Baby, I wanna Text you up
Posted on February 25, 2009
Filed Under Married With Children | 2 Comments
One day last week, toward the end of my work shift, I glanced at my BlackBerry and couldn’t believe my eyes. It wasn’t what I saw that shocked me. It was what I didn’t see: text messages.
Usually by the time the whistle blows and I’m sliding down the dinosaur, my wife and I have exchanged a slew of texts, more than enough to keep track of all the doings of our day, however major or minor.
Our texting can range from bona fide breaking news — “I got a promotion!” — to matters more mundane — “What’s for dinner?” Somewhere there is a line of demarcation on things you can and cannot say in a text message, but we’re on a slippery slope here and I’m sure we’re not alone. Hopefully nobody is relaying deaths in the family via text, and splitting up should always be done face to face if possible, though I have heard stories about couples breaking up via texting and teen-agers hooking up via “sexting.”
What’s next? Texting for divorce?
Anyway, back to my original story. I glanced and saw zero texts from the wife. I logged onto Google Mail hoping to see her logged on, so we could just gchat about it. Alas, she wasn’t online. What to do? I bit the bullet and resorted to using … e-mail. Ugh. Might as well write out a letter longhand and slap a stamp on it or, worse yet, actually call her on the phone. Place a call, on my phone? Is this the Middle Ages?
When I got home I immediately asked her if she had texted me earlier. She said she had, dutifully, about five times, and she was quite upset I never texted her back. “Are you blocking my texts?” she groused. Hmm, I thought. There must be something wrong with my phone.
I said, “Honey, do you realize we are in a textless marriage?”
The next day at work I talked it over with my I.T. folks at work, erased a couple of superfluous applications from my BlackBerry and rebooted it. I e-mailed the wife and asked her to send me a test text. A few moments later it came through loud and clear.
Order restored, I packed up my Tupperware in my bag and merrily slid down the dinosaur.
The Real Dope
Posted on February 19, 2009
Filed Under MLB, NFL, Olympics | Leave a Comment
In the not-too distant future …
NEW YORK — Commissioners of the major professional sports leagues and the Olympics announced today a new, foolproof plan to keep athletes from doping.
From now on, any athlete caught using anything that can be classified as a performance-enhancing drug — steroids, HGH, DNA-gene alteration, robotic limbs, etc. — will be executed on site.
They will be shot by firing squad until they are dead, dead, dead.
“Year-long bans and multi-year bans, jail time, international embarrassment and fines have done nothing to stop athletes from cheating all these years,” said IOC president I.M. Karrupt. “No matter what we do, athletes still find a way to cheat. The crooks are always one step ahead of the cops.
“This is the only measure we have left at our disposal to try to stop this insidious plague that is killing the integrity of sports, if not fan interest. . . . Uh, in fact, about that last point, fan interest has never been higher despite the cheating, but let’s not get facts in the way of hysteria.”
The IOC, MLB, NFL and NBA are leaving nothing to chance in their fight against dope. In addition to adding this ultimate penalty for first-time offenders, athletes will be protected by a force field from head-to-toe and kept under 24/7 surveillance when not in competition. (The surveillance is made possible thanks to the new-and-improved Patriot Act!)
“We just can’t take the chance that they will put something into their bodies that may give them a competitive advantage,” MLB commissioner Scott Boras said. “And it’s not just steroids. I mean, God forbid one of these guys gets caught doing a bong hit in public.”
As a bylaw of the new legislation, “bong hit” carries the penalty of death as well, but not before the perp is publically disemboweled at halftime of an NFL game.
Critics point out that the death penalty has been in place here since colonial times and various Middle East countries for centuries, and there is no evidence that it works as a deterrent to violent crime. But those critics are quickly dismissed as nonbelievers.
“The American pro sports leagues have finally fallen in line with Olympics-level testing and penalties,” noted expert Dr. Chuck Yesalis said. “But if you think this will get me off my soapbox anytime soon, you are dead wrong!”
The world’s other “expert” and go-to guy for hack writers looking for someone to talk about steroids in sports, Dr. Gary Wadler, issued the following statement:
“I agree wholeheartedly with the new doping penalties. Now if you will excuse me it’s time for my weekly skin shedding.”
Winter is …
Posted on February 17, 2009
Filed Under Freestyle | Leave a Comment
Winter is grey.
Winter is death.
Winter is numb; you won’t feel pain.
