by Sue Modray
Yes, Phyllis asked me some time ago if I would post on his blog and I am sorry it has taken me so long. I am nervous and afraid that someone will think what I write is dumb. I am afraid of offending someone, too. Phyllis has assured me his readership is small, possibly less than ten. I don't know if he is serious but it makes me feel better. He also told me he was not going to post again until I did. I thought he was kidding, but I think I believe him now. So here goes.
Phyllis asked me to write about going to BSU. He has posted about how we met in one of our first classes, and saw each other frequently as we both worked toward a degree in English literature. We are a lot alike and wanted about the same thing from our educational experience, only he likes Maugham and I love Austen. My only real problem with Phyllis is that he uses colons and parentheses too much in his writing. He is also always correcting people in their pronunciation and grammar. I am not sure he is always right.
I am not really sure I know what Phyllis wants me to write about, although we talked a lot about what the experience studying English at BSU was like. Maybe he means for me to write about how I felt so different sometimes. I did not fit into the group of 19-year-olds apologizing to each other before class started for forgetting to record Smallville, or how much fun it was last year to dress up as Hermione and go down to Borders for the release of the latest Harry Potter book.
Am I supposed to talk about the skills we were being taught in our English classes? We read many novels, short stories, and plays, and our instructors taught us skills to interpret, criticize, and respond to the works we read. But it seemed my interpretations and criticisms were only valid as they fell in line with those the instructor had. I wondered at times if the interpretations of my instructors were really theirs or just those of some great professor from long ago. It reminded me of The Wizard of Oz, almost complete with loud crashes and flashing lights. "Who are YOU to question to Great and Powerful Oz?!??"
But I was not a sponge, like, I believe, many others I saw. Just because the professor liked Evelyn Waugh, or Salman Rushdie, or D.H. Lawrence, I did not decide to. And even though we were assigned to read only one small piece by Nietzsche, I did not immediately latch on to "God is dead" and announce my intention to change my major to Philosophy and explore my new-found atheism.
I don't know what I expected studying for an English literature degree. I love reading and found many new authors and books to read. But I did not so much enjoy the interpretation and criticism. It seemed forced and planned out. I wanted more history and biography of the authors. I don't suppose that kind of English degree really exists, the one where you read a lot, learn a lot about the authors, and talk about it with others. No, not a book club. A way to become an expert about a certain author, know his works, know his characters, know him. And then move on to the next author.
Now I just need to find a graduate program that offers that. Or I can just do it myself.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Monday, July 28, 2008
Wife Gone
by Phyllis Miller
Just got done watching Nicholas Nickleby on hulu.com a few minutes ago. I was reluctant at first. I have sworn, for no good reason that I know of, to dislike Dickens. I mean, Chuck doesn't write the most uplifting stuff (yes I am aware that was part of his purpose). And the one Dickens novel that I did read, Hard Times--for my 19th century British novel course at BSU--did nothing to change my mind. I hated it and felt good about hating Dickens.
But I liked this movie. A lot. I daresay I will watch it again. It is definitely better than Pitch Black, Weird Science, 28 Days Later, or The Phantom the Opera, all of which I have watched (for the first time) in the last half-fortnight. (Yes, I never saw Weird Science when I was a kid. It seemed everyone else had, but I was able to avoid it somehow. What a pile of garbage! Honestly one of the stupidest movies ever, right?)
I almost feel like I need to read Nicholas Nickleby now, just to make sure it's nothing like the movie. But if your tastes in movies are anything like mine (here's how to tell: if you have seen or plan to see Wanted, you don't share my taste) watch this one. It is disturbing and funny at the same time. Oh yeah, and set in England in the 1800s. What more do you want? Here is a snippet:
I swear this is Christopher Plummer's best role since he was General Chang in Star Trek VI. Maybe even since he was Captain von Trapp.
Okay, did it seem like I was stretching it a bit when I used the word "best" right there? I did it on purpose. I get tired of hearing that word. I know the MLB all-star game is a fortnight past, but it has taken me that long to get over a few things. In the first place, Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia was voted as the starter. I try not to have an issue with that, since he is sent by fan voting, right? But please. I had to hear announcers rave about him, using words like "best."
And then, during a Yankees game on TV recently (since apparently Yankees and Red Sox games are the only ones fans want to see) I heard the announcers talking about Robinson Cano, the Yankees second baseman. Evidently, he's the best, also. Um, no. Not even close.
Now you think you know what is coming, but you're wrong. I am not going to claim that Brian Roberts in the best second baseman in the AL, but maybe a look at the numbers and a few other facts might help.
