leech off of them.
Anyway, the pool crew had an electrician (it's scary how much electricity is involved with water when it comes to a pool) and he went down to the furthest reaches of our basement to check our breaker box. Just so happens that's where the books are.
As we were walking back outside the sun-hardened, scraggly-haired guy lit a cigarette.
"You like science fiction?" he asked.
"Yeah, I do," I said.
"I thought so. I saw all of those books down there. Do you write any?"
"Yeah, but it's not really science fiction."
"I love it," the guy said. "I write all the time. I wrote a book called 'The Stonehenge Prophecy.'"
"You did?"
"Yeah, I had a few thousand copies published, but they all sold out so now I just tell people to order it and it gets printed on-demand."
Son of a bitch.
Here I am, always talking about the university I attended and all the knowledge I attained there, all the while holding on to the narcissistic idea I am one day going to pen the book to end all books, and the guy who is working on my pool is a published author of an actual novel.
I'm not trying to hack on this guy in any way, it just struck me how much time I had wasted.
Authors will tell you to write every day, no matter what it is you write. I don't do that. I write in long cycles for a period of hours or days or whatever, and then I never come back to that work for several months.
Columns were a good fit because they simply require a quick burst of inspiration and energy.
The encounter with the electrician, quickly followed by the publication of a book of poems penned by one of my best friends, in addition to the fact that three of the people I either work with or used to work at my current newspaper all have published books, fired me up.
For about two days.
Then I sank back into the routines of life.
But it's all one big circle.
A few days ago we tried to open our pool, and the electricity wasn't working. So who should show up to fix it but the author of "The Stonehenge Prophecy."
"Don't talk to him about books," my wife said under her breath.
I didn't.
I don't know what's going to happen with the books I'm working on. Maybe they'll be discovered after I'm dead and I'll be appreciated after my time. Or they'll be incinerated as the world falls ever closer to that of Ray Bradbury's (R.I.P.) Fahrenheit 451.
Or, I could actually work on something with some sort of energy similar to focus and see what happens. And I need to before someone else just writes the same thing I'm writing. I'll never forget one of my college friends talking about how he was going to write a series of novels about a school for wizards.
"How's 'Harry Potter' sitting with you?" I asked him a few years later over the phone. The question was not appreciated.
So, it's back to the grindstone.
First I have to watch game five of the Stanley Cup Finals, though.
I keep them there out of an irrational fear that one day one of my former English professors will pop by and, were said books on a bookshelf, find out that I've read nothing but crap since I finished college.
I would try to placate them by saying I've been working on various novels since I got my degree. But I graduated nearly 14 years ago, and nothing has been finished or published, so I doubt they would be impressed.
"I wrote a column that reached 25,000 readers each week for several years at a local newspaper," I would plead.
"Did it win any awards?"
"Uh, no."
"I see ..."
Accusatory furrowing of brow would follow.
Someone actually did stumble upon my treasure trove of what my professors used to call "airport literature" last year.
We were having our pool redone. An aside here, never buy a house with a pool. Buy a house near someone who owns a pool, and leech off of them.
Anyway, the pool crew had an electrician (it's scary how much electricity is involved with water when it comes to a pool) and he went down to the furthest reaches of our basement to check our breaker box. Just so happens that's where the books are.
As we were walking back outside the sun-hardened, scraggly-haired guy lit a cigarette.
"You like science fiction?" he asked.
"Yeah, I do," I said.
"I thought so. I saw all of those books down there. Do you write any?"
"Yeah, but it's not really science fiction."
"I love it," the guy said. "I write all the time. I wrote a book called 'The Stonehenge Prophecy.'"
"You did?"
"Yeah, I had a few thousand copies published, but they all sold out so now I just tell people to order it and it gets printed on-demand."
Son of a bitch.
Here I am, always talking about the university I attended and all the knowledge I attained there, all the while holding on to the narcissistic idea I am one day going to pen the book to end all books, and the guy who is working on my pool is a published author of an actual novel.
I'm not trying to hack on this guy in any way, it just struck me how much time I had wasted.
Authors will tell you to write every day, no matter what it is you write. I don't do that. I write in long cycles for a period of hours or days or whatever, and then I never come back to that work for several months.
Columns were a good fit because they simply require a quick burst of inspiration and energy.
The encounter with the electrician, quickly followed by the publication of a book of poems penned by one of my best friends, in addition to the fact that three of the people I either work with or used to work at my current newspaper all have published books, fired me up.
For about two days.
Then I sank back into the routines of life.
But it's all one big circle.
A few days ago we tried to open our pool, and the electricity wasn't working. So who should show up to fix it but the author of "The Stonehenge Prophecy."
"Don't talk to him about books," my wife said under her breath.
I didn't.
I don't know what's going to happen with the books I'm working on. Maybe they'll be discovered after I'm dead and I'll be appreciated after my time. Or they'll be incinerated as the world falls ever closer to that of Ray Bradbury's (R.I.P.) Fahrenheit 451.
Or, I could actually work on something with some sort of energy similar to focus and see what happens. And I need to before someone else just writes the same thing I'm writing. I'll never forget one of my college friends talking about how he was going to write a series of novels about a school for wizards.
"How's 'Harry Potter' sitting with you?" I asked him a few years later over the phone. The question was not appreciated.
So, it's back to the grindstone.
First I have to watch game five of the Stanley Cup Finals, though.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
When it began ...
This is one of my earliest columns. It was published in January of 2004 in The Independent. Thought I'd share.
Where's the bachelor booth?
This one might get me in some trouble, but it was too good to pass up, so I'll take the risk.
It was one of the coldest, bleakest days of the year. Instead of sitting inside watching football, I was standing in a line in the foyer of the Big Sandy Superstore Arena in Huntington.
The line, which snaked around the outer area of the arena two or three times, was comprised mostly of young women, who were excitedly chatting away. The few men present looked a lot like me: Hands in pockets, eyes on the floor. But how excited could you expect us fellows to be about a bridal show?
I tried to put on an enthusiastic face and tell my fiancee that there was no place I would rather be on a cold, dark Sunday than surrounded by a throng of women in full wedding-planner mode as they jockeyed for position at the various bridal boutique and gift registry booths under the dim lighting of an arena I hadn't been in since the Huntington Blizzard left town.
I'd make a joke about hockey players shaking in their skates at the sheer carnage on display at the bridal expo, but it seems a little too easy.
Anyway, we spent probably a half hour in line, during which I answered a record number of wedding questions with the response "yes." Wouldn't it be nice to have a string quartet? "Yes." Should we get someone to videotape the service in addition to a photographer? "Yes." Is it true your parents were never married? "Yes."
When we got to the front and paid for our tickets, a lady handed my fiancee a star sticker for her to place somewhere on her person, so all the folks wheeling and dealing within would know that she was the bride.
"And not me," I said to the lady. She gave me a consolation laugh that told me she had heard that joke about 100 times already that day. This is off to a good start, I thought to myself.
We wedged our way into the arena, and my bride-to-be was bombarded with forms to fill out, drawings to enter and products to try. I, meanwhile, had the honor of standing around and looking useless, as packs of women knocked me into other packs of women, which is not nearly as pleasant as it sounds.
As I looked around at all of the limousine services, DJs, travel agents and department stores vying for our attention, I began to notice something was missing. There were plenty of places to look at wedding dresses and bridesmaids' gowns, but there wasn't a single booth there to help a man get some ideas for his bachelor party.
I remarked to my fiancee how offended I was at the incredible bias displayed by the organizers of the event.
"I want a booth where I can sample mixed drinks and watch women take their clothes off," I said.
I winced in anticipation of a negative reaction, but instead received laughter, reminding me of why I'm marrying this person in the first place. Then again, she might have just been buttering me up so I wouldn't get grouchy during the fashion show.
That's right, I said fashion show.
Three of them, really, which came out to an hour and a half of people strutting around in dresses and tuxedos to flashing lights and techno music. And when it wasn't techno, it was country.
I did what I always do when this happens, and began playing the opening power chords to Rush's "Tom Sawyer" in my head. But the recesses of my imagination were no safe haven against this brutal assault on the senses, especially when one of the models brought out a dog in a tux and top hat.
"I'm in hell," I said.
Finally, my fiancee agreed to leave, and we burst out of the auditorium doors into the cold air. I took a deep breath, purging everything I had just witnessed from my system.
My fiancee thanked me sincerely for going, which immediately made me feel guilty for my behavior. So I'm already planning a time to heap apologetic gifts on her. Looks like we're going to be just fine.
BEN FIELDS can be reached at bfields@dailyindependent.com or (606) 326-2651. .
Where's the bachelor booth?
This one might get me in some trouble, but it was too good to pass up, so I'll take the risk.
It was one of the coldest, bleakest days of the year. Instead of sitting inside watching football, I was standing in a line in the foyer of the Big Sandy Superstore Arena in Huntington.
The line, which snaked around the outer area of the arena two or three times, was comprised mostly of young women, who were excitedly chatting away. The few men present looked a lot like me: Hands in pockets, eyes on the floor. But how excited could you expect us fellows to be about a bridal show?
I tried to put on an enthusiastic face and tell my fiancee that there was no place I would rather be on a cold, dark Sunday than surrounded by a throng of women in full wedding-planner mode as they jockeyed for position at the various bridal boutique and gift registry booths under the dim lighting of an arena I hadn't been in since the Huntington Blizzard left town.
I'd make a joke about hockey players shaking in their skates at the sheer carnage on display at the bridal expo, but it seems a little too easy.
Anyway, we spent probably a half hour in line, during which I answered a record number of wedding questions with the response "yes." Wouldn't it be nice to have a string quartet? "Yes." Should we get someone to videotape the service in addition to a photographer? "Yes." Is it true your parents were never married? "Yes."
When we got to the front and paid for our tickets, a lady handed my fiancee a star sticker for her to place somewhere on her person, so all the folks wheeling and dealing within would know that she was the bride.
"And not me," I said to the lady. She gave me a consolation laugh that told me she had heard that joke about 100 times already that day. This is off to a good start, I thought to myself.
We wedged our way into the arena, and my bride-to-be was bombarded with forms to fill out, drawings to enter and products to try. I, meanwhile, had the honor of standing around and looking useless, as packs of women knocked me into other packs of women, which is not nearly as pleasant as it sounds.
As I looked around at all of the limousine services, DJs, travel agents and department stores vying for our attention, I began to notice something was missing. There were plenty of places to look at wedding dresses and bridesmaids' gowns, but there wasn't a single booth there to help a man get some ideas for his bachelor party.
I remarked to my fiancee how offended I was at the incredible bias displayed by the organizers of the event.
"I want a booth where I can sample mixed drinks and watch women take their clothes off," I said.
I winced in anticipation of a negative reaction, but instead received laughter, reminding me of why I'm marrying this person in the first place. Then again, she might have just been buttering me up so I wouldn't get grouchy during the fashion show.
That's right, I said fashion show.
Three of them, really, which came out to an hour and a half of people strutting around in dresses and tuxedos to flashing lights and techno music. And when it wasn't techno, it was country.
I did what I always do when this happens, and began playing the opening power chords to Rush's "Tom Sawyer" in my head. But the recesses of my imagination were no safe haven against this brutal assault on the senses, especially when one of the models brought out a dog in a tux and top hat.
"I'm in hell," I said.
Finally, my fiancee agreed to leave, and we burst out of the auditorium doors into the cold air. I took a deep breath, purging everything I had just witnessed from my system.
My fiancee thanked me sincerely for going, which immediately made me feel guilty for my behavior. So I'm already planning a time to heap apologetic gifts on her. Looks like we're going to be just fine.
BEN FIELDS can be reached at bfields@dailyindependent.com or (606) 326-2651. .
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
When life gets in the way of more important things (don't call it a comeback ...)
Hey, just a quick note here to let everyone know that this blog is not dead. Although it would be cool to kill it and then change that Nine Inch Nails song to "Blog is Dead and No One Cares."
Anyway, no new posts in May? WTF? (That stands for "Why the Face?") Well, here come the excuses ... I had to oversee a massive project at work -- and I was basically supervising myself because I wasn't getting much help from anywhere else; I had to buy a new car; our hot water heater went out and I tried to fix it myself, but then called in professional help once I reached the stage where I had either done everything right or the house was going to explode, so, by the time we got a plumber out there we had gone about two weeks without hot water; someone tried to steal my identity (why anyone would want to be me is beyond my comprehension); our bathtub had to be re-caulked; and I got syphilis 17 times just from editing our newspaper's prom photos.
Basically, the only good thing about May was that "The Avengers" hit the cinemas. Although there was a drawback there in that I got syphilis just from watching Scarlett Johansson (call me, Scarlett).
But enough about STD's that destroy your face and brain. Just wanted to say I'm back. If you are a fan, please continue to support this site by visiting or joining as a "follower." If you've never seen it, by all means check it out. And if you've been avoiding it because I annoy you, I say let yourself be annoyed for a few minutes. It will make everything else that happens during the day less annoying.
All the best,
Ben
Anyway, no new posts in May? WTF? (That stands for "Why the Face?") Well, here come the excuses ... I had to oversee a massive project at work -- and I was basically supervising myself because I wasn't getting much help from anywhere else; I had to buy a new car; our hot water heater went out and I tried to fix it myself, but then called in professional help once I reached the stage where I had either done everything right or the house was going to explode, so, by the time we got a plumber out there we had gone about two weeks without hot water; someone tried to steal my identity (why anyone would want to be me is beyond my comprehension); our bathtub had to be re-caulked; and I got syphilis 17 times just from editing our newspaper's prom photos.
Basically, the only good thing about May was that "The Avengers" hit the cinemas. Although there was a drawback there in that I got syphilis just from watching Scarlett Johansson (call me, Scarlett).
But enough about STD's that destroy your face and brain. Just wanted to say I'm back. If you are a fan, please continue to support this site by visiting or joining as a "follower." If you've never seen it, by all means check it out. And if you've been avoiding it because I annoy you, I say let yourself be annoyed for a few minutes. It will make everything else that happens during the day less annoying.
