Reality TV Fare

As television viewers, we’ll watch anything.

For years, people have been carping about the downward spiral in TV fare.

While I don’t think we’ve hit rock bottom yet, I believe we’re close enough to see the pits and blemishes in the approaching stone.

Three years ago, it was an explosion of “reality TV” featuring concocted scenarios with allegedly real human beings (although the DNA tests still aren’t back on “Survivor” winner Richard Hatch) put into unrealistic situations.

The result?

“Survivor,” “Big Brother,” “Fear Factor,” et al.

Ummm, yeah, that’s realistic.

You’re trapped on a deserted island with a collection of people with camera-ready faces and bikini-friendly bodies, and you’re going to spend your endless free time jumping through hoops and conniving against your other island mates?

Yeah, right.

If they wanted to make it a REAL reality show about beautiful people marooned on a deserted island, they would feature an hour each week of video shots of grass huts emitting grunting noises from within.

The following year, television offered a series of competitions that got our blood pumping, including “American Idol” and a few other talent show clones that didn’t make it.

Personally, I thought this was a genre that had run its course after “Ted Mack’s Amateur Hour” in the fifties, but some bad ideas never go away, as proven by resurrections like “The Gong Show” and “Star Search.”

Last year, it was a foray into the board room, with Donald Trump’s famous catch-phrase “You’re fired!” on “The Apprentice.”

First, I find it ironic that a show featuring such a phrase could be popular in a social climate where “You’re fired!” is as much an anachronism as “Groovy, man!”

In this era of affirmative action, sex discrimination, civil rights, gay rights, equal opportunity employers, unions, and a nationwide infestation of personal injury lawyers, also known as scum-sucking bottom-dwelling vermin, you can’t actually fire anyone anymore.

“The Apprentice” will soon be joined by a spin-off featuring Martha Stewart.

Unlike some, I believe Stewart was wrongfully imprisoned for the made-up crimes they tried to hang on her.

She went to jail because her friend told her to sell her stock in his company?

I wouldn’t expect anything LESS from a friend!

If that’s a crime, then every woman in America should be doing time for telling her girlfriend “You should throw out that dress, honey, it makes you look fat.”

Or “I’m telling you, gurrul, you need to dump that man of yours. He no good!”

Also, for idiots like me who watched every episode of “The Apprentice” last year, do you realize that you raced home from your office job to catch 13 weeks of other people at their office job?

Vying for a bigger office job?

We actually take time out from griping about our jerk of a boss to watch a TV show featuring a jerk of a boss.

Personally, I think it’s time for us to give up these reality TV shows.

Or, if you can’t imagine getting through the day without them, try this.

Pretend that everything going on around you is part of a reality TV show.

And the best part is, pretend YOU are the star!

It’s just the latest offering from “Survivor” producer Mark Burnett.

It’s called “Getting A Life.”