As of today:
Roberts: .286 average, 39 doubles, 8 triples, 7 HR, 35 RBI, 27 steals, 54 walks.
Pedroia: .315 average, 31 doubles, 1 triple, 9HR, 48 RBI, 11 steals, 28 walks.
Cano: .267 average, 23 doubles, 1 triple, 9 HR, 48 RBI, 1 steal, 17 walks.
Sure, Pedroia is hitting for a better average, but with the walks Roberts has a better on base percentage. And of his 116 hits, nearly half are for extra bases! Cano is not even close. Now consider the lineups that surround all three players. Mind you, I like the guys on my team: Markakis and Huff both have over 30 doubles, making it three Orioles in the top 5 of that category. But they don't have the names the Yankees and Red Sox do. Trust me, pitchers would rather face Markakis and Huff before Rodriguez, Jeter, Ramirez, Ortiz, no matter what the numbers say. So Pedroia is going to get some pitches to hit. Oh yeah, and he also has that wall ten feet past the infield that turns a can of corn into a double. What would Roberts do with that?
Besides, Ian Kinsler has better numbers that any of them. But he made the all-star team (only the announcers were a little less effusive with their praise). And I have soft spot in my heart for someone who has to play half his games in Dallas.
None of this helps, of course; the Orioles are last in their division. Another painful year of losing. There are promising moments, but we are soon smacked down once our hopes are up. Surely it can't keep going for much longer. I can't take the pain. The unfulfilled promises. The outlook is bleak. What can be done? Will it ever change? It's just too awful.
Okay, I need to stop. This is starting to feel like a Dickens novel.
Just got done watching Nicholas Nickleby on hulu.com a few minutes ago. I was reluctant at first. I have sworn, for no good reason that I know of, to dislike Dickens. I mean, Chuck doesn't write the most uplifting stuff (yes I am aware that was part of his purpose). And the one Dickens novel that I did read, Hard Times--for my 19th century British novel course at BSU--did nothing to change my mind. I hated it and felt good about hating Dickens.
But I liked this movie. A lot. I daresay I will watch it again. It is definitely better than Pitch Black, Weird Science, 28 Days Later, or The Phantom the Opera, all of which I have watched (for the first time) in the last half-fortnight. (Yes, I never saw Weird Science when I was a kid. It seemed everyone else had, but I was able to avoid it somehow. What a pile of garbage! Honestly one of the stupidest movies ever, right?)
I almost feel like I need to read Nicholas Nickleby now, just to make sure it's nothing like the movie. But if your tastes in movies are anything like mine (here's how to tell: if you have seen or plan to see Wanted, you don't share my taste) watch this one. It is disturbing and funny at the same time. Oh yeah, and set in England in the 1800s. What more do you want? Here is a snippet:
I swear this is Christopher Plummer's best role since he was General Chang in Star Trek VI. Maybe even since he was Captain von Trapp.
Okay, did it seem like I was stretching it a bit when I used the word "best" right there? I did it on purpose. I get tired of hearing that word. I know the MLB all-star game is a fortnight past, but it has taken me that long to get over a few things. In the first place, Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia was voted as the starter. I try not to have an issue with that, since he is sent by fan voting, right? But please. I had to hear announcers rave about him, using words like "best."
And then, during a Yankees game on TV recently (since apparently Yankees and Red Sox games are the only ones fans want to see) I heard the announcers talking about Robinson Cano, the Yankees second baseman. Evidently, he's the best, also. Um, no. Not even close.
Now you think you know what is coming, but you're wrong. I am not going to claim that Brian Roberts in the best second baseman in the AL, but maybe a look at the numbers and a few other facts might help.
As of today:
Roberts: .286 average, 39 doubles, 8 triples, 7 HR, 35 RBI, 27 steals, 54 walks.
Pedroia: .315 average, 31 doubles, 1 triple, 9HR, 48 RBI, 11 steals, 28 walks.
Cano: .267 average, 23 doubles, 1 triple, 9 HR, 48 RBI, 1 steal, 17 walks.
Sure, Pedroia is hitting for a better average, but with the walks Roberts has a better on base percentage. And of his 116 hits, nearly half are for extra bases! Cano is not even close. Now consider the lineups that surround all three players. Mind you, I like the guys on my team: Markakis and Huff both have over 30 doubles, making it three Orioles in the top 5 of that category. But they don't have the names the Yankees and Red Sox do. Trust me, pitchers would rather face Markakis and Huff before Rodriguez, Jeter, Ramirez, Ortiz, no matter what the numbers say. So Pedroia is going to get some pitches to hit. Oh yeah, and he also has that wall ten feet past the infield that turns a can of corn into a double. What would Roberts do with that?