All the best,
Ben
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Songs/Videos of the week
Two songs today, because 52 a year isn't enough. The first is "She Doesn't Exist Anymore" by Robyn Hitchcock and the Egyptians. Basically a song about a guy who screwed up a relationship. Robyn puts it much more eloquently than me. Michael Stype of R.E.M. provides some background "La, la, la, la"s. I did a cover of this song in 1999 playing all the instruments and doing all the vocals (Michael Stype couldn't pop by to do the "La, la, la, la"s for me). Alas, it is only available on cassette. Your loss (ha!)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=inAulpKNoSo
The second tune is a live performance of "Pattern Against User" by At the Drive-In. They were a high-energy semi-progressive outfit that broke out in the early 2000s. Unfortunately, they also broke up around that time, with the more proggy guys going on to form The Mars Volta, and the more, I don't know, emo guys going on to form Sparta. But, they've gotten back together and are touring on Lollapalooza this summer. They have a lot of time changes and musical dynamics that give us prog rock guys goosebumps. But the song's only four minutes long. Don't worry, it's not 2112 or Close to the Edge.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4Q2wS6sGQI
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=inAulpKNoSo
The second tune is a live performance of "Pattern Against User" by At the Drive-In. They were a high-energy semi-progressive outfit that broke out in the early 2000s. Unfortunately, they also broke up around that time, with the more proggy guys going on to form The Mars Volta, and the more, I don't know, emo guys going on to form Sparta. But, they've gotten back together and are touring on Lollapalooza this summer. They have a lot of time changes and musical dynamics that give us prog rock guys goosebumps. But the song's only four minutes long. Don't worry, it's not 2112 or Close to the Edge.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4Q2wS6sGQI
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Song/video of the week
Ok, this had to happen sooner or later. With me, there's going to be a Rush song posted at some point. And since they released a new single this week, I figured now is that time. Steven Colbert asked Rush "Have you ever written a song so long that, by the end of it, you were influenced by yourselves?" It seems that is coming true in a way. The new single "Headlong Flight" is very reminiscent of Rush's second and third albums except for the fact that Geddy Lee is not screeching. It is very heavy, there are a lot of drum fills and a lot of musical dynamics going on. (Colbert also asked the band, noting that they have the most consecutive platinum albums behind only the Beatles and U2 but had not been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, if they were going to call their next album "That's Bullshit." Alas, the new album is called "Clockwork Angels" and will drop in June) Video says it's the "official lyric video," but I don't think it is. Still, it's a good fan-made video. Just listen to it once, that's all I ask.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZcFGrWjOX0E
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZcFGrWjOX0E
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Make a note, no one likes being compared to Hitler
I'm not sure when it became such a casual thing to compare people, events and situations to Hitler and Nazi Germany, but, please make a note if you are considering such an analogy, people still don't like it.
What situation in the world today, no matter how dire, compares to the invasion of all of Europe along with a campaign of genocide all fueled by the most evil mastermind in mankind's history outside of a comic book?
Apparently, the answer to that question is "lots of stuff."
The most public of examples, of course, came a few months ago when Hank Williams Jr., contacted for an interview on politics for some reason by a network that shall remain nameless, compared President Obama to Hitler, and called him "the enemy."
Don't get hung up on the semantics. He did it. It's what he said.
Obama, and in fact lots of other people, didn't appreciate the comparison. As well they shouldn't.
Just today, the international Jewish human rights group the Simon Wiesenthal Center, came down on John Raese, a Republican who is running for U.S. Senate in West Virginia, for drawing comparisons between his hometown's indoor smoking ban and the Holocaust.
Raese, an out-of-touch, born-into-wealth businessman, said at a public event that him having to put up a no-smoking sign on one of his buildings was the same as Jews in Germany having to wear yellow stars that marked them for death on their clothing.
No, it's not the same. It's not anywhere near the same. If a ballpark is located somewhere in St. Louis, then Raese's comments (you can read the story here http://www.herald-dispatch.com/news/briefs/x1817470496/Raese-draws-criticism-for-Holocaust-remarks ) are somewhere on one of Saturn's moons. That's how "in the same ballpark" the event he was referring to is to his situation.
Again, let me be clear, a campaign to wipe out an entire race of people that resulted in the deaths of millions is not the same as you having to put up a "no-smoking" sign. And if you think it's the same, you should be placed in an elementary school history class where you are required to wear a conical hat.
Did Raese apologize for his remarks? No, he said he stood by them and he was simply "reciting history."
Well, man, guess what? Your campaign is history. I know Raese doesn't know what the Simon Wiesenthal Center is, but he's about to find out. He is in for a lot of unwanted attention. Those kinds of comparisons are not cool with them.
It's not cool with anybody. Ever.
I can remember when I was a reporter, I used to cover this small government agency that would meet once a month.
And every month, a local elderly fellow would get up and rant and rave about the agency's shortcomings, and the corruption of power that was taking place. Mind you, there wasn't enough power to corrupt at this agency even if you wanted to. The devil himself could look at the thing and say "Nah, not worth it."
But the members of this board silently endured this man's berating rants on a monthly basis for a period of years (it's probably still happening to this very day) and reacted professionally and calmly.
Except for one time.
That was the time when the perpetually unhappy old guy referred to the board as Nazi Germany, and its head man as Hitler.
I watched the expression of the accused when those words came out. It was like a light switch was clicked. His normally affable, benevolent countenance changed to one of immediate anger.
Some not so polite words were issued, and he threatened to have the man removed.
After the meeting was over, I asked the head man "So, how did you like being compared to the fuhrer?"
The man grimaced and replied "I don't have to put up with that bull shit."
I had to agree.
Even in my own house growing up, the comparisons had been made.
Whenever my mother would charge my little brother with a chore, especially if she did it in a nagging kind of way, he would snap to attention, shout "Ya vol, mein fuhrer!" and proceed to goosestep around the house with his right arm extended.
Mom, who comes from a line of German and southern European stock who came to America to escape the conditions of war and instability in the early 1900s, was not amused.
See? Even my mom hates being compared to Hitler.
So knock it off, already, would you?
Make fun of Hitler all you want. Mel Brooks and John Cleese are both pretty awesome at it.
Just don't tell your friend "That's so Hitler" when they suggest you become more organized, or get a little too pushy with a waitress. They won't like it.
And, as with Williams Jr. and Raese, don't pull it out just because you're too dumb to come up with anything else. Fall back on "I am rubber and you are glue" before pulling out the big "H" card.
What situation in the world today, no matter how dire, compares to the invasion of all of Europe along with a campaign of genocide all fueled by the most evil mastermind in mankind's history outside of a comic book?
Apparently, the answer to that question is "lots of stuff."
The most public of examples, of course, came a few months ago when Hank Williams Jr., contacted for an interview on politics for some reason by a network that shall remain nameless, compared President Obama to Hitler, and called him "the enemy."
Don't get hung up on the semantics. He did it. It's what he said.
Obama, and in fact lots of other people, didn't appreciate the comparison. As well they shouldn't.
Just today, the international Jewish human rights group the Simon Wiesenthal Center, came down on John Raese, a Republican who is running for U.S. Senate in West Virginia, for drawing comparisons between his hometown's indoor smoking ban and the Holocaust.
Raese, an out-of-touch, born-into-wealth businessman, said at a public event that him having to put up a no-smoking sign on one of his buildings was the same as Jews in Germany having to wear yellow stars that marked them for death on their clothing.
No, it's not the same. It's not anywhere near the same. If a ballpark is located somewhere in St. Louis, then Raese's comments (you can read the story here http://www.herald-dispatch.com/news/briefs/x1817470496/Raese-draws-criticism-for-Holocaust-remarks ) are somewhere on one of Saturn's moons. That's how "in the same ballpark" the event he was referring to is to his situation.
Again, let me be clear, a campaign to wipe out an entire race of people that resulted in the deaths of millions is not the same as you having to put up a "no-smoking" sign. And if you think it's the same, you should be placed in an elementary school history class where you are required to wear a conical hat.
Did Raese apologize for his remarks? No, he said he stood by them and he was simply "reciting history."
Well, man, guess what? Your campaign is history. I know Raese doesn't know what the Simon Wiesenthal Center is, but he's about to find out. He is in for a lot of unwanted attention. Those kinds of comparisons are not cool with them.
It's not cool with anybody. Ever.
I can remember when I was a reporter, I used to cover this small government agency that would meet once a month.
And every month, a local elderly fellow would get up and rant and rave about the agency's shortcomings, and the corruption of power that was taking place. Mind you, there wasn't enough power to corrupt at this agency even if you wanted to. The devil himself could look at the thing and say "Nah, not worth it."
But the members of this board silently endured this man's berating rants on a monthly basis for a period of years (it's probably still happening to this very day) and reacted professionally and calmly.
Except for one time.
That was the time when the perpetually unhappy old guy referred to the board as Nazi Germany, and its head man as Hitler.
I watched the expression of the accused when those words came out. It was like a light switch was clicked. His normally affable, benevolent countenance changed to one of immediate anger.
Some not so polite words were issued, and he threatened to have the man removed.
After the meeting was over, I asked the head man "So, how did you like being compared to the fuhrer?"
The man grimaced and replied "I don't have to put up with that bull shit."
I had to agree.
Even in my own house growing up, the comparisons had been made.
Whenever my mother would charge my little brother with a chore, especially if she did it in a nagging kind of way, he would snap to attention, shout "Ya vol, mein fuhrer!" and proceed to goosestep around the house with his right arm extended.
Mom, who comes from a line of German and southern European stock who came to America to escape the conditions of war and instability in the early 1900s, was not amused.
See? Even my mom hates being compared to Hitler.
So knock it off, already, would you?
Make fun of Hitler all you want. Mel Brooks and John Cleese are both pretty awesome at it.
Just don't tell your friend "That's so Hitler" when they suggest you become more organized, or get a little too pushy with a waitress. They won't like it.
And, as with Williams Jr. and Raese, don't pull it out just because you're too dumb to come up with anything else. Fall back on "I am rubber and you are glue" before pulling out the big "H" card.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Song/Video of the Week
One of my favorite "newer" bands, Doves, from Manchester, England are very crafty with melody, which is something I find lacking in a lot of new music. They come from the same crop that produced artists like Gomez, Badly Drawn Boy, Elbow and, of course, Coldplay. This is nothing like Coldplay. It is the video for "Catch the Sun."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KqlIFLb6jU0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KqlIFLb6jU0
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Perpetual change and "The Good Old Days"
"You know, I hear people talk about 'The good old days,' and I don't get it. These are the good old days. I would rather be living right now than back then."
These are the words of my father from a recent conversation we had. And I couldn't agree more.
Being in the newspaper business, myself and others get a lot of calls, letters and submitted columns that center on the idea of "The Good Old Days."
I'm not sure what time period that is, specifically. It seems from what I read to be some vague, sepia-toned era when people were happy and respectful, the concept of immorality did not exist (but is very present today) and, of course, everything cost less.
The phrase I read a lot is "It was a simpler time." The person then inevitably goes on to explain arduous farm labor, strict, often corporal discipline from parental figures and an antiquated car.
So, is simpler better?
True, we do live in a time when some would argue we are battling the fruits of a more cushioned lifestyle. There's childhood obesity, a dependence on technology, the preference of instant gratification, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Guess what, each age has its own challenges.
Let's recap the years of American history that would fall under the veil of the "Good Old Days," shall we? The Great Depression, World War II, Joe McCarthy, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, violent civil rights conflict and Moby Grape. "Build-in Berlin Bay of Pigs Invasion ..." etc.
Man, that was so great back in the good old days when they would turn the fire hoses on people of a different race because they thought they had the right to equality. Our morals were so strong back then. And the politicians weren't sleeping around and nobody was gay or took a drink of alcohol or abused their spouse.
You folks are reaching.
Of course, complicated has its complications. We just ended one war, are still in another, the deficit is soaring, people from the good old days still can't stand the idea of a black president, no one's writing any good music, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Look, the world is constantly changing. You solve one problem and a host of new ones emerge.
I'll be the first one to admit I'm not that great at dealing with changes. I make slow transitions in different phases of life. My iPhone is basically a bulky iPod, because I don't use a ton of apps.
But to gloss over my own history and the world context of those times as some sort of rose-tinted period when there were no problems is ridiculous. You have to grow and change.
Let me put it this way, when I think of people who couldn't come to grips with a changed world, three names pop into my head: John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald and James Earl Ray.
Let me also point out that the idea of a time when things were better is not a new one.
Perhaps the people who lived in the good old days have forgotten, but the propaganda films of their time on how people should act and live their lives reflected a tone of decaying American values (just look up any Mystery Science Theater 3000 Short on YouTube and you'll pick up on it).
So, as David Byrne would say, "Same as it ever was."
The thing that will drive me crazy immediately is when someone reflects on the good old days and references a scene from "The Andy Griffith Show" as if it is their own memory.
I just want to scream and shake the person.
"That's not even real, you crazy bastard! It was a TV show!"
I could write an entire thesis on what I call "The Andy Griffith Syndrome," but let's not do that here and now.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that change is constant, nothing is ever simple and the good old days are a myth.
We are living longer now. Less people are dying from giving birth, polio or the plague. In return, we have to deal with the Black-Eyed Peas.
Nothing is perfect.
These are the words of my father from a recent conversation we had. And I couldn't agree more.
Being in the newspaper business, myself and others get a lot of calls, letters and submitted columns that center on the idea of "The Good Old Days."
I'm not sure what time period that is, specifically. It seems from what I read to be some vague, sepia-toned era when people were happy and respectful, the concept of immorality did not exist (but is very present today) and, of course, everything cost less.
The phrase I read a lot is "It was a simpler time." The person then inevitably goes on to explain arduous farm labor, strict, often corporal discipline from parental figures and an antiquated car.
So, is simpler better?
True, we do live in a time when some would argue we are battling the fruits of a more cushioned lifestyle. There's childhood obesity, a dependence on technology, the preference of instant gratification, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Guess what, each age has its own challenges.
Let's recap the years of American history that would fall under the veil of the "Good Old Days," shall we? The Great Depression, World War II, Joe McCarthy, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, violent civil rights conflict and Moby Grape. "Build-in Berlin Bay of Pigs Invasion ..." etc.
Man, that was so great back in the good old days when they would turn the fire hoses on people of a different race because they thought they had the right to equality. Our morals were so strong back then. And the politicians weren't sleeping around and nobody was gay or took a drink of alcohol or abused their spouse.
You folks are reaching.
Of course, complicated has its complications. We just ended one war, are still in another, the deficit is soaring, people from the good old days still can't stand the idea of a black president, no one's writing any good music, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
Look, the world is constantly changing. You solve one problem and a host of new ones emerge.
I'll be the first one to admit I'm not that great at dealing with changes. I make slow transitions in different phases of life. My iPhone is basically a bulky iPod, because I don't use a ton of apps.
But to gloss over my own history and the world context of those times as some sort of rose-tinted period when there were no problems is ridiculous. You have to grow and change.
Let me put it this way, when I think of people who couldn't come to grips with a changed world, three names pop into my head: John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald and James Earl Ray.
Let me also point out that the idea of a time when things were better is not a new one.
Perhaps the people who lived in the good old days have forgotten, but the propaganda films of their time on how people should act and live their lives reflected a tone of decaying American values (just look up any Mystery Science Theater 3000 Short on YouTube and you'll pick up on it).
So, as David Byrne would say, "Same as it ever was."
The thing that will drive me crazy immediately is when someone reflects on the good old days and references a scene from "The Andy Griffith Show" as if it is their own memory.
I just want to scream and shake the person.
"That's not even real, you crazy bastard! It was a TV show!"