Lance Armstrong, American Hero

Published in the Desert Valley Times
July 26, 2005

This weekend, bicyclist extraordinaire Lance Armstrong ended his career by winning an unprecedented seventh Tour de France.
He did it without an end zone dance, without pointing at other bicyclists and calling their mamas ugly names, and without pointing to the sky and thanking God/Allah/Buddah/Vishnu/L. Ron Hubbard for the victory.
Lance did it without getting busted for possession of crack (at least, since the bicyclists gave up their biking shorts for the new full-body racing suits), without beating up his wife, and without stabbing anyone outside an Atlanta bar.
There have been rumors about steroid use, but that’s just nonsense.
First, the folks who run the Tour are extremely vigilant, with constant drug testing and monitoring of their athletes.
This year, one biker was disqualified because his girlfriend got caught with steroids in her car.
Unlike the wastrels in Major League Baseball, these people are serious about keeping their athletes clean.
Second, it’s Lance Armstrong.
This is the guy who kicked cancer’s butt in 1995.
I suspect he’s extremely fussy about what he puts into his body these days.
Of course, Lance isn’t perfect.
Like most humans, he has his flaws, like trading up to singer Sheryl Crow after ditching his original wife.
But, come on, it’s Sheryl Crow!
I think that even I could be tempted to make such a move, if it weren’t for three things.
First, judging by her current selection, Sheryl likes hardbodied skinny guys who work out three times a day.
Personally, my body is more like the “before” picture in a Trim Spa or Weight Watchers ad.
Second, I dearly love my wonderful wife.
Third, my wonderful wife knows where the cutlery is stored while I sleep.
But even with his flaws, Armstrong is a hero, a superior athlete that kids can actually look up to.
His “Live Strong” foundation helps cancer survivors across the country.
He works hard at his craft, and never takes the shortcut or the easy way when training or competing.
He conducts himself with honor and class, which are forgotten attributes in today’s world of sports.
And he avoids places that have the potential to get him in trouble, like bars, hip hop radio stations, and Michael Jackson’s house.
To be honest, as a sport, bicycling is tough to get excited about.
They occasionally have some pretty good wrecks in the turns, but nothing as spectacular as a NASCAR warm-up lap crash.
You can time the difference between first and second place with a calendar instead of a stopwatch.
They don’t have a single “Billy Bob” on their entire roster.
And it’s tough to pledge allegiance and buy racing merchandise for the guy on the 4291 bike.
It just doesn’t roll off the tongue like “that number 8 Budweiser car is running really fast for a guy in 38th place.”
(My apologies to Dale Jr. fans.)
But for the last seven consecutive years, the guy standing on the podium in Paris has been a Texan.
It’s tough to find a sport, any sport, that has featured the same champion seven times in a row.
And at a time when Americans are pretty unpopular around the world, Armstrong has risen above the politics to show that we still have world-class athletes with world-class class.
The fact that he’s able to tweak the French on their noses in their own country is just gravy on the biscuits.
(Sorry, I just couldn’t resist.)
The only cloud on this incredible victory is the fact that it will be his last.
Armstrong announced before the race that he was retiring from the sport.
And unlike other big-name athletes with big-time egos who couldn’t stay retired, I suspect this one will stick.
After all, he’s got a lot of touring with Sheryl left to do.

Snooze Button

Published in the Desert Valley Times
July 26, 2005

Has there ever been an invention as wondrous as the snooze button?
You know, the little device on most modern alarm clocks that you can hit which shuts off that beep/buzz/wah/annoying FM DJ which is intended to wake you up in the morning, and gives you an extra 10 minutes of sleep.
There you are, in the arms of Farrah Fawcett (the 1976 “Charlies Angels” version, not the 2005 “my plastic surgeon is an incompetent quack” version), when your alarm clock reminds you it’s time to get up and prepare for your day of counting rectal thermometers at the Quickie Mart.
You roll over, hit the snooze button, and then try to return to where you left off in the dream.
Of course, by the time you get back to slumber land, you’re in the arms of “Survivor” winner Richard Hatch.
This time, you’re grateful for that blaring alarm clock.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if inventors could come up with a way to use the snooze button in other parts of your life?
Like most technological innovations, kids would be the first to make it wildly popular.
Homework not done?
Hit the snooze button and buy yourself another day.
Unprepared for tomorrow’s big test on the Pythagorean Theorem?
Whack that old snooze button and put it off for a week.
And, like the alarm clock device, you could hit the button eight or nine times, ensuring that you graduate before that test actually gets taken.
For adults, the benefits would be endless.
Big report due in the morning?
A snooze button would come in handy.
Bar getting ready to close while you still have a quarter-ounce of sobriety left?
Press that snooze button.
(Although you may be seeing three or four of them by this time…just aim for the one in the middle.)
Housewives facing the daunting prospect of cleaning the oven after last night’s cheese and spaghetti sauce souffle’ disaster could press a button and put it off for another meal or two.
(Of course, with as many tasks as amazing housewives have each day compared to normal humans, their collection of snooze buttons would resemble the console of a NASA space mission at Houston control.)
Construction project not finished that you promised a month ago?
Snooze button to the rescue!
(Actually, I believe that contractors have already invented a snooze button. They call it “two more weeks.”)
And as yours truly could attest, they would be invaluable to sports writers and journalists in general.
Facing a deadline on the varsity marble championships?
Hit that button and go back to watching John Wayne in “Hellfighters.”
(Some people might argue that the VCR has a “pause” button, but they don’t understand that a man must have his priorities in order.)
I’m sure that some enterprising young Bill Gates in the future will come up with a real-life snooze button.
Until then, man will simply have to make do with the tools currently used to keep deadlines at bay:
Excuses and alibis.
Now, if you’ll pardon me, Chance is getting ready to blow out that poison oil well fire in Malaya.
And somewhere, Farrah is still waiting.