Besides, Ian Kinsler has better numbers that any of them. But he made the all-star team (only the announcers were a little less effusive with their praise). And I have soft spot in my heart for someone who has to play half his games in Dallas.
None of this helps, of course; the Orioles are last in their division. Another painful year of losing. There are promising moments, but we are soon smacked down once our hopes are up. Surely it can't keep going for much longer. I can't take the pain. The unfulfilled promises. The outlook is bleak. What can be done? Will it ever change? It's just too awful.
Okay, I need to stop. This is starting to feel like a Dickens novel.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Pulmonary Embolism
By Phyllis Miller
One of my favorite phrases was used on the radio again today. Erik Kuselias was in for Mike Tirico during the Tirico and Van Pelt show on ESPN radio. EK was working today notwithstanding suffering from "flu-like symptoms." Awesome. Not the flu, not a cold, not allergies--flu-like symptoms. I had only heard it before as the reason some athlete was missing his next game. "Kwame Brown will not play and is in street clothes tonight; he is suffering from flu-like symptoms." I am glad to see it has jumped from athletes to radio personalities. I plan to adopt this type of speaking myself in everyday parlance, you know, speech-like talking. So enjoy reading the rest of my blog-like ramblings.
This whole thing reminds me of the time I had blood-clot-in-the-lung-type symptoms. It took a while for the various doctors I saw to narrow it down (maybe on another occasion I can blog about my respect and admiration for these fine professionals, but a small taste can be found here). First I was told I had bronchitis-like symptoms; I knew that wasn't it. Next, I was told I had some strange form of asthma-like symptoms and got an albuterol inhaler. Finally, after I was feeling fine again (no more nights sitting in the bathroom crying and breathing in and out in as shallow a manner as I could, while feeling like a chinese star was loose inside my chest) an internist-like doctor sent me for a CT-like scan. And there it was: a clot-like formation in my lung.
The weirdest thing I learned in my week at St. Al's is that my blood clot has something to do with my testicles. It doesn't make sense to me, either, but of course, I'm not a doctor.
I say this because once in the emergency room-like area, the ER doc checked my prostate as I lay there nearly prostrate (prostate vs. prostrate and lay vs. lie in the same sentence!) and then he examined my man-parts. (Note: the ER doc's response to my obvious chagrin when he had informed me he would be performing the above-mentioned tasks was excellent: "Believe me, pal, it isn't the highlight of my day, either.")
I was checked in to the hospital and assigned a room. Since I was a healthy young man in his late twenties, doctors were at a loss to figure out why I should have this ailment. A urologist was consulted. He came to my room, asked me some questions, and told me to make an appointment to see him when I was out of the hospital. I said I would. Before he went, however, he did me the favor of performing another testicular exam. I would have preferred if he had consulted with the ER doc first.
The next day, a doctor entered and explained that she was on call for my vacationing internist. She asked almost the same set of questions I had answered in the ER, and then performed another check of my nether region! Come on! What is going on here? But as much as I was tired of these testes-tests, it was her comment after the few light squeezes that bothered me the most.
"Nothing remarkable."
One of my favorite phrases was used on the radio again today. Erik Kuselias was in for Mike Tirico during the Tirico and Van Pelt show on ESPN radio. EK was working today notwithstanding suffering from "flu-like symptoms." Awesome. Not the flu, not a cold, not allergies--flu-like symptoms. I had only heard it before as the reason some athlete was missing his next game. "Kwame Brown will not play and is in street clothes tonight; he is suffering from flu-like symptoms." I am glad to see it has jumped from athletes to radio personalities. I plan to adopt this type of speaking myself in everyday parlance, you know, speech-like talking. So enjoy reading the rest of my blog-like ramblings.
This whole thing reminds me of the time I had blood-clot-in-the-lung-type symptoms. It took a while for the various doctors I saw to narrow it down (maybe on another occasion I can blog about my respect and admiration for these fine professionals, but a small taste can be found here). First I was told I had bronchitis-like symptoms; I knew that wasn't it. Next, I was told I had some strange form of asthma-like symptoms and got an albuterol inhaler. Finally, after I was feeling fine again (no more nights sitting in the bathroom crying and breathing in and out in as shallow a manner as I could, while feeling like a chinese star was loose inside my chest) an internist-like doctor sent me for a CT-like scan. And there it was: a clot-like formation in my lung.