I could write an entire thesis on what I call "The Andy Griffith Syndrome," but let's not do that here and now.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that change is constant, nothing is ever simple and the good old days are a myth.
We are living longer now. Less people are dying from giving birth, polio or the plague. In return, we have to deal with the Black-Eyed Peas.
Nothing is perfect.
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Song/Video of the week
Back to XTC, with "Easter Theater" because, well, it's Easter. Part Passion Play, part pagan ritual, part guitar solo? I don't know, another masterful song that denies categorization from the penultimate album, Apple Venus Vol. I. (1999). Video is fan made, because I don't think XTC made any videos after "The Ballad of Peter Pumpkin Head" (which you should check out) in 1992. Anyway, please enjoy, and Happy Easter everyone.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NkW3Taq5Mks
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NkW3Taq5Mks
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Oh, man, a rerun.
If TV shows can do it, then so can I. I apologize, but there are way too many hands on my time this week. I'll make it up to you all, I swear. In the meantime, enjoy this. Remember "Lost?" That was cool, right? I was a better writer back then, anyway.
http://dailyindependent.com/columns/x1192749624/Ben-Fields-Lost-without-Lost-11-16-2006
http://dailyindependent.com/columns/x1192749624/Ben-Fields-Lost-without-Lost-11-16-2006
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Song/Video of the Week
I was at a party for a friend at a local establishment a few weeks ago, and everybody was trying to get everybody else to sing karaoke. I flipped through the book and found this song and just laughed out loud. "Well, this would bring the place down in a hurry," I shouted over blaring club speakers. I've never sung karaoke, and I didn't get the chance to do this song. So here it is for you now. The Police. "Invisible Sun" live. The original video is nowhere to be found.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6OSIrJbkrPQ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6OSIrJbkrPQ
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Of prayer and tornadoes
Whether you live around my area or not, I'm sure by now most of you have seen the video of a woman on her front porch, facing down a full-blown tornado heading straight for her, while she prays for it to go away.
It first debuted earlier this month on a local television news broadcast, but I understand it's been making the rounds elsewhere, in some cases as a testament to the power of prayer.
It is a powerful image. An elderly woman, who should have been in her basement or bathtub, standing on her front porch and seemingly willing away a tornado that's about 50 yards from taking her to OZ bearing down on her house.
All of a sudden, the tornado changed course. She and her home were spared.
She talked to the television reporter about how she had faith and how God channeled her to pray the tornado away.
Unfortunately, there is a postscript. An epilogue.
After the tornado took a hard turn from this woman's house, it descended upon the town of West Liberty, Ky., a small community of about 3,200, and blew it off the map, killing six in the process (see photo at the end of this column).
On the original newscast, the anchor included this information and said the woman who was saved was praying for the family of the six victims.
Gee, thanks.
All right, so it's not this woman's fault. She did what she believed was the correct thing to do.
But did God really say "OK, you've reached me. Let's turn this thing loose on West Liberty and see if they can do the same."
Look, I'm the last person to claim to understand God. In fact, as a human (some have called me worse), I don't think I'm meant to.
But I don't think God sends tornadoes, or house fires or (are you listening, Pat Robertson?) planes flying into buildings as punishment, or a way to test faith. Floods? Well, that's a different topic depending on what you believe.
I don't think spiritual prayer, of any faith, is meant as a means of sending a tornado away, gaining wealth, harming someone else, or having your kicker make a last-minute field goal.
Now, the hundreds of thousands of dollars that have poured in from individuals, organizations and what have you for food, clothing, materials and funding to put people on the ground who can help; the thousands of volunteers who have shown up to do whatever they can, the residents saying "We can rebuild," that's where I see God at work.
This whole thing is a philosophical can of worms, so I apologize for opening it. It's not easily summarized in a few words.
Other than that, I hope that the people all over our region who have been affected by this can recover. In fact, I'm praying for it.
It first debuted earlier this month on a local television news broadcast, but I understand it's been making the rounds elsewhere, in some cases as a testament to the power of prayer.
It is a powerful image. An elderly woman, who should have been in her basement or bathtub, standing on her front porch and seemingly willing away a tornado that's about 50 yards from taking her to OZ bearing down on her house.
All of a sudden, the tornado changed course. She and her home were spared.
She talked to the television reporter about how she had faith and how God channeled her to pray the tornado away.
Unfortunately, there is a postscript. An epilogue.
After the tornado took a hard turn from this woman's house, it descended upon the town of West Liberty, Ky., a small community of about 3,200, and blew it off the map, killing six in the process (see photo at the end of this column).
On the original newscast, the anchor included this information and said the woman who was saved was praying for the family of the six victims.
Gee, thanks.
All right, so it's not this woman's fault. She did what she believed was the correct thing to do.
But did God really say "OK, you've reached me. Let's turn this thing loose on West Liberty and see if they can do the same."
Look, I'm the last person to claim to understand God. In fact, as a human (some have called me worse), I don't think I'm meant to.
But I don't think God sends tornadoes, or house fires or (are you listening, Pat Robertson?) planes flying into buildings as punishment, or a way to test faith. Floods? Well, that's a different topic depending on what you believe.
I don't think spiritual prayer, of any faith, is meant as a means of sending a tornado away, gaining wealth, harming someone else, or having your kicker make a last-minute field goal.
Now, the hundreds of thousands of dollars that have poured in from individuals, organizations and what have you for food, clothing, materials and funding to put people on the ground who can help; the thousands of volunteers who have shown up to do whatever they can, the residents saying "We can rebuild," that's where I see God at work.
This whole thing is a philosophical can of worms, so I apologize for opening it. It's not easily summarized in a few words.
Other than that, I hope that the people all over our region who have been affected by this can recover. In fact, I'm praying for it.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Song/Video of the week
A live performance of "In a Big Country" from Big Country. "Stay alive!"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=freo9lWj-B0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=freo9lWj-B0
Friday, March 23, 2012
Why I'm glad Tim Tebow is out of Denver (Or, how to lose friends through your blog)
I couldn't be happier that Tim Tebow was traded by the Denver Broncos to the New York Jets.
I will explain why, but first I want to make one thing absolutely clear: It has nothing to do with his outspoken beliefs on his faith. I know that sounds like a neo con saying "I don't dislike President Obama because he's black, it's because of his policies," but please, please, bear with me here.
We will get to that. But for me, this is a complex story, so we have to begin at the beginning.
I have been a Denver Broncos fan since the age of 5. When I was in first grade, I knocked out a friend's teeth with a Denver Broncos heavy canvas duffel after he slapped me with his backpack.
Growing up, John Elway was my hero.
And if you remember the Broncos in the mid- to late-1980s, Elway basically put his team on his back and willed them to win. This resulted in three Super Bowl appearances, all of which were blowout losses because one guy can't win the Super Bowl. I was heartbroken after each loss.
I put up with merciless heckling in school on the days after those games.
"I think the turning point in the game was the coin toss," quipped a friend after the 49ers just decimated the Broncos, 55-10, in Super Bowl XXIV.
But I still wore my burnt-orange No. 7 jersey faithfully throughout the years.
Finally, in 1998, vindication would come when Elway and the Broncos defeated the vaunted Green Bay Packers, who were looking for a repeat, in Super Bowl XXXII, 31-24. The next year the Broncos repeated, knocking off the Atlanta Falcons, and Elway was named Super Bowl MVP.
Realizing it would never get any better than that, and now an elder statesman of the game who showed crows feet when he smiled, Elway retired on his terms.
The Broncos spent the next decade looking for someone, anyone, who could play quarterback for the team.
Brian Griese showed flashes of greatness, but was too inconsistent (and too drunk most of the time) to cut it.
Jake Plummer had his moments, then just up and retired from football.
I thought that the Broncos had found the answer when they drafted Jay Cutler. Cutler played at lowly Vanderbilt in college, and, like Elway, had to do just about everything himself to make the typically wretched Commodores respectable.
Turns out he was a total prick, and a pouty one at that, so the Broncos traded him, and put Kyle Orton, a guy from my school who followed Drew Brees in the Cradle of Quarterbacks chain at Purdue, under center.
Then, a guy the same age as me who happened to wind up as the Broncos head coach, drafted Tebow.
If you can glean anything from some of my statements above, it should be that I follow college sports much more closely than the pros.
And, even though I went to a different university, I did most of my growing up in Kentucky and can't help but root for UK, especially in football, where they are typically the underdog.
I watched Tim Tebow run up the score on the Cats for three years. He and coach Urban Meyer did it to a lot of other teams, too.
Simply put, Tebow played for an opposing team and I didn't like him.
Then he gets drafted by the Broncos, and within a short period of time, unseats the guy I'm rooting for in Kyle Orton, who had put up 4,000 plus passing yards the previous season.
So, in summary, hated player from college goes to my favorite NFL team and knocks a Boilermaker out of job in doing so.
It was clear from the outset that Tebow didn't know what to do when looking at a secondary defense that wasn't comprised of guys from Mississippi State.
Also, his questionable throwing mechanics pointed out during the draft were on full display once he made it to the league.
I had never, in all my years of watching NFL football, seen a guy short-hop a wide receiver by two to three bounces. If the ball wasn't short, it was 10 feet over the intended receiver's head.
Despite all of that, Tebow was able to win with the Broncos, even beating the Steelers in the playoffs. Then, they hit the New England Patriots and got exposed.
Tebow was not the next franchise quarterback for Denver. At the same time, I'm not sure what the Broncos are doing in signing Peyton Manning, who is 36 and coming off of four neck surgeries. I also wonder what playing now will do to Manning's health later in life. But, I've seen him complete passes, so I'm all for this experiment.
Now to the issue off the field.
I've had more than one person tell me that I should support Tim Tebow because he is a Christian and a role model for the youth with the way he displays his faith in a league where the news is more often focused on which Cincinnati Bengals player got arrested this week or how much the Saints defensive coordinator was paying players to try and hurt the guys on the other side of the line.
I think that it's great that Tebow is a decent human being who has his priorities in his life and has the freedom to express that on a national stage.
The late Reggie White of the Eagles and Super Bowl champion Packers, and former Super Bowl MVP Kurt Warner did the same thing.
The difference? White and Warner could play football in the NFL.
The jury is still out (but nearing a verdict) on Tebow, so that's great that he has his value system, but I'd also like him to be able to throw the ball.
I think, with Tebow, it is a sign of the times we are living in.
The country is more polarized than ever, and is getting worse every day.
Tebow, who generated a lot of hype in college and coming into the NFL, is a symbol for some to hold up as a shining example of how our athletes and role models should be.
In sports, it's nice to have a few good guys to root for. It's nice to have the anti-Cutler. But if they can't play, it makes it difficult.
To me, sports heroes are guys like Robbie Hummel, who tore his ACL in consecutive seasons and couldn't play with a team that would have probably gone to the Final Four with him. He still gutted it out, stayed on the team, and played his last year with less talent around him but gave the effort to make things happen and did it with dignity and class.
A hero is someone who takes three Super Bowl drubbings only to rise from the ashes a decade later and come out on top in consecutive seasons, all the while exhibiting class and a sheer joy for the game.
Tebow has the class, but he needs the game. Maybe he'll go on to win four Super Bowls with the Jets and be revered as the best quarterback ever. More power to him if he does.
But he's not my guy.
I will explain why, but first I want to make one thing absolutely clear: It has nothing to do with his outspoken beliefs on his faith. I know that sounds like a neo con saying "I don't dislike President Obama because he's black, it's because of his policies," but please, please, bear with me here.
We will get to that. But for me, this is a complex story, so we have to begin at the beginning.
I have been a Denver Broncos fan since the age of 5. When I was in first grade, I knocked out a friend's teeth with a Denver Broncos heavy canvas duffel after he slapped me with his backpack.
Growing up, John Elway was my hero.
And if you remember the Broncos in the mid- to late-1980s, Elway basically put his team on his back and willed them to win. This resulted in three Super Bowl appearances, all of which were blowout losses because one guy can't win the Super Bowl. I was heartbroken after each loss.
I put up with merciless heckling in school on the days after those games.
"I think the turning point in the game was the coin toss," quipped a friend after the 49ers just decimated the Broncos, 55-10, in Super Bowl XXIV.
But I still wore my burnt-orange No. 7 jersey faithfully throughout the years.
Finally, in 1998, vindication would come when Elway and the Broncos defeated the vaunted Green Bay Packers, who were looking for a repeat, in Super Bowl XXXII, 31-24. The next year the Broncos repeated, knocking off the Atlanta Falcons, and Elway was named Super Bowl MVP.
Realizing it would never get any better than that, and now an elder statesman of the game who showed crows feet when he smiled, Elway retired on his terms.
The Broncos spent the next decade looking for someone, anyone, who could play quarterback for the team.
Brian Griese showed flashes of greatness, but was too inconsistent (and too drunk most of the time) to cut it.
Jake Plummer had his moments, then just up and retired from football.
I thought that the Broncos had found the answer when they drafted Jay Cutler. Cutler played at lowly Vanderbilt in college, and, like Elway, had to do just about everything himself to make the typically wretched Commodores respectable.
Turns out he was a total prick, and a pouty one at that, so the Broncos traded him, and put Kyle Orton, a guy from my school who followed Drew Brees in the Cradle of Quarterbacks chain at Purdue, under center.
Then, a guy the same age as me who happened to wind up as the Broncos head coach, drafted Tebow.
If you can glean anything from some of my statements above, it should be that I follow college sports much more closely than the pros.
And, even though I went to a different university, I did most of my growing up in Kentucky and can't help but root for UK, especially in football, where they are typically the underdog.
I watched Tim Tebow run up the score on the Cats for three years. He and coach Urban Meyer did it to a lot of other teams, too.
Simply put, Tebow played for an opposing team and I didn't like him.
Then he gets drafted by the Broncos, and within a short period of time, unseats the guy I'm rooting for in Kyle Orton, who had put up 4,000 plus passing yards the previous season.
So, in summary, hated player from college goes to my favorite NFL team and knocks a Boilermaker out of job in doing so.
It was clear from the outset that Tebow didn't know what to do when looking at a secondary defense that wasn't comprised of guys from Mississippi State.
Also, his questionable throwing mechanics pointed out during the draft were on full display once he made it to the league.
I had never, in all my years of watching NFL football, seen a guy short-hop a wide receiver by two to three bounces. If the ball wasn't short, it was 10 feet over the intended receiver's head.
Despite all of that, Tebow was able to win with the Broncos, even beating the Steelers in the playoffs. Then, they hit the New England Patriots and got exposed.
Tebow was not the next franchise quarterback for Denver. At the same time, I'm not sure what the Broncos are doing in signing Peyton Manning, who is 36 and coming off of four neck surgeries. I also wonder what playing now will do to Manning's health later in life. But, I've seen him complete passes, so I'm all for this experiment.
Now to the issue off the field.
