Only six months until the Winter X-Games...

Last night, after being glued to the TV to watch who got eliminated from “So you think you can dance while almost completely naked?” I turned the TV over to ESPN and found out the X-Games are on again. I hate the X-Games.

Normally, sports on TV are things that we could play as kids (or maybe even adults), but I didn’t see anything on the X Games that seemed like something I could play without being asked by Holli if I was stupid or something. Last night it was stupid-things-to-do-on-a-motorcycle-games.

When we were kids, Evel Kinevel was considered a bad influence. Every once in a while, shows would air talking about kids getting hurt trying to jump the Snake River Canyon (or the kid-equivalent) on their Schwinn to prove to the TV audience that Evel was, well, evil. Personally, I don’t remember my parents ever telling me I wasn’t allowed to set up a ramp and jump over stuff on my bike, but I always felt guilty when we did it, so they might have.

And before, during and after Evel’s jumps, Jim McKay on ABC’s Wide World of Sports would remind us 417 times to not try this at home, even if we happened to have 13 London Buses in our back yard and a really cool ramp.

And he always crashed anyway, so it seemed a bad idea.

But these guys are jumping 100 feet in the air, letting go of the handlebars and doing stunts mid-air while thousands scream in the arena and millions watching on TV wishing Sportscenter would come on. Or maybe it was just me.

It seems if you are crazy enough to do this, you don’t need a helmet, you need a psychiatrist.

I'm not sure this tactic will work in the long term...

This morning I went to a local convenience store/gas station and (miraculously) made a sale. On the way out, I bought a Pepsi.

In the afternoon, I went to an auto body place and pitched something while they re-glued the molding onto my car.

On the way back, I stopped at the new BBQ place, got a sandwich, and made an appointment to talk to the owner tomorrow.

Later, I went to the car dealer, but he was in a meeting. I guess I was in luck. I don't need a car.

And I'm glad I didn't go by the Funeral home...

And Microsoft office 2007...

I'm not sure I have all my facts straight, but Seattle seems like a tough place to live.

There's the rain. Apparently, they have alot of it. They also (at one time) led the country in suicides.

Then there's the coffee. Starbucks and Seattle's Best Coffee come to mind.

I'm guessing the suicide rate isn't helped by the likelihood of an overcaffinated populous, what with the two coffee magnates dominating the landscape. Caffeine can mess you up. I once took a couple of No-Doz in order to try to drive from Fergus Falls, MN to Morehead, KY without stopping for a rest break. I didn't make it. Somewhere south of Indianapolis, half-crazed and twitching, I pulled into a Taco Bell and slept for a couple of hours in the parking lot, before eating 6 soft tacos and then continuing on my way (still half-crazed but with less twitching) to eastern Kentucky.

It seems simple really...it's proven that the rain is a depressing thing...and then you are so hyped up on double lattes that you can't sleep.

I did put a pillow case on properly...or maybe she was just being nice

Amongst all the other things I can't do I have added one: making beds.

Tonight I was asked to help make the bed. I managed to keep it to myself that making the bed a half-hour before GOING to bed didn't make any sense. Or maybe I didn't manage.

After being given the assignment of top right and bottom right corner, I quickly found that I hadn't pulled the corner of the fitted sheet far enough...evidenced by the sag in the corners and the sigh Holli gave as she came to my side of the bed and pulled them tight.

As a child, I was charged with making my bed every morning. I hated this chore so much I began sleeping on the floor (or on top of the bed) to perhaps save time, or perhaps to get out of doing it on a daily basis. I still would rather sleep on top of the bed, which would be fine except that I'm married.

Coming soon to ESPN...

Host: Good Afternoon Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome to the Wide World of Sports. Today’s match has Dad, Grace and John in a battle royale on the Soccer field. Let’s get out to the action.

Announcer: Thanks, Bill. The players are ready to go…no wait, John needs a drink of water. We’ll be right back after these messages.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Announcer: Here we go! Dad kicks it to Grace, Grace passes is to John…uh oh, John has a bug in his eye. Time out on the field. John will leave the field for a moment. Grace kicks it to Dad, but wait, Grace is walking off the field. Let’s go down to our field reporter.

Field Reporter: Apparently, Grace has a blister on her right foot and will need a band-aid. John is still drinking water. Dad is on the field, but has no one to play with. We’ll step out for these messages.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

Announcer: We’re back, but apparently the match will end after only 20 minutes, with 15 of it used by water and potty breaks. John is picking up the cones and saying he want to go inside. Grace says her foot hurts and Dad would rather watch golf than stand in the yard kicking a soccer ball all by himself. Let’s go down to the field for more in-depth coverage.