The weirdest thing I learned in my week at St. Al's is that my blood clot has something to do with my testicles. It doesn't make sense to me, either, but of course, I'm not a doctor.
I say this because once in the emergency room-like area, the ER doc checked my prostate as I lay there nearly prostrate (prostate vs. prostrate and lay vs. lie in the same sentence!) and then he examined my man-parts. (Note: the ER doc's response to my obvious chagrin when he had informed me he would be performing the above-mentioned tasks was excellent: "Believe me, pal, it isn't the highlight of my day, either.")
I was checked in to the hospital and assigned a room. Since I was a healthy young man in his late twenties, doctors were at a loss to figure out why I should have this ailment. A urologist was consulted. He came to my room, asked me some questions, and told me to make an appointment to see him when I was out of the hospital. I said I would. Before he went, however, he did me the favor of performing another testicular exam. I would have preferred if he had consulted with the ER doc first.
The next day, a doctor entered and explained that she was on call for my vacationing internist. She asked almost the same set of questions I had answered in the ER, and then performed another check of my nether region! Come on! What is going on here? But as much as I was tired of these testes-tests, it was her comment after the few light squeezes that bothered me the most.
"Nothing remarkable."
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Sue Modray
I have a friend I have asked to contribute to this blog, so here are a few words of introduction.
I met Sue Modray when I returned to BSU to get my English degree. She was in one of the first classes I took, and after chatting a bit, we realized how startlingly similar we were. We could not help but become soul mates. She is very nearly my mirror image.
Look at the similarities:
Sue had never finished college when she got married, started a family, and started working on getting old. After a few kids, she settled in to a nice little career quite by accident. Sue had recently moved with her family to Idaho from Alaska when she got a temporary job through one of those staffing service companies. What started out as a little data entry to make a few bucks turned into a career. Her data entry job was at a company that designed websites, and after a few years grinding up the ranks from temporary data entry clerk to secretary to website contributor, she soon was designing websites herself. She had managed to get this (fairly decent paying) job not from experience or schooling; she simply rubbed shoulders with others doing it.
She parlayed this experience into another job with the state department of education--a totally sweet job. No supervisor breathing down her neck, freedom to come and go as she pleased, and good pay. Sue soon realized she was at liberty to return to school and get the degree she never got. An English degree.
Like me, Sue had not originally studied English at college, but had found an author she loved (Austen, as it turns out; there are precious few who revere Maugham the Master) and wanted to study more literature. So there she was at BSU starting to do it in 2004. And I was there, too. We followed a similar path toward our degrees and saw each other in many classes. Her literary tastes are nearly identical to my own.
We had many discussions about the education we received in the English department at BSU, and we share many of the same ideas. I have asked her, as her first contribution to the blog, to talk about her journey. Hopefully you find it entertaining. If not, stay tuned, and Phyllis will post again soon.
[I have asked Sue when she posts to leave her name at the beginning of the post, so readers can know right away without scrolling to the bottom of the post who is writing. I will also try to do the same. But I might not; it is my blog, after all.]
I met Sue Modray when I returned to BSU to get my English degree. She was in one of the first classes I took, and after chatting a bit, we realized how startlingly similar we were. We could not help but become soul mates. She is very nearly my mirror image.
Look at the similarities:
Sue had never finished college when she got married, started a family, and started working on getting old. After a few kids, she settled in to a nice little career quite by accident. Sue had recently moved with her family to Idaho from Alaska when she got a temporary job through one of those staffing service companies. What started out as a little data entry to make a few bucks turned into a career. Her data entry job was at a company that designed websites, and after a few years grinding up the ranks from temporary data entry clerk to secretary to website contributor, she soon was designing websites herself. She had managed to get this (fairly decent paying) job not from experience or schooling; she simply rubbed shoulders with others doing it.
She parlayed this experience into another job with the state department of education--a totally sweet job. No supervisor breathing down her neck, freedom to come and go as she pleased, and good pay. Sue soon realized she was at liberty to return to school and get the degree she never got. An English degree.
Like me, Sue had not originally studied English at college, but had found an author she loved (Austen, as it turns out; there are precious few who revere Maugham the Master) and wanted to study more literature. So there she was at BSU starting to do it in 2004. And I was there, too. We followed a similar path toward our degrees and saw each other in many classes. Her literary tastes are nearly identical to my own.
We had many discussions about the education we received in the English department at BSU, and we share many of the same ideas. I have asked her, as her first contribution to the blog, to talk about her journey. Hopefully you find it entertaining. If not, stay tuned, and Phyllis will post again soon.