I've had more than one person tell me that I should support Tim Tebow because he is a Christian and a role model for the youth with the way he displays his faith in a league where the news is more often focused on which Cincinnati Bengals player got arrested this week or how much the Saints defensive coordinator was paying players to try and hurt the guys on the other side of the line.
I think that it's great that Tebow is a decent human being who has his priorities in his life and has the freedom to express that on a national stage.
The late Reggie White of the Eagles and Super Bowl champion Packers, and former Super Bowl MVP Kurt Warner did the same thing.
The difference? White and Warner could play football in the NFL.
The jury is still out (but nearing a verdict) on Tebow, so that's great that he has his value system, but I'd also like him to be able to throw the ball.
I think, with Tebow, it is a sign of the times we are living in.
The country is more polarized than ever, and is getting worse every day.
Tebow, who generated a lot of hype in college and coming into the NFL, is a symbol for some to hold up as a shining example of how our athletes and role models should be.
In sports, it's nice to have a few good guys to root for. It's nice to have the anti-Cutler. But if they can't play, it makes it difficult.
To me, sports heroes are guys like Robbie Hummel, who tore his ACL in consecutive seasons and couldn't play with a team that would have probably gone to the Final Four with him. He still gutted it out, stayed on the team, and played his last year with less talent around him but gave the effort to make things happen and did it with dignity and class.
A hero is someone who takes three Super Bowl drubbings only to rise from the ashes a decade later and come out on top in consecutive seasons, all the while exhibiting class and a sheer joy for the game.
Tebow has the class, but he needs the game. Maybe he'll go on to win four Super Bowls with the Jets and be revered as the best quarterback ever. More power to him if he does.
But he's not my guy.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
It's my hutch in a box, baby, it's my hutch in a box
Part 1
It's not that I'm totally useless with my hands.
They know their way around the fretboard of just about any stringed instrument with a certain degree of proficiency. They know how to murder a drum kit, and plunk about on a keyboard.
They're fairly useful for cleaning out gutters, writing checks to NCAA Tournament pool organizers and, well, various other duties ... ladies (wink, clicking noise and pistol fingers). My buddy Christian Alexandersen was right when he said you can make any sentence creepy by adding "ladies" at the end.
Back on topic, while I'm not incompetent when it comes to stuff around the house, I am not what you would call "handy." I've never sanded and stained wood flooring for the hell of it, or pressure washed our fence without my wife saying "You should pressure wash the fence."
Now, I have assembled various desks, tables and patio furniture around our abode when my wife would come home with something from Office Max or Lowe's.
But, until today, I had never dealt with Ikea. I know most of you probably know what Ikea is, but, if you don't, it's furniture manufactured in Sweden, packed into boxes, shipped and sold at Ikea stores around the world.
They've been doing it for decades, we're just a little late to the party.
Like I said, I'm comfortable assembling stuff for the home, although I usually miss a page of directions or look at something upside down and have to redo it, what have you. The process is generally fairly slow.
When it took me 15 minutes just to get the Ikea box open, I knew I was in for trouble.
Then, I realized that the Swedes have mastered TARDIS technology as there was way more stuff inside the box than it should have been able to hold.
I started unpacking, and found the baggie full of hardware. I instantly recognized my nemesis, the Allen wrench (or as it is known in Sweden, the Mats Sundin wrench).
I started going to work on the project, which, when complete, is supposed to resemble a set of drawers.
I followed each illustration meticulously, making sure I knew which end was up because I didn't want to go through everything again.
I laboriously put screws and slats and beams into place (that's what she said?), occasionally correcting for something that was out of place, and constantly pushing endless pieces around me so I could move.
My beagle watched me from the comfort of a sunbeam with her head propped on her paws and slightly cocked to the side, as if to say "Why are you doing this? Find a chew toy and hang out with me in the sunbeam. It's delightful."
Eventually the call of a prepared lunch halted my work. I now have something that resembles a structure meant to hold drawers. I'm on step 10 of 27. So far, no catastrophe, no swearing and, surprisingly, no Mats Sundin wrenching. I'm sure they save that for last.
It's not that I'm totally useless with my hands.
They know their way around the fretboard of just about any stringed instrument with a certain degree of proficiency. They know how to murder a drum kit, and plunk about on a keyboard.
They're fairly useful for cleaning out gutters, writing checks to NCAA Tournament pool organizers and, well, various other duties ... ladies (wink, clicking noise and pistol fingers). My buddy Christian Alexandersen was right when he said you can make any sentence creepy by adding "ladies" at the end.
Back on topic, while I'm not incompetent when it comes to stuff around the house, I am not what you would call "handy." I've never sanded and stained wood flooring for the hell of it, or pressure washed our fence without my wife saying "You should pressure wash the fence."
Now, I have assembled various desks, tables and patio furniture around our abode when my wife would come home with something from Office Max or Lowe's.
But, until today, I had never dealt with Ikea. I know most of you probably know what Ikea is, but, if you don't, it's furniture manufactured in Sweden, packed into boxes, shipped and sold at Ikea stores around the world.
They've been doing it for decades, we're just a little late to the party.
Like I said, I'm comfortable assembling stuff for the home, although I usually miss a page of directions or look at something upside down and have to redo it, what have you. The process is generally fairly slow.
When it took me 15 minutes just to get the Ikea box open, I knew I was in for trouble.
Then, I realized that the Swedes have mastered TARDIS technology as there was way more stuff inside the box than it should have been able to hold.
I started unpacking, and found the baggie full of hardware. I instantly recognized my nemesis, the Allen wrench (or as it is known in Sweden, the Mats Sundin wrench).
I started going to work on the project, which, when complete, is supposed to resemble a set of drawers.
I followed each illustration meticulously, making sure I knew which end was up because I didn't want to go through everything again.
I laboriously put screws and slats and beams into place (that's what she said?), occasionally correcting for something that was out of place, and constantly pushing endless pieces around me so I could move.
My beagle watched me from the comfort of a sunbeam with her head propped on her paws and slightly cocked to the side, as if to say "Why are you doing this? Find a chew toy and hang out with me in the sunbeam. It's delightful."
Eventually the call of a prepared lunch halted my work. I now have something that resembles a structure meant to hold drawers. I'm on step 10 of 27. So far, no catastrophe, no swearing and, surprisingly, no Mats Sundin wrenching. I'm sure they save that for last.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Song/Video of the week
Time to shift into high gear after a couple weeks of slow, albeit insightful, songs. I have a lot of history with this week's tune. It's the way I felt last night after I couldn't calm down after Purdue barely won and Duke got knocked out. It's the way I felt in high school and college when I had the metabolism and unfocused energy of a spider monkey with ADHD. And, I used to play it in a band I was in called "The Showgirls." It's the Ramones. "I Wanna Be Sedated."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7Ptd_X5sTA
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7Ptd_X5sTA
Thursday, March 15, 2012
March "Trademark infringement" (Super fun basketball day)
Today is my favorite and least favorite day in sports.
It's the day when I realize I've invested far too much in tournament pools, but I don't care. Because it's the first day of March (can we say it?) Madness. Uh oh, a phalanx of lawyers from CBS just arrived at my door.
The first weekend of the NCAA Tournament is the best because you have wall-to-wall basketball games and people are asking "Where's Creighton?" (Omaha, Nebraska my friends)
And, thanks to Google, I no longer have to defend my argument that Gonzaga is in Spokane, Washington, not California, and their team name is the Bulldogs, not "The Zags." You have no idea how many people have been willing to fight me to the death over that one in years past.
In the end, I don't really care about my brackets because I've filled out so many that I'm rooting for every team (except, of course, IU, Duke and Notre Dame).
I usually do well until the Sweet 16, when my crazy picks start falling apart. But, hey, you've got to be different to win these things (of course, I have Kentucky winning it all like almost everyone else).
My craziest pick this year? Duke losing to Lehigh. It will never happen. But I hate Duke that much.
Ok, so let's get away from the brackets and talk about the tournament itself, which is, perhaps, the greatest drama sports has to offer (I would rank the World Cup just a notch higher, but I'm weird).
BEST NAME EVER: Each year, the tournament introduces us to a crop of players from around the world with some interesting names, but, in my book, none have ever come close to 6'6" point guard God Shamgod. And if you think his name is blasphemous, consider this: he led the Providence Friars to an Elite Eight appearance in the mid '90s (doesn't get any holier than that).
WORST TOURNAMENT MOMENT: The Laettner shot. I'm glad that he's now an assistant high school coach in Fort Wayne, Indiana, and is apparently $30 million in debt.
RUNNER UP: Purdue as a No. 1 seed losing to Georgia in the second round in 1996.
BEST TOURNAMENT MOMENTS: There have been several of these. Of course, Kentucky's championships in 1996 and 1998. Georgia Tech's Final Four run with "Lethal Weapon 3" in 1990. Purdue's run to the Elite Eight in 1994 and again in (I think) 2000 as a low seed. Duke's loss to Cal in 1993. Going to the first rounds of the tournament in Nashville in 1993 and watching UK play, going to Lexington in 1994 and watching Purdue play. Every IU and Duke loss ever, and every Bobby Knight press conference meltdown after a first or second round loss by the Loosiers.
Enjoy the tourney, everyone. Go Cats, Boiler up, or whatever your battle cry is, enjoy the Madness. (All right, all right, I'll stop saying it. Where do I sign, lawyer guy?)
It's the day when I realize I've invested far too much in tournament pools, but I don't care. Because it's the first day of March (can we say it?) Madness. Uh oh, a phalanx of lawyers from CBS just arrived at my door.
The first weekend of the NCAA Tournament is the best because you have wall-to-wall basketball games and people are asking "Where's Creighton?" (Omaha, Nebraska my friends)
And, thanks to Google, I no longer have to defend my argument that Gonzaga is in Spokane, Washington, not California, and their team name is the Bulldogs, not "The Zags." You have no idea how many people have been willing to fight me to the death over that one in years past.
In the end, I don't really care about my brackets because I've filled out so many that I'm rooting for every team (except, of course, IU, Duke and Notre Dame).
I usually do well until the Sweet 16, when my crazy picks start falling apart. But, hey, you've got to be different to win these things (of course, I have Kentucky winning it all like almost everyone else).
My craziest pick this year? Duke losing to Lehigh. It will never happen. But I hate Duke that much.
Ok, so let's get away from the brackets and talk about the tournament itself, which is, perhaps, the greatest drama sports has to offer (I would rank the World Cup just a notch higher, but I'm weird).
BEST NAME EVER: Each year, the tournament introduces us to a crop of players from around the world with some interesting names, but, in my book, none have ever come close to 6'6" point guard God Shamgod. And if you think his name is blasphemous, consider this: he led the Providence Friars to an Elite Eight appearance in the mid '90s (doesn't get any holier than that).
WORST TOURNAMENT MOMENT: The Laettner shot. I'm glad that he's now an assistant high school coach in Fort Wayne, Indiana, and is apparently $30 million in debt.
RUNNER UP: Purdue as a No. 1 seed losing to Georgia in the second round in 1996.
BEST TOURNAMENT MOMENTS: There have been several of these. Of course, Kentucky's championships in 1996 and 1998. Georgia Tech's Final Four run with "Lethal Weapon 3" in 1990. Purdue's run to the Elite Eight in 1994 and again in (I think) 2000 as a low seed. Duke's loss to Cal in 1993. Going to the first rounds of the tournament in Nashville in 1993 and watching UK play, going to Lexington in 1994 and watching Purdue play. Every IU and Duke loss ever, and every Bobby Knight press conference meltdown after a first or second round loss by the Loosiers.
Enjoy the tourney, everyone. Go Cats, Boiler up, or whatever your battle cry is, enjoy the Madness. (All right, all right, I'll stop saying it. Where do I sign, lawyer guy?)
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Song/video of the week
Sometimes a song isn't rock, or pop or R&B or classical or hip-hop. It's just a well-written, well-arranged song that tugs at your soul. This is "I Can't Own Her" by XTC off of their 1999 (and second-to-last) album Apple Venus Vol. I. The video is fan-made.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7NlgcczIKw
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7NlgcczIKw
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Rush Limbaugh: Too fat to fail
So why hasn't Rush Limbaugh been fired?
Why hasn't calling a Georgetown University researcher (one of those "women with brains" the hard right has been hearing about lately) a "slut" and suggesting women who want contraception covered by their health care plan be required to make sex tapes everyone can watch been enough to kick Limbaugh off the air?
After all, Don Imus was fired a few years back for making derogatory remarks about the Rutgers women's basketball team.
When Keith Olberman became too much for anyone to handle, MSNBC gave him the ax.
So why has Limbaugh been allowed to continue, not even suffering so much as a suspension for making remarks from the lean of politics that supposedly takes the moral high-ground, family values approach in this country?
Because he reaches 50 million listeners/viewers a day.
Like our auto industry, Limbaugh is too big, or in his case, too fat, to fail.
As sponsor after sponsor has pulled their advertising dollars from Limbaugh's show, he has arrogantly announced that he will simply find others. And he's probably right.
Limbaugh is almost bullet proof. From his bout with prescription addiction, to his failed marriages, he has still been able to speak from the high pulpit of hypocrisy daily without skipping a beat.
So, let's put all of the political junk aside for a second, and simply ask the question, why is he so popular?
Well, I for one, even enjoyed listening to Limbaugh once upon a time.
I was in middle school, and my dad and I were taking a lot of road trips together at the time.
Dad always likes listening to talk radio on long drives.
When I was a young kid strapped into the back of a brown Volvo sedan, it was NPR.
By the time I had moved up to the front seat of a sportier vehicle, it was Limbaugh.
Limbaugh really appealed to me. He was funny. He had everything figured out. He was hateful.
Do you know why that appealed to me? Because I was in the seventh-grade.
That is Limbaugh's target mentality. He makes things easy to laugh about. Easy to hate. He puts it all in a neat package that avoids the unnecessary complexities of the real world.
And in a country that's been dumbed down to the level of a coma victim, it's easy pickings.
Have you ever had a conversation with a Limbaugh fan in which you try to put forth an opposing view? It's not much of a conversation. The few times I've done it, the other person just yelled at me and called me names.
Sound like a middle-schooler to you?
By the way, the last time I called a girl a "slut" it was in middle school and I got called into the principal's office. Repercussions for my actions? What the hell? If only I had 50 million classmates who would vouch for me.
So let's bring the political stuff back in here and demonstrate how this works.
Welfare: Every Welfare recipient is too lazy to work and would rather sit at home, have more kids for more Welfare money, and reap the benefits that we taxpayers provide. See? It's easy.
Unemployment: People, especially the Welfare people, need to get off of their duffs, pull themselves up by their boot straps and get a job. Any job. If they don't like the job or their wages, they should simply apply more effort and change careers. Solved.
The Middle East: This gets into the area of George Orwell's "doublethink." If a Republican is our Commander in Chief, we should go in and bomb the crap out of people. If it's a Democrat, we should just let those people destroy themselves. Next.