Winter is the frozen shield on your skin; you will miss it when
she’s gone.
Winter is rain, and snow and ice.
Winter is bleak.
Winter is the bill that must be paid.
Winter is the naked willow in my yard, tbe empty birdfeeder on a limb.
Winter is crumbling at your feet.
Winter is coming and never leaving.
Winter is a thief; she steals hope.
Winter is callous.
Winter is a steel caress.
Winter is a friend who knows you too well.
Winter is the womb which gives birth to Spring.
Winter is the mother.
One Parent’s Oscars ballot
Posted on February 15, 2009
Filed Under Married With Children, Movies | Leave a Comment
Awards are stupid. I have no use for them or for people who value them. When I used to work at a newspaper we would get excited about any and all awards submission deadlines. We would huddle around a conference table looking at all the issues from the past year to search for nominations.
We would submit our best overall issues in hopes of winning “Best Newspaper – Under 100,000 circulation,” as if it were possible for somebody to gauge how well we served our readership on a daily basis by glacing at a few issues.
Thankfully that is not a concern that has ported over to the Internet business — Do they still give out Webbies? – where I have been working for the past 10-plus years.
Next week the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences will hand out its annual awards in a show I like to call, “Movies I haven’t Watched And Probably Never Will” or “The Oscars” as they are move commonly known.
Looking at the Best Picture nominations, I have to admit I have only a vague notion of what Slumdog Millionaire is about, though it sounds like an extended Saturday Night Live skit more than anything. I don’t find The Curious Case of Benjamin Button to be all that curious at all, thank you very much. The Reader sounds fascinating – all the more reason to read the book instead. Frost/Nixon piques my interest since I’m a history buff, as does MILK. I’ll catch them on cable.
Missing among these supposed gems, only to be banished to the “Animated Feature Film” gulag, are my two nominations for Best Picture: Wall-E and Kung Fu Panda. If parents – you know, real people — were allowed to vote instead of the out-of-touch liberal elite of Hollywood, one of these two films would take home the top prize. (Bolt is also nominated, but we have yet to see it. That hasn’t stopped my kid from asking for a Bolt-themed birthday party in April.)
Not only did I thoroughly enjoy these films when taking my 5-year-old daughter to see them in the theater, but their prompt release on DVD a few months later was like inheriting countless hours of free babysitting — minus the cost of the DVDs of course.
This is no small achievement for a filmmaker, to make parents’ lives everywhere tolerable to even the slightest degree. The non-breeders of the world may get to enjoy such highbrow fare as those Best Picture nominations mentioned above. In the meantime, Daddy and Mommy get to enjoy a whole year of Horton Hears A Who, Space Chimps and Beverly Hills Chihuahua.
For making an eminently watchable film that parents and children can enjoy equally, there should be reserved only the highest of emoluments.
Last year the Animated Film winner was Pixar’s Ratatouille, so the Academy got that one right. But a couple of years ago I watched in horror as Happy Feet beat out Cars for best animated film. Happy Feet was a horrible mess of a film, even by animated-film standards. It was obnoxious in its attempt to be hip, it made no sense on any level, and it was strung together on the flimsiest of plotlines. I would have walked out if that didn’t mean leaving my daughter all by herself. I almost did anyways. But in a year in which the Oscars served as little more than a 3-hour plus backdrop to push the environmental hysteria fad sparked by Al Gore’s Inconvenient Truth, a movie about gas-guzzling vehicles had zero chance of winning. Like any Pixar feature film, Cars was a work of art. Exquisitely put together with an airtight flow and as sensible a plot as you can have once you get over the cars-are-talking-suspension-of disbelief thing.
That’s not the first or the last time the Academy has gotten it wrong. A few weeks ago, I finally saw Marty, the winner for Best Picture in 1956. It was a nice movie. Cute. I love me some Ernest Borgnine as much as the next guy. However, it wasn’t better than On The Waterfront, the Marlon Brando epic filmed in my former hometown of Hoboken, N.J. Not even in the same league. My buddy Alex Belth of Bronx Banter fame (and a film industry veteran) said there were some politics involved in that decision, something about commies and blacklisting and revenge. Understandable for the time, but it brings about another reason why awards are stupid: Politics inevitably get in the way.
I realize it’s nice to have something tangible for your efforts. But if you need an award to bring any sort of validation to your work, then you will still find yourself wanting even if the statue comes your way.
Who moved my Manny?