[I have asked Sue when she posts to leave her name at the beginning of the post, so readers can know right away without scrolling to the bottom of the post who is writing. I will also try to do the same. But I might not; it is my blog, after all.]
Friday, June 27, 2008
Idiot Clown
I don't wear a wristwatch.
So when the clock in my car stopped working the other day, you might think I lost the ability to keep track of time. Not so. That's because before my clock stopped, I learned how to tell time from the driver in the Jeep in front of me. On one of the hottest days of the year, he had his driver's side window rolled all the way down. And every five seconds he would extend his left arm out the window and give a little flick--a few tiny ashes fell off each time and disappeared in the wind.
Twenty-two flicks is a long time to be stopped at a red light. But even though I was fortunate enough during the wait to get a waft of his numerous exhalations (through closed windows, mind you) I was not upset at him. I made an effort to understand and tolerate someone who has a habit I find wholly revolting and inconsiderate. (Perhaps I have a few myself.)
But then, after we started moving again and forty more subtle flicks elapsed, he gave one mighty flick; the cigarette butt made a large arc and hit my car on the driver's side of my windshield. No damage caused, obviously, but I was really upset. If you promise to believe me, I will say I did not swear at him (multiple times, including one last, more emphatic blast right as I turned left and he continued straight.)
I had time to reflect during the rest of my drive home (I estimate it was thirty-six flicks) about how much I have changed. Or perhaps it is the world I live in. See, in the late 1980s, when I was near the top of my game, I would have reacted differently to a cigarette butt hitting my car.
One time I was driving home after an enjoyable summer day topping corn, with my brother and a friend in the "Screamin' Blue Demon." (That's what my friend called my pickup. It was blue all right, and I guess screaming is what you would call the sound it made when I would get to 40mph without shifting out of first gear yet.) After ascending Canyon Hill on Marble Front Road, I was stopped, waiting to make a left on N. Georgia. Anyone who has made that turn knows why I was stopped. Apparently, the driver in the car that came up behind didn't.
She went around me on the right, gave a little honk on the horn, and said, "There's no stop sign!" as she turned right and headed away. I was not about to let this misdeed go unpunished. I whipped the steering wheel around and tore down the street after her. I was tailgating her most of the way, but she had to stop at Hillcrest, so I pulled up next to her (there was not another lane there) at the stop sign and started yelling.
"Hey, you clown, did you happen to see the car coming towards me on Marble Front, you clown!?! I know there isn't a stop sign there, you clown; I live on that street! I was waiting there for the car to pass so I could make the left turn, you idiot! YOU are the clown that needs driving lessons!" I yelled another minute or two at her and her passenger, and threw in a few more 'clowns' and 'idiots' for good measure.
Or how about the time I was riding with a friend home from Nampa, when someone cut us off? My buddy Darryl sped up along side the car (there was one guy in it this time) while I draped myself out the window and let him have it. I may have threatened him, I may have sworn, I may have yelled the Pledge of Allegiance at him--I can't remember now.
We stopped for gas and then decided to hit Wendy's for a square burger. In the parking lot a car came racing at us; there were more heads in it than I could count, and the guy I had berated earlier (now a passenger) was wearing an evil grin. We sped away, took to the interstate, and got off at the Middleton exit, with the car full of hoods following us the whole way.
After fifteen minutes of running, we darted down a side street, turned off the lights, and grabbed a tennis racket out of the back. If we were going to go down, we intended to do some damage. Fortunately, they never found us and we made it home safe.
Fast-forward about twenty years, and here I am. Other drivers still bother me, but I don't pull up along side and yell at my fellow drivers anymore. A few "big words" muttered to myself are enough.
So when the clock in my car stopped working the other day, you might think I lost the ability to keep track of time. Not so. That's because before my clock stopped, I learned how to tell time from the driver in the Jeep in front of me. On one of the hottest days of the year, he had his driver's side window rolled all the way down. And every five seconds he would extend his left arm out the window and give a little flick--a few tiny ashes fell off each time and disappeared in the wind.
Twenty-two flicks is a long time to be stopped at a red light. But even though I was fortunate enough during the wait to get a waft of his numerous exhalations (through closed windows, mind you) I was not upset at him. I made an effort to understand and tolerate someone who has a habit I find wholly revolting and inconsiderate. (Perhaps I have a few myself.)