Women's rights: Women (or "feminazis" as Limbaugh calls them, and you know how cute and funny it is when an entire group of people are compared to the Third Reich) have rights? When did that happen? Oh well, the ones that do are sluts who should be making sex tapes for our amusement.
Laughable right? But if you can boil down incredibly complex issues to one phrase, people will lap it up. And they will repeat it.
Limbaugh's theme song might as well be "Popular" from "Wicked."
Now, after reading all of this, here is something that I want you to consider. I am not a straight-ticket Democrat. Ssssshhh, save your screaming for later.
I voted for Bob Dole in the first presidential election I was eligible for. I voted for George W. the next time. I didn't like how W. marched us into Iraq, so I voted for John Kerry in 2004. In 2008, I voted for Obama. I probably will again, mainly because we were both born in Hawaii and are constantly having to prove our citizenship. Oh, wait, I'm white, so that's never happened to me.
Basically, even though I have a more liberal mind-set, I vote for whoever I think is the right person for the job.
And that person has never had a one-line answer to a complex political, social or economic problem.
Which brings us back to Limbaugh. It's ironic that the only network that ever had the backbone to fire him was ESPN.
You remember, when they brought Limbaugh in as a side analyst who could throw a "challenge flag" to points made on ESPN's NFL preview shows?
Do you remember when Limbaugh suggested that Donovan McNabb was receiving more media attention than he should, because he was black, and the media had an agenda to put forth a successful black quarterback?
His motivations and logic were questionable as ever, and ESPN had the good sense to can him and move on.
I wish his current employer would do the same.
I'm tired, so very tired of all of the hate. All the name calling. All of division on both sides that is pulling this country apart. I'm tired of crosshairs over congressional districts and people telling me I'm going to hell if I vote one way or another. That's not America. That's Iran.
If we don't wake up, people like Limbaugh are going to have a great view of this country collapsing from atop a large pile of money.
Why hasn't calling a Georgetown University researcher (one of those "women with brains" the hard right has been hearing about lately) a "slut" and suggesting women who want contraception covered by their health care plan be required to make sex tapes everyone can watch been enough to kick Limbaugh off the air?
After all, Don Imus was fired a few years back for making derogatory remarks about the Rutgers women's basketball team.
When Keith Olberman became too much for anyone to handle, MSNBC gave him the ax.
So why has Limbaugh been allowed to continue, not even suffering so much as a suspension for making remarks from the lean of politics that supposedly takes the moral high-ground, family values approach in this country?
Because he reaches 50 million listeners/viewers a day.
Like our auto industry, Limbaugh is too big, or in his case, too fat, to fail.
As sponsor after sponsor has pulled their advertising dollars from Limbaugh's show, he has arrogantly announced that he will simply find others. And he's probably right.
Limbaugh is almost bullet proof. From his bout with prescription addiction, to his failed marriages, he has still been able to speak from the high pulpit of hypocrisy daily without skipping a beat.
So, let's put all of the political junk aside for a second, and simply ask the question, why is he so popular?
Well, I for one, even enjoyed listening to Limbaugh once upon a time.
I was in middle school, and my dad and I were taking a lot of road trips together at the time.
Dad always likes listening to talk radio on long drives.
When I was a young kid strapped into the back of a brown Volvo sedan, it was NPR.
By the time I had moved up to the front seat of a sportier vehicle, it was Limbaugh.
Limbaugh really appealed to me. He was funny. He had everything figured out. He was hateful.
Do you know why that appealed to me? Because I was in the seventh-grade.
That is Limbaugh's target mentality. He makes things easy to laugh about. Easy to hate. He puts it all in a neat package that avoids the unnecessary complexities of the real world.
And in a country that's been dumbed down to the level of a coma victim, it's easy pickings.
Have you ever had a conversation with a Limbaugh fan in which you try to put forth an opposing view? It's not much of a conversation. The few times I've done it, the other person just yelled at me and called me names.
Sound like a middle-schooler to you?
By the way, the last time I called a girl a "slut" it was in middle school and I got called into the principal's office. Repercussions for my actions? What the hell? If only I had 50 million classmates who would vouch for me.
So let's bring the political stuff back in here and demonstrate how this works.
Welfare: Every Welfare recipient is too lazy to work and would rather sit at home, have more kids for more Welfare money, and reap the benefits that we taxpayers provide. See? It's easy.
Unemployment: People, especially the Welfare people, need to get off of their duffs, pull themselves up by their boot straps and get a job. Any job. If they don't like the job or their wages, they should simply apply more effort and change careers. Solved.
The Middle East: This gets into the area of George Orwell's "doublethink." If a Republican is our Commander in Chief, we should go in and bomb the crap out of people. If it's a Democrat, we should just let those people destroy themselves. Next.
Women's rights: Women (or "feminazis" as Limbaugh calls them, and you know how cute and funny it is when an entire group of people are compared to the Third Reich) have rights? When did that happen? Oh well, the ones that do are sluts who should be making sex tapes for our amusement.
Laughable right? But if you can boil down incredibly complex issues to one phrase, people will lap it up. And they will repeat it.
Limbaugh's theme song might as well be "Popular" from "Wicked."
Now, after reading all of this, here is something that I want you to consider. I am not a straight-ticket Democrat. Ssssshhh, save your screaming for later.
I voted for Bob Dole in the first presidential election I was eligible for. I voted for George W. the next time. I didn't like how W. marched us into Iraq, so I voted for John Kerry in 2004. In 2008, I voted for Obama. I probably will again, mainly because we were both born in Hawaii and are constantly having to prove our citizenship. Oh, wait, I'm white, so that's never happened to me.
Basically, even though I have a more liberal mind-set, I vote for whoever I think is the right person for the job.
And that person has never had a one-line answer to a complex political, social or economic problem.
Which brings us back to Limbaugh. It's ironic that the only network that ever had the backbone to fire him was ESPN.
You remember, when they brought Limbaugh in as a side analyst who could throw a "challenge flag" to points made on ESPN's NFL preview shows?
Do you remember when Limbaugh suggested that Donovan McNabb was receiving more media attention than he should, because he was black, and the media had an agenda to put forth a successful black quarterback?
His motivations and logic were questionable as ever, and ESPN had the good sense to can him and move on.
I wish his current employer would do the same.
I'm tired, so very tired of all of the hate. All the name calling. All of division on both sides that is pulling this country apart. I'm tired of crosshairs over congressional districts and people telling me I'm going to hell if I vote one way or another. That's not America. That's Iran.
If we don't wake up, people like Limbaugh are going to have a great view of this country collapsing from atop a large pile of money.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Song/video of the week
Perhaps my favorite Sting song ever, "Why Should I Cry for You?" from the "Soul Cages" album.
A bit of self-admission here, I used to listen to this song in the dark when I was down about something, which is weird, because it isn't a "happy" song. However, I do feel, while it's a rather personal song for Sting, the empathetic effect it generates makes one feel better. Enough yapping. Please enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iHhZKSoePio
A bit of self-admission here, I used to listen to this song in the dark when I was down about something, which is weird, because it isn't a "happy" song. However, I do feel, while it's a rather personal song for Sting, the empathetic effect it generates makes one feel better. Enough yapping. Please enjoy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iHhZKSoePio
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Veterans Field House memories
After some 60 years of use, the Veterans Memorial Field House in Huntington is being torn down.
I don't have a whole lot of memories of the Field House, but the ones I do are pretty vivid.
I played indoor soccer at the Field House for a couple of seasons, and I remember when it would be raining outside, it was also raining in certain spots on the indoor pitch (which was a slab of concrete).
Same thing for snow, although my teammates and myself were never sure if it was actually snow or flakes of asbestos drifting down. I never caught a Field House snowflake on my tongue to make a firm conclusion.
So, when I heard Marshall University was tearing the Field House down to make way for a new soccer complex (a clever subterfuge for a new indoor football practice facility) I wasn't heartbroken. I just don't have the catalogue of memories so many others in the community possess.
I do remember my buddy Christian and I getting fired up for indoor soccer.
I didn't really pick up soccer until college, so I'm not great, but I'm not terrible either (opinions may vary, side effects include streaky goal scoring, occasional bad passes in the defensive half and temporary lack of energy. Ask your doctor before adding Ben Fields to your soccer team)
Of course, no one remembers the goals I scored, or the shots that I stopped when I was in net as keeper.
What they do remember is a single incident that proves I am in no way sexist when it comes to sports.
A teammate and I were on a break away. All he had to do is make one square pass. All I had to do was get my foot on the ball. An easy goal.
But I made the classic mistake that applies to every sport, I took my eye off the ball. I saw the goal before I actually scored it. So, I whiffed.
I was flooded with embarrassment. In a split second my mind hardened on the idea "If someone else gets this loose ball before me, they are going to pay."
The ball careened off of the hockey boards that were still in place around the "pitch," a leftover from the former arena football team that had once occupied the Field House.
This time I kept my eye on the ball, not my opponent.
Turns out she was a young woman, slight of frame.
I took her into the boards. Hard.
Christian's girlfriend, who was in the stands above, said she actually saw the boards buckle inward with the impact.
"Jesus Christ!" the girl yelled from the ground. Someone else helped her up before I could. I just looked at the ref, who had pulled out his blue card (indoor rules are different from outdoor) and asked how long my penalty was.
"Two minutes!" he declared with a look of disgust on his face.
I was on the far side from our bench, so I had to make a walk of shame back to our side. My teammates were jeering me.
"Wrong sport, Lemieux!" one of them yelled.
"Hey, Wendell Clark, you left your gloves on the ice," another shouted.
The manager of the other team actually came over and apologized to me for some reason.
After the game, I apologized to the girl. She was wearing an Ohio State shirt, so I made the lame apology "I went to Purdue and whenever I see a Buckeye shirt I lose it."
She was well over it after the game. Although the next week she did have a bruise running down the entire right side of her body.
But let it never be said that I treat female athletes any differently than male athletes.
Well, that's not entirely true.
In softball during the ensuing spring, I hit a grounder to first and the woman playing the position tried to tag me out instead of stepping on the bag. I slowed up and let her tag me.
As I headed to the far dugout, my teammates (many of whom were the same from soccer) were jeering me again, saying they expected me to take the woman out.
That's not the kind of tag I want hanging on me. The term "lady killer" isn't bad if you spend a lot of time in bars. On the pitch, it's not so flattering.
I don't have a whole lot of memories of the Field House, but the ones I do are pretty vivid.
I played indoor soccer at the Field House for a couple of seasons, and I remember when it would be raining outside, it was also raining in certain spots on the indoor pitch (which was a slab of concrete).
Same thing for snow, although my teammates and myself were never sure if it was actually snow or flakes of asbestos drifting down. I never caught a Field House snowflake on my tongue to make a firm conclusion.
So, when I heard Marshall University was tearing the Field House down to make way for a new soccer complex (a clever subterfuge for a new indoor football practice facility) I wasn't heartbroken. I just don't have the catalogue of memories so many others in the community possess.
I do remember my buddy Christian and I getting fired up for indoor soccer.
I didn't really pick up soccer until college, so I'm not great, but I'm not terrible either (opinions may vary, side effects include streaky goal scoring, occasional bad passes in the defensive half and temporary lack of energy. Ask your doctor before adding Ben Fields to your soccer team)
Of course, no one remembers the goals I scored, or the shots that I stopped when I was in net as keeper.
What they do remember is a single incident that proves I am in no way sexist when it comes to sports.
A teammate and I were on a break away. All he had to do is make one square pass. All I had to do was get my foot on the ball. An easy goal.
But I made the classic mistake that applies to every sport, I took my eye off the ball. I saw the goal before I actually scored it. So, I whiffed.
I was flooded with embarrassment. In a split second my mind hardened on the idea "If someone else gets this loose ball before me, they are going to pay."
The ball careened off of the hockey boards that were still in place around the "pitch," a leftover from the former arena football team that had once occupied the Field House.
This time I kept my eye on the ball, not my opponent.
Turns out she was a young woman, slight of frame.
I took her into the boards. Hard.
Christian's girlfriend, who was in the stands above, said she actually saw the boards buckle inward with the impact.
"Jesus Christ!" the girl yelled from the ground. Someone else helped her up before I could. I just looked at the ref, who had pulled out his blue card (indoor rules are different from outdoor) and asked how long my penalty was.
"Two minutes!" he declared with a look of disgust on his face.
I was on the far side from our bench, so I had to make a walk of shame back to our side. My teammates were jeering me.
"Wrong sport, Lemieux!" one of them yelled.
"Hey, Wendell Clark, you left your gloves on the ice," another shouted.
The manager of the other team actually came over and apologized to me for some reason.
After the game, I apologized to the girl. She was wearing an Ohio State shirt, so I made the lame apology "I went to Purdue and whenever I see a Buckeye shirt I lose it."
She was well over it after the game. Although the next week she did have a bruise running down the entire right side of her body.
But let it never be said that I treat female athletes any differently than male athletes.
Well, that's not entirely true.
In softball during the ensuing spring, I hit a grounder to first and the woman playing the position tried to tag me out instead of stepping on the bag. I slowed up and let her tag me.
As I headed to the far dugout, my teammates (many of whom were the same from soccer) were jeering me again, saying they expected me to take the woman out.
That's not the kind of tag I want hanging on me. The term "lady killer" isn't bad if you spend a lot of time in bars. On the pitch, it's not so flattering.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Song/Video of the week
The Smithereens "A Girl Like You." The formula: A staight ahead rock song about a guy who likes a girl. The result: Success.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LwjD8z2mOg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LwjD8z2mOg
Friday, February 24, 2012
The last of the old school editors
Mike Reliford embodied just about everything that comes to mind when you think about old school journalism.
And, when I say "old school," I don't mean men in suits and women in dresses and hats talking at the speed of light while chain smoking in a black and white film.
"Say, chief, what a scoop! Put me on it, whatta ya say?"
No. I'm talking about the guys and girls who pounded the pavement for years, worked their sources, did their research, knew about the principles and ethics of the business and worked their way up the ladder -- all while chain smoking and taking an occasional slug from the bottle.
Mike Reliford, the editor of The Independent in Ashland until his death this week at the age of 68, was old school.
He was everything you expected a newspaper editor to be. He had a gravelly yet somehow soothing voice that both boomed and cuddled at the same time. The only way I can describe it is as some sort of cross between Ed Asner and Donald Sutherland.
He had literally been through everything in the business, from winning awards for his brilliant writing, to having a gun pulled on him because of the way he covered high school sports.
Dropping Mike's name in strange company was a flip of the coin, because people were either going to embrace you and buy you a drink or chase you around the block with pitchforks and torches.
When I knew Mike, I could easily imagine him bellied up to a bar in an Old West saloon, piano plunking along, cowpokes gambling, hookers with hearts of gold swaying in their layered dresses.
Then, the saloon doors burst open, and some wild-eyed kid swaggers in, saying he's looking for Mike Reliford.