Field Reporter: Grace has asked if she could weed the flower bed instead of playing any longer. John says there is a “buzzy-bee” on the field and Dad is tired and worn out. Let’s try to get a word with John. John, John, why are you going inside? Well, apparently, John has no word for us right now and Grace has already gone looking for water. That’s all from down here.

Host: Join us tomorrow on Wide World of Sports for two swings of the baseball bat followed by a juice box and crackers.

Because "Ebony and Ivory" wasn't accurate...

It was a United Nations moment. A non-English speaking man of Mexican descent speaking with a non-Spanish speaking man of American descent on the streets of our (apparently) ethnically diverse city.

The non-Spanish speaking man was trying to convey to the non-English speaking man something of great importance, it seemed. There was gesturing. A lot of gesturing. The non-English speaking man was trying to understand, but it was clear it wasn’t working.

I decided to go to the rescue. It would make me feel good (not to mention look good) to help bridge the gap between two men so intent on understanding one another. Self-pleased at the good deed I was about to do, I softly hummed "We are the World" to myself as I approached them.

“Excuse me,” I said to the non-Spanish speaking man. “What are you trying to tell him?”

The non-Spanish speaking man looked at me, paused and said, “I’m trying to ask him if he’ll give me a dollar.”

Saving the best for last...

Gracie asked me tonight what I was going to do when I grew up.

I told her I haven’t the slightest idea.

On the 12th trip to the bedroom, my kids both asked of me…
12 Hugs and Besos
11 questions about soccer
10 knock-knock jokes
9 “John’s out of bed!” claims
8 Aches and pains
7 glasses of water
6 “tuck me in!”
5 “The Music Stopped!”
4 “What are we doing tomorrow?”
3 Requests for books
2 “Can I get up?”
and one I Love you Daddy...

And the concession stand was out of aspirin...

I have watched 9 and 10 year olds play baseball for about a week now. I’ve watched grown men give hitters signals that the best WW II code breakers couldn’t decipher and 28 different catchers go out to the mound for a conference with another 9 or 10 year old…all to come back to home plate, where the pitcher would then throw it a foot outside or bounce it short of the plate.

I’ve seen parents scream at the PA guy (I’m sitting next to him in the booth) for mispronouncing their kids name.

I’ve heard parents boo a 10 year old because the umpire was terrible.

And tomorrow it all comes to an end, unless it rains again.

Media Law Moment...

The Fairness Doctrine is a proposed law that would make it necessary to balance out radio broadcasts so that the general public was getting “a balanced view.”

While I am against this infringement on the freedom of speech granted to us by the Bill of Rights, it really doesn’t apply to us, with a couple of exceptions.

During sports broadcasts, any reference to a bad call by a referee would then be followed by a rebuttal by the questioned referee, who would be allowed to explain himself. Actually, this would lend an extra level of excitement to our broadcasts especially if the ref said things like “well, all you need to be a broadcaster is to have a pulse and a microphone.”

During our music programming (Real Country) we would be forced to follow, “Stand by Your Man” with something like “Coca-Cola Cowboy,” “Lying Lips Don’t Touch Mine” or “The Ballad of the Woman Who Refused to Stand by Her Man or Give Him Two Arms to Cling to.”

This chicken ain't from roun' eer, is he?

I heard yesterday I can get a Southern Chicken Sandwich from Applebee’s.

I am perplexed as to how a chicken can be southern. I supposed if the chickens kin are from the south and he was born in the south, he would be considered southern.

However, if the chicken moved in from out of town (and from out of the south) within the last 40 years, he’s a yankee chicken.

This means that even if he has a gun rack in his truck and a confederate flag in the windshield, he’s from up there and he can’t change it. Maybe his children’s children can change his status in the community (if everyone forgets), but for him, he’ll be hot wings or cordon bleu before he’ll be considered a good ol’ chicken.

Lincoln v. Douglas revisited...

As the debate participants began with opening statements, it was clear it would be a cerebral battle for the ages. In one chair sat Miss G, clearly the more eloquent. But would it be enough? The other chair was occupied by Mr. J, whose words were few, but remained rock-solid on point. We join the debate as it began:

Miss G: In the interests of my own particular shape of Play-Doh I wish to create, I shall have need of the object Mr. J holds. And as I want it now, I ask you, Mr. J, to give it to me.

Mr. J: No, It’s mine.

Miss G: Please Mr. J, I really need it.

Mr. J: No, It’s mine.

Miss G: Mommy said you have to share things. Please give it to me.

Mr. J: No, It’s mine.

Miss G: I’ll tell Mommy. Please give it to me.

Mr. J: No, It’s mine.

As the debate raged on, it was clear Mr. J had a strategy that was both simple and impenetrable. Miss G tried another course of dialogue.