But then, after we started moving again and forty more subtle flicks elapsed, he gave one mighty flick; the cigarette butt made a large arc and hit my car on the driver's side of my windshield. No damage caused, obviously, but I was really upset. If you promise to believe me, I will say I did not swear at him (multiple times, including one last, more emphatic blast right as I turned left and he continued straight.)
I had time to reflect during the rest of my drive home (I estimate it was thirty-six flicks) about how much I have changed. Or perhaps it is the world I live in. See, in the late 1980s, when I was near the top of my game, I would have reacted differently to a cigarette butt hitting my car.
One time I was driving home after an enjoyable summer day topping corn, with my brother and a friend in the "Screamin' Blue Demon." (That's what my friend called my pickup. It was blue all right, and I guess screaming is what you would call the sound it made when I would get to 40mph without shifting out of first gear yet.) After ascending Canyon Hill on Marble Front Road, I was stopped, waiting to make a left on N. Georgia. Anyone who has made that turn knows why I was stopped. Apparently, the driver in the car that came up behind didn't.
She went around me on the right, gave a little honk on the horn, and said, "There's no stop sign!" as she turned right and headed away. I was not about to let this misdeed go unpunished. I whipped the steering wheel around and tore down the street after her. I was tailgating her most of the way, but she had to stop at Hillcrest, so I pulled up next to her (there was not another lane there) at the stop sign and started yelling.
"Hey, you clown, did you happen to see the car coming towards me on Marble Front, you clown!?! I know there isn't a stop sign there, you clown; I live on that street! I was waiting there for the car to pass so I could make the left turn, you idiot! YOU are the clown that needs driving lessons!" I yelled another minute or two at her and her passenger, and threw in a few more 'clowns' and 'idiots' for good measure.
Or how about the time I was riding with a friend home from Nampa, when someone cut us off? My buddy Darryl sped up along side the car (there was one guy in it this time) while I draped myself out the window and let him have it. I may have threatened him, I may have sworn, I may have yelled the Pledge of Allegiance at him--I can't remember now.
We stopped for gas and then decided to hit Wendy's for a square burger. In the parking lot a car came racing at us; there were more heads in it than I could count, and the guy I had berated earlier (now a passenger) was wearing an evil grin. We sped away, took to the interstate, and got off at the Middleton exit, with the car full of hoods following us the whole way.
After fifteen minutes of running, we darted down a side street, turned off the lights, and grabbed a tennis racket out of the back. If we were going to go down, we intended to do some damage. Fortunately, they never found us and we made it home safe.
Fast-forward about twenty years, and here I am. Other drivers still bother me, but I don't pull up along side and yell at my fellow drivers anymore. A few "big words" muttered to myself are enough.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Uncalled For
Let me first address some allegations that have been laid at my door, which are wholly without merit. They come from an evidently devoted reader of my blog; you have heard from him before in this post. He writes again (and still needs a your/you're lesson):
"Hey Phyllis. Your still an idiot, and I have figured something else about you too. Your a hater, man. I have read all your posts and you bag on the New york Yankees, New England Patriots, Duke basketball, Notre dame football, even the Red Sox. Get a clue and stop hatin'."
I assume from this then that because I despise these teams--these teams with lots of success (some not very recent)--I am a hater. I guess I understand. I know there are people like that. Hate the team that wins, the team that everyone likes. But that really isn't me. And now I'll prove it.
I want the Lakers to win the NBA championship. And I'm not lying. How can I be accused of being a hater now? Because outside of the Yankees, there might not be another team that polarizes people like the Lakers. You love 'em or hate 'em. You think Kobe is awesome or just a ballhog. The 'Black Mamba' or the 'Black Hole.' So at the risk of alienating you true haters out there, I'll admit I like Kobe. And I want him (them) to win.
It's going to be hard, though. How was that epic collapse in Game 4? I am glad I watched it because it's the only way I would have believed it could happen. And as ugly as it was (and devastating to their chances), it helps me make another point about officiating. Evidently ex-referee (and convicted felon) Tim Donaghy claims past NBA playoff games have been fixed. Oh, you mean refs have made some bad calls, Tim? Really? No way!
I contend that every sports fan following his team has felt the pain of getting a bad call or a no call. Think about football--the holding calls/non-calls, pass interference, bad spots short of the first down. You have baseball with the balls that should have been called strikes and some of those bang-bang plays at first that needed to go your way. And, oh, I don't know, maybe a fan interference call that didn't get made. I've written about that before. So spare me with the bad calls garbage. We all feel the pain.