Mike would sigh, put down his drink and slowly turn around on his bar stool. He would raise his hat, make some remark about how he was getting too old for this, and then appraise the kid.
"Well, I haven't killed anyone since noon," he would say. "You look young, you sure you want to try me?"
It didn't surprise me at all that Mike really liked the HBO show "Deadwood."
I had my first meaningful encounter with Mike in 1999. I was scrambling for a journalism job but I didn't really have any experience aside from what I had to do to earn my degree. I couldn't get past the guy in front of Mike because he simply wasn't going to put up with someone who was so wet behind the ears.
I was working at a carpet store owned by some of my best friends' parents when the owner suggested I talk to Mike instead of the guy I was going through.
So I went to Mike.
He pondered my resume for a second, raised his eyebrows slightly and said "Well, shit, you've got the grades. You don't have any experience?"
"I thought I was going to go post-graduate in English," I said.
Mike offered me a deal.
"Go to the Portsmouth Daily Times," he said. "They're always hiring. Get some experience and then come back."
So I worked for five months in Portsmouth, Ohio, when I finally got the call up from the farm team to the show.
"Well, kid," Mike said in his gruff voice. "I'm going to take a shot on you."
I was 23 years old. As far as I was concerned, I had made it in journalism.
The Independent (or "Daily Independent" as it was then known) was a premier newspaper gig at that time.
Kentucky Press Association awards adorned the walls, proclamations from government officials congratulating the paper on its vigilance hung in stairwells. The staff was loaded with experience, including a writer who had been nominated for a Pulitzer for his work on a series of stories about poverty in Appalachia.
We were owned by a company called Ottaway, which, in turn, was owned by Dow Jones. So we could say with pride we were a sister paper to the Wall Street Journal.
These were people I could learn from.
And in the middle of it all was Old School Mike.
For the first couple of years he called me "cub" (a term for a rookie reporter) or "Young Ben," even though there was no old Ben at the business for comparison.
He spent a lot of time in his office, but we all relished in the times when the mood would strike him, and he would stride out to the obituary station in the fore of the room, lean his elbow on the lip of the desk and launch into a story about how he and Jim Todd (another great reporter and editor, who has since retired) would have a gun pulled on them in a bar across the river in Ironton, Ohio, because people weren't happy with one thing or another.
Mike also kept up the old school image after hours, when he would hit the bars. His favorite spot was a Mexican restaurant called "La Finca."
I remember one morning Mike showed up super early for work and asked me and another reporter if we had seen a police statement concerning a fight at the establishment.
"If you see that, it wasn't a fight. It was nothing," he said, and strode into his office.
My colleague and I exchanged confused glances. Nothing else was ever said about it.
I only went drinking with Mike once. Before I knew it, five hours had passed, I had missed an appointment and I was in trouble with my wife.
"So this is what it's like to be you, huh?" I asked Mike as I slouched out of the booth. He just chuckled.
But there was so much more to Mike Reliford than bravado and image.
He had a warm spot for the community he lived and worked in, and a soft spot for people in trouble.
His detractors, and I was among them at one time or another, called it "pity journalism."
When he would become concerned about how an article about a crime or a trial or lawsuit would affect the suspect's family, I would always say "Look, Mike, everyone has a mom or a grandmother or a brother or an uncle or somebody."
But he would always counter that they also had kids who would have to go to school and deal with their peers knowing about what their family member had done.
Sometimes we held names until we couldn't do it anymore. Sometimes we held entire stories. I remember being furious on those occasions. But, looking back, I was a cub. I didn't know better than Mike Reliford.
Mike had emphysema from the time I started at The Independent.
He would always talk about how it was going to take him down, but he did it with a smile and a laugh, almost as if he saw his fate and would deal with it when the time came. Who knows, the old gunslinger might even shoot down death.
My last years at The Independent were the worst. Mike could no longer make it up the stairs, and was operating out of an office on the first floor. He was on oxygen.
We were no longer sister to The Wall Street Journal. We had been sold in 2002 to an outfit that was no more than a holdings corporation for the Alabama State Teacher's Association retirement fund. They had no interest in us except how much cash we were generating.
For the first few years everything was fine, but then, little by little, we started losing resources. Some of our best reporters and at least one editor jumped ship.
Less people were doing more. Circulation was dropping.
We experienced a bit of a return to the golden age when two reporters who were friends of my wife joined us, and Jim Todd came back as a reporter.
But it didn't last.
I started to feel like it was time for me to go, too.
I shook Mike's hand on my last day, and thanked him for giving me the chance all those years ago, which by then had totalled nearly eight.
I thanked him one last time at his visitation.
I met up with many of my former colleagues, who remain friends to this day, at the funeral home. They said Mike continued to come into work faithfully every day, barring some trips to the hospital, until the end.
Mike Reliford had often postulated, elbow on desk, where he would end up after everything had been said and done.
As for me, I have no doubt God is tugging Mike's sleeve, asking to hear one more story.
And, when I say "old school," I don't mean men in suits and women in dresses and hats talking at the speed of light while chain smoking in a black and white film.
"Say, chief, what a scoop! Put me on it, whatta ya say?"
No. I'm talking about the guys and girls who pounded the pavement for years, worked their sources, did their research, knew about the principles and ethics of the business and worked their way up the ladder -- all while chain smoking and taking an occasional slug from the bottle.
Mike Reliford, the editor of The Independent in Ashland until his death this week at the age of 68, was old school.
He was everything you expected a newspaper editor to be. He had a gravelly yet somehow soothing voice that both boomed and cuddled at the same time. The only way I can describe it is as some sort of cross between Ed Asner and Donald Sutherland.
He had literally been through everything in the business, from winning awards for his brilliant writing, to having a gun pulled on him because of the way he covered high school sports.
Dropping Mike's name in strange company was a flip of the coin, because people were either going to embrace you and buy you a drink or chase you around the block with pitchforks and torches.
When I knew Mike, I could easily imagine him bellied up to a bar in an Old West saloon, piano plunking along, cowpokes gambling, hookers with hearts of gold swaying in their layered dresses.
Then, the saloon doors burst open, and some wild-eyed kid swaggers in, saying he's looking for Mike Reliford.
Mike would sigh, put down his drink and slowly turn around on his bar stool. He would raise his hat, make some remark about how he was getting too old for this, and then appraise the kid.
"Well, I haven't killed anyone since noon," he would say. "You look young, you sure you want to try me?"
It didn't surprise me at all that Mike really liked the HBO show "Deadwood."
I had my first meaningful encounter with Mike in 1999. I was scrambling for a journalism job but I didn't really have any experience aside from what I had to do to earn my degree. I couldn't get past the guy in front of Mike because he simply wasn't going to put up with someone who was so wet behind the ears.
I was working at a carpet store owned by some of my best friends' parents when the owner suggested I talk to Mike instead of the guy I was going through.
So I went to Mike.
He pondered my resume for a second, raised his eyebrows slightly and said "Well, shit, you've got the grades. You don't have any experience?"
"I thought I was going to go post-graduate in English," I said.
Mike offered me a deal.
"Go to the Portsmouth Daily Times," he said. "They're always hiring. Get some experience and then come back."
So I worked for five months in Portsmouth, Ohio, when I finally got the call up from the farm team to the show.
"Well, kid," Mike said in his gruff voice. "I'm going to take a shot on you."
I was 23 years old. As far as I was concerned, I had made it in journalism.
The Independent (or "Daily Independent" as it was then known) was a premier newspaper gig at that time.
Kentucky Press Association awards adorned the walls, proclamations from government officials congratulating the paper on its vigilance hung in stairwells. The staff was loaded with experience, including a writer who had been nominated for a Pulitzer for his work on a series of stories about poverty in Appalachia.
We were owned by a company called Ottaway, which, in turn, was owned by Dow Jones. So we could say with pride we were a sister paper to the Wall Street Journal.
These were people I could learn from.
And in the middle of it all was Old School Mike.
For the first couple of years he called me "cub" (a term for a rookie reporter) or "Young Ben," even though there was no old Ben at the business for comparison.
He spent a lot of time in his office, but we all relished in the times when the mood would strike him, and he would stride out to the obituary station in the fore of the room, lean his elbow on the lip of the desk and launch into a story about how he and Jim Todd (another great reporter and editor, who has since retired) would have a gun pulled on them in a bar across the river in Ironton, Ohio, because people weren't happy with one thing or another.
Mike also kept up the old school image after hours, when he would hit the bars. His favorite spot was a Mexican restaurant called "La Finca."
I remember one morning Mike showed up super early for work and asked me and another reporter if we had seen a police statement concerning a fight at the establishment.
"If you see that, it wasn't a fight. It was nothing," he said, and strode into his office.
My colleague and I exchanged confused glances. Nothing else was ever said about it.
I only went drinking with Mike once. Before I knew it, five hours had passed, I had missed an appointment and I was in trouble with my wife.
"So this is what it's like to be you, huh?" I asked Mike as I slouched out of the booth. He just chuckled.
But there was so much more to Mike Reliford than bravado and image.
He had a warm spot for the community he lived and worked in, and a soft spot for people in trouble.
His detractors, and I was among them at one time or another, called it "pity journalism."
When he would become concerned about how an article about a crime or a trial or lawsuit would affect the suspect's family, I would always say "Look, Mike, everyone has a mom or a grandmother or a brother or an uncle or somebody."
But he would always counter that they also had kids who would have to go to school and deal with their peers knowing about what their family member had done.
Sometimes we held names until we couldn't do it anymore. Sometimes we held entire stories. I remember being furious on those occasions. But, looking back, I was a cub. I didn't know better than Mike Reliford.
Mike had emphysema from the time I started at The Independent.
He would always talk about how it was going to take him down, but he did it with a smile and a laugh, almost as if he saw his fate and would deal with it when the time came. Who knows, the old gunslinger might even shoot down death.
My last years at The Independent were the worst. Mike could no longer make it up the stairs, and was operating out of an office on the first floor. He was on oxygen.
We were no longer sister to The Wall Street Journal. We had been sold in 2002 to an outfit that was no more than a holdings corporation for the Alabama State Teacher's Association retirement fund. They had no interest in us except how much cash we were generating.
For the first few years everything was fine, but then, little by little, we started losing resources. Some of our best reporters and at least one editor jumped ship.
Less people were doing more. Circulation was dropping.
We experienced a bit of a return to the golden age when two reporters who were friends of my wife joined us, and Jim Todd came back as a reporter.
But it didn't last.
I started to feel like it was time for me to go, too.
I shook Mike's hand on my last day, and thanked him for giving me the chance all those years ago, which by then had totalled nearly eight.
I thanked him one last time at his visitation.
I met up with many of my former colleagues, who remain friends to this day, at the funeral home. They said Mike continued to come into work faithfully every day, barring some trips to the hospital, until the end.
Mike Reliford had often postulated, elbow on desk, where he would end up after everything had been said and done.
As for me, I have no doubt God is tugging Mike's sleeve, asking to hear one more story.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Song/Music video of the week
I usually do this on Saturday, but I'm heading to Atlanta in the morrow so I figured I should do it now. After two weeks of pop songs, we are taking a leap in the other direction, with "Type" by Living Colour. When I first heard this band when I was a kid, I knew I wanted to learn to play music, and I knew I wouldn't be listening to the radio anymore. Put simply, this is a band made up entirely of musical badasses. From the scorching lead vocals of Cory Glover to the shredding guitar of Vernon Reid, this is one of the best hard rock bands of all time, and this is my favorite song of theirs. Enjoy responsibly. It's hooked up through Vevo, so you might have to watch an ad. Trust me, it's worth it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1HbF3EAt3ck&ob=av2e
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1HbF3EAt3ck&ob=av2e
Thursday, February 16, 2012
The precious is lost
I lost my wedding ring on Sunday.
One minute it was on my finger, and the next time I looked at my hands, it was gone.
Somewhere between church, my car and Moe's, it dislodged itself from my finger, where it had happily sat for seven years and four months.
That's not entirely true. I did lose it once before, and when my wife and I were moving into our new house, it came tumbling out of a recliner. That was roughly seven years ago.
I have put on my wedding ring faithfully every day since then. Mostly out of love for my wife, but partly to prove to other women, yes, some one did find me attractive enough to marry me.
I take it off every night, because in the early days it would slip off in my sleep, and put it on every morning.
That's why when my wife suggested maybe I had just forgotten to put in on Sunday I knew that was not the case.
I checked anyway. The ring was not in its box. Nor was it in my car, or anywhere I searched at the church.
That left one possibility, Moe's, the restaurant where my wife and I had lunch with some friends after church.
I had already alerted the staff before I left the first time that my ring was missing and to please be on the lookout for it.
But I was so wracked with anxiety over losing it that I returned to the restaurant after exhausting other search options that same day.
"Welcome to Moe's!" came the enthusiastic shouts as I entered for the second time.
"Yeah, yeah, look, I'm not that happy right now," I thought.
There was a family seated at the booth we had previously occupied, and I politely asked them if I could unseat them and rummage around their space.
They were very understanding, and helped me look. Nothing.
The elderly group in the adjacent booth gave me a look that made it very clear they would not be getting up. It didn't really matter. The booths there are boxed in, so if it slipped below it couldn't have bounced anywhere.
I went up to the register.
"Can I go through your garbage?" I asked.
"You want some gloves?" several voices asked in unison.
"Yes, please."
So, there I was, pawing through discarded salsa, beef, guacamole, cheese and tortilla chips like a common raccoon.
Maybe the gloves made me look like some sort of CSI person of importance, but I doubt it. I certainly felt more like vermin.
It was all to no avail.
The next day my wife and I stopped by my parents' house, and I was telling my mom about losing my ring.
"You know, Benjamin, that exact same thing happened to me," she said, relaying a story about how she lost her wedding ring at the elementary school where she used to teach.
Only in her story, a kindergartner found the ring and turned it in, so she got it back.
That's great mom, so happy for you. Do you know any other ring-sniffing kids I could turn loose in a Mexican restaurant?
I'm still hoping it will turn up somewhere. A quick fitting at a local jeweler determined I had gone down an entire size since my wedding, explaining why the ring might have been loose. The price of gold has tripled since 2004, so I don't plan on buying a replacement immediately.
And, really, I don't want a replacement. I want my wedding ring. The one my wife picked out for me and has reminded me nearly every day since how lucky I am just by glancing at my left hand.
I still consider myself a lucky person, even if some bad luck hit on Sunday, and I'm still happy ... seriously.
One minute it was on my finger, and the next time I looked at my hands, it was gone.
Somewhere between church, my car and Moe's, it dislodged itself from my finger, where it had happily sat for seven years and four months.
That's not entirely true. I did lose it once before, and when my wife and I were moving into our new house, it came tumbling out of a recliner. That was roughly seven years ago.
I have put on my wedding ring faithfully every day since then. Mostly out of love for my wife, but partly to prove to other women, yes, some one did find me attractive enough to marry me.