Restaurant Riposte

Published in the Desert Valley Times
July 19, 2005

One of the topics featured at last week’s City Council meeting was a hearing on a proposed new restaurant.

Well, actually, a new restaurant and bar.

Okay, according to the license sought by the property owner, a new bar and restaurant.

(There’s some contention between the owner and the city over the issue of 51%, but it’s all too technical and financial for my feeble brain.)

Several council members expressed a longing for more eating establishments that are willing to count on their bill of fare for a profit instead of bourbon-driven happy hours and one-armed bandits.

That’s not a slap in the face to the existing restaurants in town, just some out-loud wishful thinking.

Personally, I’m a big fan of most of the local food purveyors.

Just look at my waist line and suspenders.

I’m a BIG fan.

Admittedly, I haven’t had an opportunity to visit all of them yet.

There are a couple of upscale casino restaurants that I haven’t tried.

As a writer, I’m hoping to eventually land a million-dollar book deal for one of my novels.

Once I do, I’m going to give those places a try.

If I get two million dollars, I’ll take my family as well.

I like most of the casino restaurants I can currently afford.

In fact, I haven’t met Victoria, the namesake of Victoria ’s Buffet, but I’ve eaten there so often I’m sure I’ll be mentioned in her will.

I don’t personally know Chuck either, but I suspect he’s Victoria ’s husband, because his Chuck Wagon restaurant is housed in the same building.

I don’t know who the Purple Fez is named after. 

I’m not even precisely sure of what a Purple Fez is, or why it’s purple, or what it has to do with good food, but I know I can attribute at least one of the holes in my belt to their menu.

And for those who don’t know, Tumbleweeds Café is not a salad bar, as any restaurant with the term “weeds” in their name might indicate.

Now the proper thing to do is go on and name all of the other casino restaurants in town, since I’m a devotee of most of those places as well, but I’m out of cute ways to weave their names into this column.

Another thing I don’t understand is the culinary conspiracy that exists here.

What is it with this desert city and clam chowder?

Almost every restaurant in town except the two Chinese food joints serves clam chowder every Friday.

Panda Garden and Canton Chinese probably serve clam chowder as well, but hide it under some name I don’t recognize like Moo Goo Gai Foo Shum Pan Suey.

And those Mexican restaurants that currently refrain from serving this item on Fridays will probably join the conspiracy as soon as they figure out how to fit clam chowder into a folded tortilla shell.

The conspiracy aside, I like most of the eateries here, although I take exception to the term “fast” being used in reference to some of the “fast food” places.

They could more accurately be referred to as “medium speed food,” or on Tuesdays and Fridays as “slow food” places.

But once the burgers and fries or chicken and fries or roast beef and fries or Pannidos and fries arrives, it’s usually pretty darn tasty.

(I’m not sure what a “Pannido” is, but it looks like a food cigar).

While I like and frequent most of the restaurants currently here, it doesn’t stop me from wishing for new additions.

My favorite is Outback Steakhouse, which I hope is on somebody’s drawing board for Mesquite .

I particularly like their restaurant since they’ve changed their seating policy, which was basically “let ‘em stand in line for a couple of hours so they’ll REALLY be hungry once we get around to finding them a table.”