Miss G: Mr. J, I’ll trade you this for it.

Mr. J: No, It’s mine.

And thus they continued until Miss G was reduced to tears. Mr. J stayed the course, unfazed by the tears. And while Miss G may have possibly won the debate, Mr. J won the day.

The day I hung up my green and yellow spikes...

I went over the last hurdle and ran for the finish line…I didn’t catch the guy in front of me, but I didn’t need to…a second place finish would get me into the final race. If I could win that, I’d make the state meet.

I don’t remember how long it took, but within minutes I realized that they had me third and I would miss the final race.

I went and protested, and then protested again, but no one would listen. They decided I was third and that was it.

I sat down next to the chain link fence and cried. I couldn’t prove it, there was no videotape (this was 1980…and few junior high track programs had $15,000 video cameras) and no one would listen to me (no one who would do anything about it, that is).

I still can’t believe it. I’ve accepted it, but that’s about it.

It’s just a coincidence, but this was my last race. The season was over. The next year I went to high school and they ran the 110 HIGH hurdles and my 5’1” frame wasn’t much taller than the hurdle itself. I could jump over one (maybe) but there were too many of them in a row for me to do it to anyone's satisfaction (coaches or mine) and you weren’t allowed a step stool or someone to help you over.

So I didn’t really quit, but in assessing my chances, it was time to retire.

A man’s got to know his (self-imposed or not) limitations.

Coming Soon: The Demolition Derby

Yesterday, I broadcast a baseball game on the radio between two teams of 7-year olds. But not just any game, it was for the state championship of Tennessee.

Normally, we have a policy against doing "coach pitch" games. But with it being for the state championship (and the fact that right now I'd broadcast a rousing game of parchesi at the old folks home in order to make a few extra dollars) we made an exception.

For me, it was the first time I’d seen one of these games since I played in one.

And from the first pitch to the last out, it was pure excitement. A routine grounder to the pitcher? Not so routine. And the great plays were rewarded with absolute bedlam.

Bats almost as tall as the players, gloves bigger than their heads. And everyone slides into every base…

And if a kid gets hurt…players, coaches, umpires and mom comes to the rescue.

Our team won, 8 to 7. They celebrated with Happy Meals, said “it hadn’t yet sunk in” and drove back home with a police escort leading the way.

AD COPY

For a job that’s just barley adequate, call Leakey Plumbing. For 25 years, Leakey Plumbing has done the bare minimum for a maximum price.

They’ll take a look at the job that should be done and then do whatever is easiest and gets them out the door the quickest.

So when the people you really want can’t make it, call Leakey Plumbing. They’ll stop up the flow of water, for a while at least.

**

For Pizza made with a mother’s love and a C sanitary rating, it’s Chi Chi’s Pizza.

**

For appliance repair, why call the best when it’s just going to break again? Ed’ll fix it. For now.

**

We’ll keep your damn dog alive until you get home and no one will be the wiser…it’s Daisy’s Dog Sitters!

Exercise machine economics...

Instead of the “redistribution of wealth” program that the government seems bent upon, I think it would be better (and less red tape-ish) if everyone was forced to have a yard sale once a year.

The yard sale prices, would, of course, be less than retail and designed to get rid of stuff at a quick rate. The new law would require that each person sell 17% of their stuff at no more than 25% of the price, which is a better deal that Uncle Obama is going to offer you.

The poor wouldn’t have much to sell and the 17% plan wouldn’t cost them much.

The rich however, would be giving away their stuff to those who could afford it at 25% of the price, i.e. the middle class. The poor would then take advantage of the deals offered by the middle class.

This would do away with the tax code…what you get is what you get but you have to sell 17% of what you own each year…therefore (to not run out of stuff) you’d need to keep buying things and that would help the economy and the manufacturers of new stuff.

There would be new jobs as people would be hired to go around and make sure you are indeed selling 17% of you stuff.

There’d be a run on folding tables and chairs, those labels you use to price stuff and large cardboard signs and felt-tip markers. And sticks to put them in the ground with directing them to your site. Heck, the media might be able to get involved.

And we'd all get to know one another as a blenders and lawn mowers made their way around the county.

Taking the temperature into our own hands...

MY COUNTY-- In a landmark agreement, the county will enact legislation to reduce global warming within the county’s borders.

The county will, as of July 31, expel all cows to a neighboring county. In a related ruling, citizens will no longer be able to import or purchase beans in the county. Citizens returning from dining in other counties will be subject to roadside checkpoints. The price of Peppermint Oil will be lowered by 47%, subsidized by the county government.

County and city officials will be asked to ride bicycles to town meetings.

Citizens will be asked to take their plastic bottles to the county line and chuck them as far as they can into a different county.