I take it off every night, because in the early days it would slip off in my sleep, and put it on every morning.
That's why when my wife suggested maybe I had just forgotten to put in on Sunday I knew that was not the case.
I checked anyway. The ring was not in its box. Nor was it in my car, or anywhere I searched at the church.
That left one possibility, Moe's, the restaurant where my wife and I had lunch with some friends after church.
I had already alerted the staff before I left the first time that my ring was missing and to please be on the lookout for it.
But I was so wracked with anxiety over losing it that I returned to the restaurant after exhausting other search options that same day.
"Welcome to Moe's!" came the enthusiastic shouts as I entered for the second time.
"Yeah, yeah, look, I'm not that happy right now," I thought.
There was a family seated at the booth we had previously occupied, and I politely asked them if I could unseat them and rummage around their space.
They were very understanding, and helped me look. Nothing.
The elderly group in the adjacent booth gave me a look that made it very clear they would not be getting up. It didn't really matter. The booths there are boxed in, so if it slipped below it couldn't have bounced anywhere.
I went up to the register.
"Can I go through your garbage?" I asked.
"You want some gloves?" several voices asked in unison.
"Yes, please."
So, there I was, pawing through discarded salsa, beef, guacamole, cheese and tortilla chips like a common raccoon.
Maybe the gloves made me look like some sort of CSI person of importance, but I doubt it. I certainly felt more like vermin.
It was all to no avail.
The next day my wife and I stopped by my parents' house, and I was telling my mom about losing my ring.
"You know, Benjamin, that exact same thing happened to me," she said, relaying a story about how she lost her wedding ring at the elementary school where she used to teach.
Only in her story, a kindergartner found the ring and turned it in, so she got it back.
That's great mom, so happy for you. Do you know any other ring-sniffing kids I could turn loose in a Mexican restaurant?
I'm still hoping it will turn up somewhere. A quick fitting at a local jeweler determined I had gone down an entire size since my wedding, explaining why the ring might have been loose. The price of gold has tripled since 2004, so I don't plan on buying a replacement immediately.
And, really, I don't want a replacement. I want my wedding ring. The one my wife picked out for me and has reminded me nearly every day since how lucky I am just by glancing at my left hand.
I still consider myself a lucky person, even if some bad luck hit on Sunday, and I'm still happy ... seriously.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Song/Video of the Week
We stay in the land of pop this week with New Order's "Regret." It is a pop song, but it's a very well-written and arranged pop song. I can relate to the lyrics in my days as an angry young man, and it still resonates to a degree. I also like the way Peter Hook plays the bass as if it is a lead guitar. This is the official video so an ad will probably pop up beforehand. It will let you skip it.
Cheers,
Ben
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wgTtg9FdLAQ
Cheers,
Ben
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wgTtg9FdLAQ
Friday, February 10, 2012
Sandusky's blues
Jerry Sandusky's legal team needs to grab him by the jacket and get him to an underground bunker as quickly as they are able.
Once there, they need to pry his eyes open "Clockwork Orange" style and make him watch every media report that has aired since he was indicted on 52 counts of sexual abuse and make sure he understands that what he is going through is serious.
Then, if they're smart, they'll keep him down there until his trial.
I don't know what kind of bubble the former Penn State defensive coordinator is living in, but it must be more rose-tinted than the poppy fields in "The Wizard of Oz."
Innocent until proven guilty, sure. But you might not want to go out on your back porch and stare at kids from a local elementary school playing during recess when you've been accused of sexually assaulting 10 minors over a period of 15 years.
Sandusky had the gall to be offended that folks in his neighborhood and at the school found his behavior alarming, and told the Associated Press he feels like people have turned on him.
Yeah, people will do that when you've been indicted in connection with more than 50 sex crimes.
"I've associated with thousands of young people over the years," Sandusky said, in a very poor choice of words. "And now, all of a sudden, because of allegations and perceptions that have been tried to be created of me, now I can't take our dog on my deck and throw out biscuits to him."
It's clear that Sandusky still just doesn't get it. Throwing biscuits to his dog should be the last thing on his mind.
In a sense, it's reminiscent of the same mentality Joe Paterno had when news of the scandal broke last fall. Joe didn't seem to understand why people were mad at him for not doing more when he had been informed of Sandusky's alleged behavior.
Sure, he said he should have done more. He also said he would retire at the end of the season.
Joepa didn't realize that this was bigger than him. And Penn State canned him for it.
It was a sad end, punctuated by Paterno's recent death.
But Sandusky, too, seems to be carrying on as if he is invincible.
First he gave an interview to Bob Costas in which he got picked apart like a lame impala trying to fend off a cheetah.
Who pauses when someone asks them if they're a pedophile? Pedophiles, would be my only guess. Otherwise it's a flat and fast "no."
Now there's this stuff where he's expecting his neighbors to rally behind him and just treat him like he's part of the extended family while he's on house arrest awaiting trial.
"Now, all of a sudden, these people turn on me when they've been in my home with their kids," Sandusky said, again using very poorly chosen words. "They've attended birthday parties when they've been on that deck. When their kids have been playing in my yard. When their kids have been sled riding when they've asked to sled ride. It's difficult for me to understand."
That last bit seems rather obvious. Sandusky clearly does not understand what he is involved in. But he'd better wake the hell up.
At 68, with the charges he's facing, he is on trial for his life.
He needs to close all the shutters, bolt the doors and do some serious soul searching. He needs to realize that the days of letting kids sled in his yard are over. He needs to realize that, as an accused sex offender, he can't casually watch kids play and flip biscuits to the dog.
He needs to understand that the rest of the world, including his neighbors, now have a very different way of looking at him. This is real. This is serious.
The justice system will determine if Jerry Sandusky is guilty or not. But, in the world we live in, when charges this grave are levied in such volume, there are no more birthday parties on the deck.
Once there, they need to pry his eyes open "Clockwork Orange" style and make him watch every media report that has aired since he was indicted on 52 counts of sexual abuse and make sure he understands that what he is going through is serious.
Then, if they're smart, they'll keep him down there until his trial.
I don't know what kind of bubble the former Penn State defensive coordinator is living in, but it must be more rose-tinted than the poppy fields in "The Wizard of Oz."
Innocent until proven guilty, sure. But you might not want to go out on your back porch and stare at kids from a local elementary school playing during recess when you've been accused of sexually assaulting 10 minors over a period of 15 years.
Sandusky had the gall to be offended that folks in his neighborhood and at the school found his behavior alarming, and told the Associated Press he feels like people have turned on him.
Yeah, people will do that when you've been indicted in connection with more than 50 sex crimes.
"I've associated with thousands of young people over the years," Sandusky said, in a very poor choice of words. "And now, all of a sudden, because of allegations and perceptions that have been tried to be created of me, now I can't take our dog on my deck and throw out biscuits to him."
It's clear that Sandusky still just doesn't get it. Throwing biscuits to his dog should be the last thing on his mind.
In a sense, it's reminiscent of the same mentality Joe Paterno had when news of the scandal broke last fall. Joe didn't seem to understand why people were mad at him for not doing more when he had been informed of Sandusky's alleged behavior.
Sure, he said he should have done more. He also said he would retire at the end of the season.
Joepa didn't realize that this was bigger than him. And Penn State canned him for it.
It was a sad end, punctuated by Paterno's recent death.
But Sandusky, too, seems to be carrying on as if he is invincible.
First he gave an interview to Bob Costas in which he got picked apart like a lame impala trying to fend off a cheetah.
Who pauses when someone asks them if they're a pedophile? Pedophiles, would be my only guess. Otherwise it's a flat and fast "no."
Now there's this stuff where he's expecting his neighbors to rally behind him and just treat him like he's part of the extended family while he's on house arrest awaiting trial.
"Now, all of a sudden, these people turn on me when they've been in my home with their kids," Sandusky said, again using very poorly chosen words. "They've attended birthday parties when they've been on that deck. When their kids have been playing in my yard. When their kids have been sled riding when they've asked to sled ride. It's difficult for me to understand."
That last bit seems rather obvious. Sandusky clearly does not understand what he is involved in. But he'd better wake the hell up.
At 68, with the charges he's facing, he is on trial for his life.
He needs to close all the shutters, bolt the doors and do some serious soul searching. He needs to realize that the days of letting kids sled in his yard are over. He needs to realize that, as an accused sex offender, he can't casually watch kids play and flip biscuits to the dog.
He needs to understand that the rest of the world, including his neighbors, now have a very different way of looking at him. This is real. This is serious.
The justice system will determine if Jerry Sandusky is guilty or not. But, in the world we live in, when charges this grave are levied in such volume, there are no more birthday parties on the deck.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Feet don't fail me now
I had always been a skinny kid. I remember being weighed at 56 pounds in the fifth-grade.
Throughout high school, a lot of sandlot football and pickup basketball kept me in good shape. That, and the three to five miles I had to run every day as part of the high school cross country team.
In college, there was no one yelling at me to run, so I didn't.
I put on some weight (probably healthy in my case), but kept it in check with intramural soccer, wallyball (intramural champs, 1996, yeah, baby) and a lot of trips to the gym for basketball.
In the summer of 1997 I went to England where you have to walk everywhere, and I came back to the States in great shape.
Then I moved off-campus.
Little by little, I started to slip.
Then I graduated and, after a bit of Hoffman-esque floating, got a job.
I was now on one of those water park slides to weight gain.
Finally, I decided to do something about it, for myself and for a new girlfriend who would eventually become my wife.
I started biking. Every day. When it got too cold for biking, I started running, something I never thought I would do again. I was back up to three miles a day.
I was inching ever closer to my college weight, when I walked into a door jamb (something, if you've read the "Kicking Glass" column I seem to have an affinity for) and broke my toe.
I should clarify, I broke one of my toes. Not everyone in Appalachia is without their full compliment of fingers, teeth and toes, people.
As far as injuries go, a broken toe really sucks. Any doctor who is not in it for the money will tell you there's nothing you can do for it except take a lot of Advil.
It's such a tiny injury, but it completely takes you out of commission. You limp around everywhere, and people you approach view you with apprehension, as if you're a shambling zombie drawing ever closer to eat their brains.
I was thrown completely out of my regimen, and, even after the toe healed, I couldn't get back into a routine.
So, I put the weight back on.
Then, I got a job out-of-town where I ate out almost every day for lunch, and, later, every night for dinner when I became a night-dwelling editor type.
Last year, I was put on a doctor's scale and couldn't believe how far out of hand things had gotten.
I was also huffing and puffing in half-court basketball games at my church that didn't involve more than four people.
Time for action.
In February, 2011, I finally started going to the gym that I had a membership at on a regular basis. I even bought a Toronto Maple Leafs shirt that was too small for me as incentive to keep moving.
I was making unbelievable progress.
I dropped 20 pounds in two months, and was within striking distance of 30. I dropped a shirt size. The Leafs shirt fit.
Then, my wife and I took a trip to Naples, Fla.
I hadn't been to a beach in years, and, even though the temperature was nice and not too hot, I forgot how close the sun is to your body in that region.
Long story short (too late, ha) I ended up with second-degree burns on my feet.
I won't describe the condition and treatment of those burns, in case you are eating.
I have broken my left arm twice, and the aforementioned toe, but I don't think anything I've experienced compares to the agony I was in from those burns.
A friend dropped by my house to see how I was doing, looked at my feet, said "Oh, gross," and snapped a picture with the camera on his phone.
I spent the next few weeks at work with bandages beneath sandals and my feet propped up on my overturned garbage can.
Eventually, things healed. But again, I found myself unwilling or unable to get back into a routine.
I didn't put too much weight back on, and kept things steady.
When we visited a friend's house recently, one of their adorable children asked me how much I weighed. I told him. He looked horrified.
"I still have a few pounds to go," I said.
"If I were you, I would lose 100 pounds," he said.
Cute kid.
After some dithering about, I finally returned to my gym.
I'm settling into a good routine, and watching my feet very carefully. I will not let them be my downfall again.
Besides, my wife and I will eventually have children, and I don't want them to have a fat dad, nor a dad who dies at 60 due to complications from diabetes, heart disease or whatever else is waiting for me if I don't right the ship.
So I am 35, and I weigh 220. Do the math and you can see where I came from. But you can also see, especially if you knew me when I was much younger, that I have a long way to go. I plan on getting there sooner rather than later.
That is, as long as my feet don't get mauled by squirrels or something.
Throughout high school, a lot of sandlot football and pickup basketball kept me in good shape. That, and the three to five miles I had to run every day as part of the high school cross country team.
In college, there was no one yelling at me to run, so I didn't.
I put on some weight (probably healthy in my case), but kept it in check with intramural soccer, wallyball (intramural champs, 1996, yeah, baby) and a lot of trips to the gym for basketball.
In the summer of 1997 I went to England where you have to walk everywhere, and I came back to the States in great shape.
Then I moved off-campus.
Little by little, I started to slip.
Then I graduated and, after a bit of Hoffman-esque floating, got a job.
I was now on one of those water park slides to weight gain.
Finally, I decided to do something about it, for myself and for a new girlfriend who would eventually become my wife.
I started biking. Every day. When it got too cold for biking, I started running, something I never thought I would do again. I was back up to three miles a day.
I was inching ever closer to my college weight, when I walked into a door jamb (something, if you've read the "Kicking Glass" column I seem to have an affinity for) and broke my toe.
I should clarify, I broke one of my toes. Not everyone in Appalachia is without their full compliment of fingers, teeth and toes, people.
As far as injuries go, a broken toe really sucks. Any doctor who is not in it for the money will tell you there's nothing you can do for it except take a lot of Advil.
It's such a tiny injury, but it completely takes you out of commission. You limp around everywhere, and people you approach view you with apprehension, as if you're a shambling zombie drawing ever closer to eat their brains.
I was thrown completely out of my regimen, and, even after the toe healed, I couldn't get back into a routine.
So, I put the weight back on.
Then, I got a job out-of-town where I ate out almost every day for lunch, and, later, every night for dinner when I became a night-dwelling editor type.
Last year, I was put on a doctor's scale and couldn't believe how far out of hand things had gotten.
I was also huffing and puffing in half-court basketball games at my church that didn't involve more than four people.
Time for action.
In February, 2011, I finally started going to the gym that I had a membership at on a regular basis. I even bought a Toronto Maple Leafs shirt that was too small for me as incentive to keep moving.
I was making unbelievable progress.
I dropped 20 pounds in two months, and was within striking distance of 30. I dropped a shirt size. The Leafs shirt fit.
Then, my wife and I took a trip to Naples, Fla.
I hadn't been to a beach in years, and, even though the temperature was nice and not too hot, I forgot how close the sun is to your body in that region.
Long story short (too late, ha) I ended up with second-degree burns on my feet.
I won't describe the condition and treatment of those burns, in case you are eating.