And while I like to drink on occasion, I wouldn’t mind seeing a few more family restaurants make the scene without a list of beers that is longer than the list of appetizers.

(Politically-correct disclaimer:  don’t drink and drive, no one under 21 should drink, drink in moderation, don’t drink if you’re pregnant or planning to operate heavy machinery, or if you’re pregnant AND planning to operate heavy machinery.)

Here’s your news-flash for the day: Mesquite is growing.

As it grows, more restaurants will spring up.

This doesn’t take away from the terrific restaurants we already have, it just expands the options.

And, at least in my case, expands the waist line.

Bon Apetit, y’all!  

Radio Daze

First, I want to thank Scott Garner, the star of the hit show “Highly Sophisticated Rednecks,” who inspired this thread.
He got me to thinking about my brief career as a radio sports announcer.
I was 17, and a friend who worked in the office at WASA-AM WHDG-FM in Havre de Grace, Maryland suggested I apply for the job as the color announcer for the station, which covered the Friday night football games at our high school.
Since I was a former varsity football player who was also the morning D.J. at our in-school high school radio station (“Morris in the Morning”…original, right?), it seemed a natural fit.
Don’t underestimate the talent it takes to spin records (yes, we actually used round vinyl discs to broadcast recorded music back then) at an in-school station.
It takes a lot of skill to develop a hip song rotation and interesting patter in between announcements about today’s lunch (usually something involving a fish by-product or the nebulous term “a la king”).
The music itself was secondary.
Unlike the underground college stations Scott mentioned, our catalog was often determined by the size of our individual weekly allowances.
That’s why my listeners were treated to plenty of “Frampton Comes Alive” and Stevie Wonder’s “Songs In The Key Of Life,” because my meager allowance dictated that my personal album collection involved lots of “Greatest Hits” double-album sets.
I always thought it was more economically sensible to buy records filled with proven older hits than to gamble on a hot new six-dollar album that might or might not have more than two tolerable tracks.
Anyway, the in-house experience led to my first real broadcasting job, as the color commentator on WASA-WHDG.
My contract was extended after the football season to continue with broadcasts of the local high school basketball games.
The “contract” consisted of the station manager saying, “Hey, you want to stick around and do the basketball games? I’ll bump you from $10 to $15 a game.”
Unfortunately, my celebrity run ended with the last basketball game of the season, since the station didn’t broadcast high school baseball.
Nearing graduation, I sat down with the station manager to discuss the possibility of joining the station full time.
You need to understand that the radio station was owned by a widow, and she had put her only son in charge of the station simply because she had run out of family-owned places to put him.
(She and the family lived in Washington, D.C. The son and the radio station were located in northeastern Maryland, in a community of 9,000 people. It wasn’t the end of the world, but you could SEE the end of the world from our town.)
So this ill-at-ease seventeen-year-old sat in front of the station manager and asked for a full-time slot.
His answer, and I’m not exaggerating an inch, was “not unless you have a sex-change operation.”
It seems that he was cooking up a whole new format, where the broadcasting staff was going to be all female.
(Did I mention he was an only child?)
Obviously, this was the late 70s, before such things as “sexual harassment” had become popular as a courtroom distraction.
My broadcasting career had come to an end, and I went on to a job building floor buffers in a chemical factory a few months later.
(Oh, how far the mighty had fallen.)
More “Tales From The Airwaves” to follow over the next few weeks.