I think she remembers the Alamo though...

As most of you figured out almost 8 years ago, Holli has lost her mind.

She keeps asking me to rent movies that we (in the last 8 years) rented and watched already. We watched the same “Cake Boss” episode last night that we watched two weeks ago.

On the bright side, it keeps her from getting bored with what is on. And when I tell her that I did the dishes last night, she believes me.

In all honesty, I think it is the kids. Kids seem to keep parents in a suspended state of just trying to get to the end of the week/day/hour/dirty diaper and they leave little time for pondering either the future or the past.

As for me, I don’t remember not having kids. I don’t remember waking up in the morning without the hot morning breath of a child in my face. I don’t remember what is on TV prior to 7 am that doesn’t have the words “blues” or “clues” in the title. (Actually, I’m not sure I was ever awake prior to 7 am. If I was, I don’t remember that either.)

If I can remember more stuff I can’t remember, I’ll be in touch.

A civilized approach to angling...

Dear Fish,

As I plan to be in your area of the lake next Saturday, I thought I would let you know that I plan to throw a lure (and a hook) in the water in hopes of convincing you to get into the boat with me and a few friends.

At present time, unless you are extremely large or have three eyes, I plan to do nothing more than take you off the hook, hold you up for my friends to see, and then throw you back in the lake where you may resume your daily rounds. We might take a photo, but that would be it.

Without your participation, the day will be nothing more than a boat ride in a circle, drinking lukewarm beer and breathing fumes from the motor. We are certain that you would be enriched by this experience also.

We look forward to (hopefully) working with you.

Sincerely,

Fisherman

A new respect...

“Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”

At some point in my life I thought this was the post office motto, but google has approximately 8 million (give or take a few) people who can’t wait to tell you that this isn’t the motto at all, but instead a greek description of the Persian Post Office, who apparently ran a very tight ship way back in 500 BC.

As tough as these Persians were, I don’t think they can hold a candle to the new tough guy on the block, the SMOKER.

The SMOKER endures the rhetoric of the Government (while paying crazy-high taxes on each pack to it) for the privilege of continuing to be smacked down by laws saying where they can smoke and blamed for high insurance rates. They also must deal with the laid-upon-them guilt of inflicting others with secondhand smoke.

The SMOKER must go outside to smoke, says the collector of the crazy-high taxes. The SMOKER stands out in the elements, braving snow, rain, heat, gloom of night and other people that the SMOKER has nothing in common with save perhaps their brand of tobacco or their future oncologist.

The SMOKER is no longer welcome in diners, bowling alleys or pool rooms. The SMOKER must stand by the back door, all alone, ashing into a coffee cup or heaven forbid, on the ground.

And to them, this sacrifice for vice is worth it. Cheers.

Technical knowledge not necessary...I'm proof

Tonight at Music on the Square (a Friday night thing here...we broadcast an hour of the live musical entertainment from 8:15 to 9:15) someone mentioned they were listening to it and the sound needed "more low."

The sound guy (who we plug into to broadcast the music) told me that we needed to "up the low" just a bit.

He asked me if we could do that ("up the low") back at the station.

I told him we couldn't do that.

(it beat asking him what "the low" was...)

My thermos makes me better looking....

According to the internet, there is a correlation between beer consumption and insomnia. It seems that the alcohol dehydrates and then you wake up thirsty and can’t get back to sleep. It is also blamed for nightmares, night sweats, and an incredible knowledge of terrible movies that come on after midnight.

So, for a while, I’m going to abstain from alcohol at night in hopes of getting a good night of sleep someday.

However, the same people (the medical types) tell us that there is also a correlation between beer and a healthy heart. Well, I happen to need a healthy heart. Holli wants me to outlive her.

So, in light of the fact alcohol keeps me awake but is good for my heart, I’m going to start drinking it in the morning.

It will give me the energy to help with Junior Achievement and it will keep me sharp during the day as I see clients and do the news, sports and weather on the air.

Our local convenience store...

Got an itch that needs a scratch? Don't fret, come to the Vice Mart! The Vice Mart has everything you need to commit the seven deadly sins, all under one roof!

For lust there's our magazine rack...for greed choose from any one of 45 games from the Tennessee Lottery...for gluttony choose from our aisle of Hormel Products, the beer cooler, the chips and candy aisle or just ask for a pack of Marlboro's.

For pride realize you are better than these losers who spend their time here, checking the daily lotto...and for envy wish you could spend all your time here.

And finally for wrath...grab two red bulls and just seethe as your lucky numbers cost you five more dollars.

And there's so much more, but I don't feel like wasting my time to tell you about it.

Come in today...I'm sure there's something you can wallow in!