I have broken my left arm twice, and the aforementioned toe, but I don't think anything I've experienced compares to the agony I was in from those burns.
A friend dropped by my house to see how I was doing, looked at my feet, said "Oh, gross," and snapped a picture with the camera on his phone.
I spent the next few weeks at work with bandages beneath sandals and my feet propped up on my overturned garbage can.
Eventually, things healed. But again, I found myself unwilling or unable to get back into a routine.
I didn't put too much weight back on, and kept things steady.
When we visited a friend's house recently, one of their adorable children asked me how much I weighed. I told him. He looked horrified.
"I still have a few pounds to go," I said.
"If I were you, I would lose 100 pounds," he said.
Cute kid.
After some dithering about, I finally returned to my gym.
I'm settling into a good routine, and watching my feet very carefully. I will not let them be my downfall again.
Besides, my wife and I will eventually have children, and I don't want them to have a fat dad, nor a dad who dies at 60 due to complications from diabetes, heart disease or whatever else is waiting for me if I don't right the ship.
So I am 35, and I weigh 220. Do the math and you can see where I came from. But you can also see, especially if you knew me when I was much younger, that I have a long way to go. I plan on getting there sooner rather than later.
That is, as long as my feet don't get mauled by squirrels or something.
Monday, February 6, 2012
Hey, you wanna? No, I'm good.
Nothing says football like an over-the-hill, fading sex symbol in gold S&M gear being hauled around by a team of androgynous dancing slaves.
After last year's Super Bowl halftime show, during which the Black-Eyed Peas shuffled around in robotic suits and a pitchy Fergie destroyed Guns 'N Roses' "Sweet Child of Mine," I didn't see how things could get any worse. I've been wrong about a lot of things.
Ever since the infamous "wardrobe malfunction" between Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson, there has been an unnatural obsession over who will perform at half time of America's biggest game in its biggest sport in its biggest league. The NFL has promised to keep it clean, while the "artists" involved have tried to push the envelope, with the exception of The Who, which pulled off the trick of none of its members dying on stage during the show (I apologize, I like The Who, but they should have stopped after John Entwhistle went down)
When it was announced that Madonna (whom I've heard is on a one-woman tour going door to door trying to shock people) would be this year's entertainment, tongues began to wag in Hobbiton.
"What will she do?"
"Can she play by the NFL's strict rules, or will she rebel against them?"
"Will her clothes fall off? I hope not, 'cause she's around 50."
"Will they make a sequel to 'Desperately Seeking Susan?'"
Really, I could feel nothing but squeamishness as Madonna uneasily made her way around the stage, looking like she was about to fall (I think she might have, at one point) in thigh-high boots, and occasionally being hefted into a figure skating pose by one of her androgynous man-servants.
One might view all of this as offensive, at least on an artistic level. But the actual offensive moment, the one that is going to have the NFL tearing its hair out, didn't come from the material girl.
Instead it came from one of two female hip-hop artists flanking her, who turned to a closeup camera and said "I don't give a shit," and flipped the bird to the millions of people watching the Super Bowl at home.
This was either during, or after a marching band came on stage and the brilliantly rhyming chorus of "You wanna? Hey, hey Madonna" was repeated ad nauseam.
During this bit, Madonna grabbed some pom-poms and looked like a majorette who was back on campus for alumni day.
Then Cee Lo Green showed up, sang some of Madonna's songs better than her, and it all ended in a whoosh of smoke with Madonna being dropped into what I hope was a carbonated freezing chamber, with the message "World Peace" waving in flowing gold light on the field/stage.
"What the hell?" was all I could manage.
I don't care if there's media backlash, criticism or praise for the show. I really don't. Besides, I'm nobody. Madonna could buy and sell me 100 times over.
What I really want to know is why the Super Bowl feels like it needs an over-the-top half time show.
It's the friggin' Super Bowl.
Granted, last night's 21-17 snorer between two teams I can't stand could have used a boost. You know you've entered a weird area when a running back is trying not to score while the defense is letting him into the end zone to save some clock.
Still, if people can't go a half without something strobing in their faces, move them to Tokyo. It's seizure-lights mixed with sex 24/7 there. Where did I put those boarding passes?
Anyway, I intentionally busied myself with other stuff during half time so I wouldn't have to watch the show and get all negative. But my wife had paused the TV. Blasted DVRs.
The one positive, for me, anyway, was the ad with the dog getting in shape so he could chase the Volkswagen. Dogs always make me smile, except when they're being held by Sarah McLachlan.
After last year's Super Bowl halftime show, during which the Black-Eyed Peas shuffled around in robotic suits and a pitchy Fergie destroyed Guns 'N Roses' "Sweet Child of Mine," I didn't see how things could get any worse. I've been wrong about a lot of things.
Ever since the infamous "wardrobe malfunction" between Justin Timberlake and Janet Jackson, there has been an unnatural obsession over who will perform at half time of America's biggest game in its biggest sport in its biggest league. The NFL has promised to keep it clean, while the "artists" involved have tried to push the envelope, with the exception of The Who, which pulled off the trick of none of its members dying on stage during the show (I apologize, I like The Who, but they should have stopped after John Entwhistle went down)
When it was announced that Madonna (whom I've heard is on a one-woman tour going door to door trying to shock people) would be this year's entertainment, tongues began to wag in Hobbiton.
"What will she do?"
"Can she play by the NFL's strict rules, or will she rebel against them?"
"Will her clothes fall off? I hope not, 'cause she's around 50."
"Will they make a sequel to 'Desperately Seeking Susan?'"
Really, I could feel nothing but squeamishness as Madonna uneasily made her way around the stage, looking like she was about to fall (I think she might have, at one point) in thigh-high boots, and occasionally being hefted into a figure skating pose by one of her androgynous man-servants.
One might view all of this as offensive, at least on an artistic level. But the actual offensive moment, the one that is going to have the NFL tearing its hair out, didn't come from the material girl.
Instead it came from one of two female hip-hop artists flanking her, who turned to a closeup camera and said "I don't give a shit," and flipped the bird to the millions of people watching the Super Bowl at home.
This was either during, or after a marching band came on stage and the brilliantly rhyming chorus of "You wanna? Hey, hey Madonna" was repeated ad nauseam.
During this bit, Madonna grabbed some pom-poms and looked like a majorette who was back on campus for alumni day.
Then Cee Lo Green showed up, sang some of Madonna's songs better than her, and it all ended in a whoosh of smoke with Madonna being dropped into what I hope was a carbonated freezing chamber, with the message "World Peace" waving in flowing gold light on the field/stage.
"What the hell?" was all I could manage.
I don't care if there's media backlash, criticism or praise for the show. I really don't. Besides, I'm nobody. Madonna could buy and sell me 100 times over.
What I really want to know is why the Super Bowl feels like it needs an over-the-top half time show.
It's the friggin' Super Bowl.
Granted, last night's 21-17 snorer between two teams I can't stand could have used a boost. You know you've entered a weird area when a running back is trying not to score while the defense is letting him into the end zone to save some clock.
Still, if people can't go a half without something strobing in their faces, move them to Tokyo. It's seizure-lights mixed with sex 24/7 there. Where did I put those boarding passes?
Anyway, I intentionally busied myself with other stuff during half time so I wouldn't have to watch the show and get all negative. But my wife had paused the TV. Blasted DVRs.
The one positive, for me, anyway, was the ad with the dog getting in shape so he could chase the Volkswagen. Dogs always make me smile, except when they're being held by Sarah McLachlan.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
New feature: Song/video of the week.
I knew it wouldn't be long before I worked music into this somehow. I plan on putting up a song/music video every week in the hopes of generating some musical discussion, while not hammering away at people on Facebook. This particular song has been in my head all week. And though I am 35 years old, the video still disturbs me somewhat. It is Peter Gabriel's "Shock the Monkey." Check it. (I cannot pull off that phrase)
"Cover me, darling please."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bo9riZYUpTw
"Cover me, darling please."
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bo9riZYUpTw
Thursday, February 2, 2012
One wedding and no funerals (aka The Tale of Rev. Benjamin Fields)
I'm trying to cheer an old friend up as much as possible this week, so I decided to write about a significant event in his life, and mine.
We were young and stupid. We're still stupid, but the point is, we were young.
My friend had finally decided to tie the knot.
This presented one problem. We are part of a tight-knit triumvirate, or trio for us stupid people.
I knew the wedding party would be small, and I knew one of the trio was a slight step up from me and would inevitably be the best man. So I wondered, selfishly, if I would be included.
Was I in for a surprise.
I got the call, and my friend got as far as "We were wondering if you would do us the honor of ..." when I was ready to blurt out "Yes, of course. The honor is mine, sir."
But he didn't finish the way I expected. He didn't want me in the wedding party.
"We were wondering if you would do us the honor of (wait for it) performing the ceremony?"
I was thunderstruck. Me? The same guy who this very Thursday morning was asked if I had a religious preference before a blood test and replied "Non-Unitarian?"
"We understand if you want to think about it for a while," my friend said, now back in the time when we were young and obnoxious but polite.
"I'll do it. I'm in. I am absolutely honored," I said.
"Great, you don't have to worry about anything. We'll get you ordained online and take care of all that stuff."
The papers came. I was now a reverend in the Church of New Life.
I did absolutely no research on the Church of New Life. Anyone with half a brain would have at least looked them up on Wikipedia. I didn't, and I still haven't. I don't really care in what way they differ from the multitudes of organized religion that are tearing this country apart (I play guitar every weekend in a Methodist Church, so I realize the hypocrisy of the above statement.)
My employer was slightly flabbergasted when I asked for a day off so I could go perform a wedding ceremony.
"Is this something that you do?"
"At least once," I replied.
The ceremony was winged for the most part. I knew bride and groom very well, knew that they were perfect for each other, knew they were wonderful friends and knew that the love between them was rare and special. So the words came easily.
I mainly stuck to that, with some jokes sprinkled in here and there. A transcript may be available, I know at least one of my friends was sitting in the back texting "Ben just said this" to another friend who couldn't be present.
I closed with "Now by the power vested in me, for some reason, I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."
I signed some papers later, and it was done.
My fall from grace did not take very long.
We retired to the hotel where my friend had a room ... and enough booze to fill a hot tub.
The University of Kentucky also happened to upset No. 1 LSU in overtime in football that night. Drinking continued. There are photographs.
The phone rang. We thought it was management calling to tell us to calm down or get out. But it was the bride and groom, asking if we wanted to come down to their room for a bit.
At first I thought we might get trapped up in some weird prima nocta thing, but they wanted to give us presents, and, well, drink some more.
I realized I had hit my personal wall when I was out on a balcony pleading with my friend's ex-girlfriend not to get back together with him.
"He doesn't deserve you!" I said in the uneven, but fluent tongue of Maker's Mark. It's akin to Latin.
"I can't believe you and I are talking about this," she kept saying, equally inebriated.
I sobered up, swore I would never drink again, and drove myself and Mr. Transcript home.
I haven't performed any weddings since. I don't know if I'm still licensed.
I have had the occasional drink here and there (and everywhere) since then. I'm not going to pretend to be a saint. I'm an adult (technically) and it is my choice. It is also my responsibility not go overboard.
Bride and groom continue to live happily ever after, even though this has been a hard week for them. But I want them to know they are two of the best people on earth, and they don't deserve the sadness they're going through. It will pass. Everything does with time. At least, that's what people say.
I just want them and their family to know I will do anything to help. Whether it's transporting some one somewhere, handling some odd job, making funny faces or juggling chainsaws (which I cannot do) I'll do it.
We were young and stupid. We're still stupid, but the point is, we were young.
My friend had finally decided to tie the knot.
This presented one problem. We are part of a tight-knit triumvirate, or trio for us stupid people.
I knew the wedding party would be small, and I knew one of the trio was a slight step up from me and would inevitably be the best man. So I wondered, selfishly, if I would be included.
Was I in for a surprise.
I got the call, and my friend got as far as "We were wondering if you would do us the honor of ..." when I was ready to blurt out "Yes, of course. The honor is mine, sir."
But he didn't finish the way I expected. He didn't want me in the wedding party.
"We were wondering if you would do us the honor of (wait for it) performing the ceremony?"
I was thunderstruck. Me? The same guy who this very Thursday morning was asked if I had a religious preference before a blood test and replied "Non-Unitarian?"
"We understand if you want to think about it for a while," my friend said, now back in the time when we were young and obnoxious but polite.
"I'll do it. I'm in. I am absolutely honored," I said.
"Great, you don't have to worry about anything. We'll get you ordained online and take care of all that stuff."
The papers came. I was now a reverend in the Church of New Life.
I did absolutely no research on the Church of New Life. Anyone with half a brain would have at least looked them up on Wikipedia. I didn't, and I still haven't. I don't really care in what way they differ from the multitudes of organized religion that are tearing this country apart (I play guitar every weekend in a Methodist Church, so I realize the hypocrisy of the above statement.)
My employer was slightly flabbergasted when I asked for a day off so I could go perform a wedding ceremony.
"Is this something that you do?"
"At least once," I replied.
The ceremony was winged for the most part. I knew bride and groom very well, knew that they were perfect for each other, knew they were wonderful friends and knew that the love between them was rare and special. So the words came easily.
I mainly stuck to that, with some jokes sprinkled in here and there. A transcript may be available, I know at least one of my friends was sitting in the back texting "Ben just said this" to another friend who couldn't be present.
I closed with "Now by the power vested in me, for some reason, I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride."
I signed some papers later, and it was done.
My fall from grace did not take very long.
We retired to the hotel where my friend had a room ... and enough booze to fill a hot tub.
The University of Kentucky also happened to upset No. 1 LSU in overtime in football that night. Drinking continued. There are photographs.
The phone rang. We thought it was management calling to tell us to calm down or get out. But it was the bride and groom, asking if we wanted to come down to their room for a bit.
At first I thought we might get trapped up in some weird prima nocta thing, but they wanted to give us presents, and, well, drink some more.
I realized I had hit my personal wall when I was out on a balcony pleading with my friend's ex-girlfriend not to get back together with him.
"He doesn't deserve you!" I said in the uneven, but fluent tongue of Maker's Mark. It's akin to Latin.
"I can't believe you and I are talking about this," she kept saying, equally inebriated.
I sobered up, swore I would never drink again, and drove myself and Mr. Transcript home.
I haven't performed any weddings since. I don't know if I'm still licensed.
I have had the occasional drink here and there (and everywhere) since then. I'm not going to pretend to be a saint. I'm an adult (technically) and it is my choice. It is also my responsibility not go overboard.
Bride and groom continue to live happily ever after, even though this has been a hard week for them. But I want them to know they are two of the best people on earth, and they don't deserve the sadness they're going through. It will pass. Everything does with time. At least, that's what people say.
I just want them and their family to know I will do anything to help. Whether it's transporting some one somewhere, handling some odd job, making funny faces or juggling chainsaws (which I cannot do) I'll do it.
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