Bloody Tale

Published in the Desert Valley Times
July 12, 2005

In the course of daily events, we often take for granted the mundane chores done on our behalf by store clerks, receptionists, tellers, and technicians.
Unless we happen to stumble across the occasional Simon Cowell of customer service, which happens less often than you might think, our day-to-day lives run along smoothly thanks to competent people doing their jobs.
Unfortunately, they are often ignored, and rarely thanked for their contribution to our smooth lifestyle.
But once in a while, someone comes along who does their job so well, you can’t ignore it.
I experienced this last week during a visit to my doctor.
First, let me explain that I am nearly 44 years old, a big hefty guy with a beard who frightens forest animals and some small children.
But when it comes to needles, I am a big sissy.
Wait, that’s a politically incorrect term.
Let me try again.
I am a big chicken.
No, not nearly forceful enough.
Excuse me for a minute while I consult my thesaurus.
Coward…phobic…faint…lily livered…weak-kneed…
Here it is.
“Wet my pants and scream like a little girl.”
That’s it.
That is me when it comes to needles.
So here I am, sitting in the phlebotomist’s chair (“phlebotomist” is a fancy medical term for the person who sucks your blood out with a hollow spike attached to a Hoover industrial vacuum cleaner).
While the person wearing this intimidating title is actually someone I know outside of the sanitized walls of my doctor’s office, I won’t embarrass her by mentioning her name.
After all, at some point in the future, she will probably be stabbing me with a sharp metal object again.
In any case, she began poking around with her fingers in search of a vein (a process that, in all my experience watching Dracula movies, has never been used by a thirsty vampire, and yet they never seem to miss the mark).
Then, she employed the “good cop, bad cop” routine often used in bad TV shows, allowing another staff member (another wonderful person I know outside of the doctor’s office) to distract me with conversation while she prepared to, to, in-, insert, um, the uh...
(Please excuse me while I go change my pants.)
Anyway, while talking with the other staff member for a few moments, I dared to look over at the phlebotomist’s ministrations.
To my shock, surprise, and relief, she was gathering her goodies and preparing to send me on my way.
This Michaelangelo of the hypodermic needle had managed to extract a few tubes of my sugar-tainted, cholesterol-clogged, red American coward’s blood without a single scream of searing pain, or even an “ouchie.”
In all my years of being used as a diabetic pin cushion, I’ve never had blood taken that didn’t involve terror and suffering.
This angelic health care specialist with a devilish sense of humor probably does a hundred blood raids every week, to the point where it is an automatic endeavor like dragging a potato chip bag across the scanner at a grocery store.
But to me, her skill was special.
I didn’t want a week to go by without letting her know that her work is appreciated.
And the next time I come in for blood work, I’ll leave my Depends at home.

Honor Doomed By Courts

I’ve been jumping up and down like Daffy Duck on crack about the lack of honor and character in our country, particularly in sports.
Lately, the NCAA and the college campuses have been my whipping boy, where nearly every collegiate football and basketball team seems to be stocked with thugs, criminals, and deviants who aren’t worthy to even be in college, much less on the hallowed fields of athletic excellence.
But I must now admit that I have been wrong.
It’s not the colleges that are screwed up, absent any sense of dignity or character.
It’s us.
It is this society.
Specifically, it is the “us” represented by a broken judicial system that allows child molesters to go free on bail while first-time offender Martha Stewart goes to federal prison for taking a friend’s advice on a stock option.
It’s a court system that is flawed, dysfunctional, and almost completely useless, from the District Court that refuses to sentence drug dealers to any significant time, up to a Supreme Court that says it’s okay for cities to steal a citizen’s home if a developer thinks he can increase the property value.
It includes an arrogant, despotic judge in New York who thinks it serves the nation’s interest to jail a reporter who refuses to rat out a confidential White House informant.
Now, the American Injustice System is going to be used to rough up a university that has at least tried to show some semblance of integrity.
In 2000, Sione Havili was tried and convicted of throwing a milk jug filled with gasoline through the window of a Salt Lake City home, allegedly in retaliation for a gang-related drive-by shooting.
After this walking piece of pond scum finished serving just seven months of his pitifully insignificant one year sentence, he attempted to join the University of Utah football team.
In a rare display of honor, the university politely declined to welcome a gang-banging arsonist to its athletic program.
So scumbag Havili is suing the school’s athletic director and former president, claiming they violated his civil rights.
If it really is a “civil right” for felons to be allowed to besmirch a college’s sports program, to force their criminal element on innocent students and athletes, then this country truly is without honor or hope.
While the populace rails for honesty and integrity in sports, from the eradication of the steroids disease to the elimination of criminals from our pro and collegiate sports ranks, the lower life forms continue to force their cries of “it’s my right!” on a land already overburdened by the weight of dope dealers, cheats, spouse abusers, thieves, and murderers.
So now we get to see how badly Utah’s Third District Court is broken.
Sadly, in a country where it’s legal to burn the flag but illegal to pray in school, there’s little room for optimism.