And if the NBA was conspiring to make the playoffs more interesting (interesting here meaning going seven games), they can't be happy with the Lakers looking like they will fold in five to the Celtics. I mean, where were the refs to step in and save the game for the Lakers? If anything, they were probably tempted to start making calls for the Celtics, so they could be a part of such a monumental gag-job.
Besides, some of the bad calls make for great entertainment. Go watch this. That is good stuff. I mean, you can't write comedy like that. And I'm for the Lakers, remember.
On an unrelated, yet important note: It is now 12:49am, Sunday, June 15--Father's Day. I must give props to my Pops, who left this world five years ago. He is the greatest man I have known and I miss him very much. He was a So-Cal kid, so maybe he would root for the Lakers, too.
"Hey Phyllis. Your still an idiot, and I have figured something else about you too. Your a hater, man. I have read all your posts and you bag on the New york Yankees, New England Patriots, Duke basketball, Notre dame football, even the Red Sox. Get a clue and stop hatin'."
I assume from this then that because I despise these teams--these teams with lots of success (some not very recent)--I am a hater. I guess I understand. I know there are people like that. Hate the team that wins, the team that everyone likes. But that really isn't me. And now I'll prove it.
I want the Lakers to win the NBA championship. And I'm not lying. How can I be accused of being a hater now? Because outside of the Yankees, there might not be another team that polarizes people like the Lakers. You love 'em or hate 'em. You think Kobe is awesome or just a ballhog. The 'Black Mamba' or the 'Black Hole.' So at the risk of alienating you true haters out there, I'll admit I like Kobe. And I want him (them) to win.
It's going to be hard, though. How was that epic collapse in Game 4? I am glad I watched it because it's the only way I would have believed it could happen. And as ugly as it was (and devastating to their chances), it helps me make another point about officiating. Evidently ex-referee (and convicted felon) Tim Donaghy claims past NBA playoff games have been fixed. Oh, you mean refs have made some bad calls, Tim? Really? No way!
I contend that every sports fan following his team has felt the pain of getting a bad call or a no call. Think about football--the holding calls/non-calls, pass interference, bad spots short of the first down. You have baseball with the balls that should have been called strikes and some of those bang-bang plays at first that needed to go your way. And, oh, I don't know, maybe a fan interference call that didn't get made. I've written about that before. So spare me with the bad calls garbage. We all feel the pain.
And if the NBA was conspiring to make the playoffs more interesting (interesting here meaning going seven games), they can't be happy with the Lakers looking like they will fold in five to the Celtics. I mean, where were the refs to step in and save the game for the Lakers? If anything, they were probably tempted to start making calls for the Celtics, so they could be a part of such a monumental gag-job.
Besides, some of the bad calls make for great entertainment. Go watch this. That is good stuff. I mean, you can't write comedy like that. And I'm for the Lakers, remember.
On an unrelated, yet important note: It is now 12:49am, Sunday, June 15--Father's Day. I must give props to my Pops, who left this world five years ago. He is the greatest man I have known and I miss him very much. He was a So-Cal kid, so maybe he would root for the Lakers, too.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Hockey pucks and dog turds
I have recently been wondering something.
Who is the girl in the 'free-college-info' ads that are all over Yahoo!? Just kidding. That's not what I was wondering. Why would I care about that, anyway?
I have pondered the great enigma of how it is that a guy like me could not be in to hockey. I have been known after all (when I still had cable), to watch almost anything remotely relating to sports. And I will watch games again, you know, re-broadcasts that I have already seen. I will watch teams I hate (New York Yankees, Notre Dame football, Duke basketball, you get the picture) just in case I might be able to see them lose (hopefully in a big way). If they were to broadcast a loogie-spitting contest on ESPN9, I might call around to a few friends to ask if I could come over.
And with all that, I don't watch, or really even follow, the NHL. The Stanley Cup, crushing checks, guys who don't shave for two months. Means nothing to me. Maybe I don't know what I'm missing. Is it blissful ignorance?
You know, like the kind I enjoyed as a kid. My family moved in to a house when I was very little, and the house came with a dog (who ever heard of that?). The perfect dog, as it turns out. We never fed her, she only pooped in the neighbor's yard, and one day when she got old she simply left and never came back.
In case you missed it, yes, she had been trained (how else can you explain the habit?) not to defecate on our premises.
As a child, the significance of this was lost on me until I went to a friend's house one day. His mom came in to the room where we were playing and said, "Darryl, you need to go do your chores." And one of his chores was picking up dog crap in the back yard. I watched him with great curiosity (but no pity) as he scoured the place, using his little spade to collect the offensive brown lumps into a five-gallon bucket. I don't know what he did with it after that. All I knew was I was happy not to have to do that at my house.