Posted on July 31, 2008
Filed Under MLB | Leave a Comment
I woke up Thursday morning expecting to find a present under my tree: Official news that Red Sox superstar Manny Ramirez had been signed, sealed and delivered to the Florida Marlins. On the heels of a huge, rubber-match win over the hated Mets the night before, this felt like Christmas in July, alright.
Despite many assurances from the most trusted, sleuthing baseball reporters in the business that the deal was progressing — if not outright imminent — the final word never came.
I waited dutifully until the 4 p.m. deadline, listening to the clueless chatter on ESPN’s “Trade Deadline” show all the while and wondering how exactly Tim Kurkjian has a job doing anything other than jockeying a horse, and still nothing. At one point Kurkjian revealed that he spoke to a scout at spring training six years ago. How exciting. Then some 20 minutes after the 4 p.m. trade deadline, SI.com’s Jon Heyman got the scoop: The Dodgers bagged Manny. The Fish got … Arthur Rhodes. (Of course ESPN never credited SI for breaking the story, even though their assorted talking heads blathered on for the better part of an hour after the news was already picked up by several organizations.)
So confident was I that Manny was the final piece of the puzzle for my Fishies that I had bragged to my co-workers about booking a flight down to Miami for the World Series. I sent dozens of texts and emails announcing our coup, making sure to terrorize neurotic Mets fans (is there any other kind?) in particular.
The trade made too much sense not to happen. Manny has a home in Fort Lauderdale. The Red Sox were paying the rest of his remaining $7 million salary — always the main consideration for the Marlins’ Scrooge of an owner Jeffrey Loria. Young outfielder Jeremy Hermida, a promising if not enigmatic slugger, would go to Pittsburgh and All-Star outfielder Jason Bay would go to Boston. Some prospects and cash would change hands as well. With Manny in tow, the Marlins would field their biggest name player since Mike Piazza spent five minutes in teal in 1998.
The Han-Ram & Man-Ram Show was ready to rock.
As College Football GameDay’s Lee Corso would say, “Not so fast my friend!”
Fish fans were left at the altar by the mercurial Manny, left to wonder if this thrill ride of a season can go on with the same overachieving cast of characters. Florida has done well just to be within 1.5 games of first place as the night started after being written off by everybody — including myself — in the preseason.
But, strangely enough, as I watch tonight’s drubbing of the defending NL champion Colorado Rockies, I am overcome by a sense of confidence I haven’t had since the Miracle Marlins of 2003 and the Jim Leyland “One Heartbeat” Fish of 1997, both of whom would bring World Series trophies to South Florida. (That’s one more than the Braves have won in Atlanta, in case you are counting.)
Much like those 2003 Marlins who were overhauled on the fly by the club’s brilliant GM Larry Beinfest, this year’s version of the Fish also has a dramatically different look heading into August. The starting rotation, admittedly mediocre to start the season, has been solidified by the massive infusion of young talent. To wit:
– Rookie right-hander Chris Volstad, the latest in the franchise’s long line of stud young pitchers, is 3-0 with a 2.61 ERA in three starts. In 91 innings in the Southern League this year, he allowed zero home runs.
– Josh Johnson, a horse in the rotation back in 2006, is back from injury and appears 100 percent recovered. He beat the Mets on Wednesday to notch his first win in two years and has a respectable ERA+ of 100 in four starts.
– Anibal Sanchez, he of the no-hitter in 2006, also is back and healthy and beat the Rockies tonight.
– Ricky Nolasco and Scott Olsen, two younglings who qualify as certified veterans on this staff, have emerged as Quality Start machines at the top of the rotation.
That’s a legit starting five to go along with a bona fide offense that ranks second in the NL in road runs per game with 5.23. The defense is a reprisal of the Bad News Bears sans Kelly Leak and closer Kevin Gregg doesn’t scare anybody in the ninth inning, but in the NL you don’t need to have it all to contend. And the NL East isn’t nearly as stout as was once believed: The Mets are as creaky as ever, relying on the mummified tendons of Fernando Tatis and the balky shoulder of Pedro Martinez; the Phillies’ stars and scrubs approach is backfiring, and the ever-hittable Joe Blanton isn’t a great fit for Citizens Bank Park.
As for that Hermida kid who was rumored to be headed out of town for Mr. Manny? He roped three hits and drove in two against the Rockies tonight. Maybe Christmas has come early after all.
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