Southern Hospitality

NOTE: While I don't usually burn a blog post with a joke, I just couldn't resist. I particularly hope my buds in Statesboro appreciate this one.

A very gentle Southern lady was driving across the Savannah River Bridge in Georgia one day.

As she neared the top of the bridge, she noticed a young man fixing (ready) to jump.

She stopped her car, rolled down the window and said, "Please don't jump, think of your dear mother and father."

He replied, "Mom and Dad are both dead; I'm going to jump."

She said, "Well, think of your wife and children."

He replied, "I'm not married and I don't have any kids."

She said, "Well, think of Robert E. Lee."

He replied, ''Who's Robert E. Lee?''

She replied, ''Well bless your heart, just go ahead and jump, you dumb ass Yankee!”

French Fried

I’m not much of an overseas traveler.
In fact, the only time I’ve left American borders was a trip to the International House of Pancakes.
Okay, I did visit San Luis, Mexico back in April, but since the seedy border town scared my wife back into the U.S. within 30 minutes, I don’t think it counts.
However, everything I’ve read and heard indicates that visiting France is like spending $5,000 for a ten-day visit with your in-laws.
Insults, snubs, snide remarks, and being ignored are just some of the features of a trip to Escargot land.
That’s why I’m glad that Paris got the el snub-o for the 2012 Summer Olympics earlier this week.
Word has it that the French, who were front-runners for the gig, are pretty steamed about losing the Olympics to London.
Some say the defeat was due to President Chirac’s cruel remarks about mad cow disease in England and the terrible food found in Finland.
Obviously, Chirac is a devotee of that stalwart self-improvement tome “How To Alienate Countries and Piss Off Allies Without Really Trying.”
Others believe the defeat might have something to do with a certain country’s stance regarding a particular mideast war that is being waged by a couple of Olympic bid hopefuls.
Personally, I think the Paris bid fell to defeat because…that’s simply what Paris does best.
If there was an Olympic Surrendering event, the French would take the gold every four years.
(Okay, it’s a cheap shot to keep running into the ground the fact that the French collapsed to a Nazi marble team back in World War II, an event that occurred long before I was born, but it’s an easy target.)
But I’m still glad that the 2012 Olympics will not be held in France.
One observer sort of summed up my opinion of the country:
“As I have always said, it is too bad that France has to be wasted on the French.”
In light of their regard for Americans, I’m still amazed that France actually gave us the Statue of Liberty back in 1886.
As Dennis Miller once said, “they must have been throwing it out anyway.”
So to any French nationals reading this, all I can say is “Ce qui circule vient autour.”
Or, as we used to say down south, “What goes around comes around.”