Now I have a dog of my own, and I have picked up the dukes she drops. And I appreciate my childhood dog even more, now.
But I don't appreciate the NHL--still. Obviously I was exaggerating before; I have seen my share of hockey games. And after watching the last two games (in their entirety, mind you) of the NHL playoffs this week, I am still 'not on board' (to steal a phrase from an eccentric local blogger I know).
Don't get me wrong, there are things I like about hockey. If you look at the box score, everyone player suited up (with the exception of the backup goalie) gets significant playing time; it is truly a team sport. Not like basketball where the last few guys on the bench (even in the NBA) are scrubs. And the swift, yet many times very physical nature of the game is fun to watch, at times.
But I have two major problems with hockey: First, many times the correct play, you know, the right thing to do, is to send the puck in to the zone by the back boards, without having a teammate there to receive it. It turns in to a race to see who gets it first, and the defense wins most times, or the play stalls as several players slash at their feet to get it out from underneath themselves. So the correct play ends most times in what I consider a turnover. Sorry, I just don't like that idea.
Next, when you watch a game, either on TV or in person, you lose sight of the puck at all times whenever it is being played up the near boards. You see players skating after it and swinging at it, but the wall blocks your view. I don't usually have a problem following the puck around, even after shots and ricochets, but I can't see through a wall.
Believe me, I have tried to see through a wall, and failed. I also tried to watch Tay Zonday's "Chocolate Rain" all the way through. Couldn't do that, either.
Who is the girl in the 'free-college-info' ads that are all over Yahoo!? Just kidding. That's not what I was wondering. Why would I care about that, anyway?
I have pondered the great enigma of how it is that a guy like me could not be in to hockey. I have been known after all (when I still had cable), to watch almost anything remotely relating to sports. And I will watch games again, you know, re-broadcasts that I have already seen. I will watch teams I hate (New York Yankees, Notre Dame football, Duke basketball, you get the picture) just in case I might be able to see them lose (hopefully in a big way). If they were to broadcast a loogie-spitting contest on ESPN9, I might call around to a few friends to ask if I could come over.
And with all that, I don't watch, or really even follow, the NHL. The Stanley Cup, crushing checks, guys who don't shave for two months. Means nothing to me. Maybe I don't know what I'm missing. Is it blissful ignorance?
You know, like the kind I enjoyed as a kid. My family moved in to a house when I was very little, and the house came with a dog (who ever heard of that?). The perfect dog, as it turns out. We never fed her, she only pooped in the neighbor's yard, and one day when she got old she simply left and never came back.
In case you missed it, yes, she had been trained (how else can you explain the habit?) not to defecate on our premises.
As a child, the significance of this was lost on me until I went to a friend's house one day. His mom came in to the room where we were playing and said, "Darryl, you need to go do your chores." And one of his chores was picking up dog crap in the back yard. I watched him with great curiosity (but no pity) as he scoured the place, using his little spade to collect the offensive brown lumps into a five-gallon bucket. I don't know what he did with it after that. All I knew was I was happy not to have to do that at my house.
Now I have a dog of my own, and I have picked up the dukes she drops. And I appreciate my childhood dog even more, now.
But I don't appreciate the NHL--still. Obviously I was exaggerating before; I have seen my share of hockey games. And after watching the last two games (in their entirety, mind you) of the NHL playoffs this week, I am still 'not on board' (to steal a phrase from an eccentric local blogger I know).
Don't get me wrong, there are things I like about hockey. If you look at the box score, everyone player suited up (with the exception of the backup goalie) gets significant playing time; it is truly a team sport. Not like basketball where the last few guys on the bench (even in the NBA) are scrubs. And the swift, yet many times very physical nature of the game is fun to watch, at times.
But I have two major problems with hockey: First, many times the correct play, you know, the right thing to do, is to send the puck in to the zone by the back boards, without having a teammate there to receive it. It turns in to a race to see who gets it first, and the defense wins most times, or the play stalls as several players slash at their feet to get it out from underneath themselves. So the correct play ends most times in what I consider a turnover. Sorry, I just don't like that idea.
Next, when you watch a game, either on TV or in person, you lose sight of the puck at all times whenever it is being played up the near boards. You see players skating after it and swinging at it, but the wall blocks your view. I don't usually have a problem following the puck around, even after shots and ricochets, but I can't see through a wall.
Believe me, I have tried to see through a wall, and failed. I also tried to watch Tay Zonday's "Chocolate Rain" all the way through. Couldn't do that, either.
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