Good Old Days

Published in the Desert Valley Times
July 5, 2005

It’s easy to find faults and flaws in today’s society, providing enough literary inspiration to keep a whiny old columnist like myself in material for centuries.
Every once in a while, I find myself wishing for the “good old days,” which basically encompasses any time period that isn’t now.
Sometimes I think about what a great life it must have been back in the Wild West days, riding the prairie and shooting bad guys.
At least, that’s the way John Wayne liked to tell it.
Other times I ponder what I missed back in the innocent and wonderful fifties, with exceedingly cool cars and care-free times where the worst venereal disease to afflict most teenagers was a bad hickey.
Even the rollicking twenties holds an allure, with images of flappers and speakeasies that promised excitement and adventure.
Admittedly, I’ve never waxed longingly for the time of the Great Depression, although I am quick to admit that it was the tempering forge which produced some of the most honorable, ambitious, and patriotic men and women in the history of the country.
However, when I find myself getting too nostalgic, I try to remember the facets of those eras which were less than appealing.
For example, the one reality of the Wild West that is never portrayed in the movies is the, um, most natural.
I’m sorry, call me spoiled, but that whole “making doody outside” thing isn’t what I would consider a Kodak moment, particularly when you consider that farmers and cattlemen never grew an annual crop of Charmin.
I shudder to think of all the things they used in its stead.
While we usually think of the pioneers as hardy and tough, the truth is that the list of simple things that could result in death is a long one.
Some contemporaries point to the 1800s as being nutritionally superior since cancer wasn’t as prevalent as it is today.
However, the truth is that most people died of something far less harrowing long before cancer got a crack at them.
Remember, this is a time when people died of that nebulous disease “old age” long before their 55th birthday.
And it takes a lot of fun out of the idea of running down to the store to pick up a few items when you consider that the trip to Ye Olde 7-Eleven was measured in days instead of minutes.
Moving on, there were plenty of hot times back in the twenties, particularly in the cities.
This is attributable not to the pearl-draped women doing the Charleston, but because air conditioning was not yet a part of the building code.
Today, Americans occasionally whine because high-speed internet hasn’t quite reached their zip code.
Back then, the big wait was on that mystical innovation known as “electricity.” Again, call me pampered, but I’ve grown attached to the alternating current teat.
Which brings me to the fifties.
Yes, it was a boom time.
Unfortunately, the biggest boom was the one we feared from the Russians, who we finally learned to refer to as the Soviets just in time for the USSR to be dismantled back into being Russia.
These days, we pay lip service to the security concerns about terrorists.
However, schools aren’t running “terrorist” drills where kids are taught to hide under their desks in the event someone named Hassan drops in.
Back in the fifties, children were instructed to hide under their desks in an orderly manner in the event of a nuclear attack from the Commies.
I’ve often wondered what miraculous stuff those desks were made of, a material that could ostensibly withstand the thousand-degree heat of an atomic explosion.
Personally, I’d like to build my next house out of that stuff and tell the insurance company to take a hike.
The truth is, each generation has its challenges.
We have ours, including a hundred-year addiction to the economic heroin known as fossil fuels, ways to extend average life-spans beyond the century mark, and a dangerous, conniving, insidious band of counter-revolutionary terrorists known as the U.S. Supreme Court.
The best part is that, fifty years from now, an overweight, middle-aged guy with a beard is going to sit down in front of whatever passes for a keyboard, and begin a story about our era.
It, too, will be entitled “The Good Old Days.”

Car Name Games

I have a pet peeve, an ongoing bone to pick with American car manufacturers.
It’s similar to my take on the downward spiraling movie makers in Hollywood, but I’ll save that for another time (or you can see this week’s movie review at Mesquedia.com).
I hate industrial laziness.
For hundreds of years, Americans have been at the forefront of industry and invention and innovation and a lot of other “ins.”
But lately, the American car manufacturers have become exceedingly lazy in developing new cars.
Mostly, it’s the marketing department, which is so bankrupt of new ideas that they are simply rolling out proud names of past muscle cars and slapping them on poor excuses for automobiles.
Chevy is the leader in this practice.
In the last few years, they have introduced a new Impala, Caprice, Monte Carlo, and Malibu.
None of them even slightly resemble their namesakes from the 1970s.
Even the Corvette now looks more like a poor man’s Ferrari than the proud sports car of the 60s and 70s.
Not to be outdone, Ford is so lazy that they didn’t even bother to come up with the idea of using old names for new cars, they stole that laziness from Chevrolet.
Their latest entry is the Ford 500, which looks like a Taurus on steroids.
Henry Ford’s company is already way behind the pack in developing new cars, a race currently led by Chrysler.
This new entry is, well, it’s an ugly car.
Not as ugly as a Ford Tempo or a terminally woeful Ford Escort, but eminently uglier than the Crown Victoria.
However, to their credit, Ford has actually rolled out new versions of their two best cars, and managed to make them look like their namesakes.
The Thunderbird finally looks like a Thunderbird again, the sexy 1950s version.
It’s a work of automotive art on wheels.
But the coolest, sexiest, unequivocally the best vehicle in their lineup is the 2005 Ford Mustang.
They finally got it right (except for the price tag) after three really bad imitations, circa 1978, 1980, and 1995.
The car looks just like the 1960s version, although that model rolled out at a pretty fair price in 1965, while today’s version begins at a pricey $19,770.
While the ‘Stang is a masterpiece, it’s also an indictment of the Ford designers who haven’t come up with an attractive new auto since Lee Iacocca left them in 1978.
Ford’s Mercury division has also jumped on the bandwagon, using the proud Montego and Monterey names.
The Monterey isn’t even a car!
They’ve slapped the name on a minivan!
The Montego is…well, it’s just another ugly little car.
Come on, Ford, step up!
Get original!
If you can’t come up with a decent design on your own, steal a couple of designers from Chrysler.
I hate that this is now a German-owned car company, but you can’t argue with the fact that Chrysler has designed THE best looking vehicles in America over the last 10 years.
And, until recently, they even managed to come up with fresh names.
There is no cooler car on the planet than the Prowler, followed closely by the Viper.
While Chrysler priced the Prowler out of existence, there’s no denying that their designers are the best.
Another great looking car is the PT Cruiser.
Okay, “PT” isn’t the most impressive effort at naming a car, but at least it’s original.
In fact, the only two re-treads in Chrysler’s inventory is the Chrysler 300, a breathtakingly gorgeous car that deserved its own name, and the new Dodge Charger.
The Charger front end looks like the Dodge Magnum, the coolest station wagon to hit the highway since Chevy’s Nomad in the 1950s.
But for all its racy appearance, it looks nothing like the original Charger, a long, low, mean-looking race machine with a spoiler and a throaty engine.
Chrysler gets a pass because they at least have designed a unique-looking line of cars, but the hard work of their designers should have been rewarded with catchy new names.
In my opinion, President Bush should quit mucking around with Social Security and playing patty cake with North Korea.
There are more important laws that need to be written, like a Federal statute that would make it a capital offense to use a proud old name on crappy new cars, an offense that should be punishable by death.
Or at least a harsh sentence of 20 years behind the wheel of a Ford Escort.

Classy Lane

Published in the Desert Valley Times
June 28, 2005

To be honest, I’m not much of a Major League Baseball fan any more.
When I was younger, and the game was more pure, I was a huge fan.
I grew up watching the best pitching rotation in the history of the game, with Jim Palmer, Dave McNally, Mike Cuellar, and Pat Dobson each booking 20 wins in the 1971 World Series season of the Baltimore Orioles.
I remember sitting in a fifth-grade classroom watching the O’s and the Pittsburgh Pirates battling it out for the pennant, with the Pirates winning in a heart-breaking seventh game.
A teacher would get fired for allowing students to watch a baseball game in class today, although I claim it should be a legitimate part of the curriculum, since it’s such an important part of American history.
Of course, it’s a moot point, since World Series games are no longer played in the daytime.
But you have to go over 30 years down memory lane to find that bright spot, as the lane has now become obscured and shadowed by overgrown egos and steroid-juiced animals in the underbrush.
Last Tuesday night, a brief glimpse of honor and sportsmanship was exposed in a ghastly mental error that made me pine for the long-forgotten days of athletic heroes.
In the sixth inning of the National League game between the Houston Astros and the Colorado Rockies, a Colorado player hit a deep fly to Astros right fielder Jason Lane.
With runners on second and third, Lane made the catch, then turned and tossed the ball to fans in the stands.
By itself, that’s a classy move.
The problem is, the catch was only the second out.
A runner scored on his gaffe, and also paved the way for the tying run to knot the game.
With seemingly the whole world watching, and serenaded by a lusty chorus of boos, Lane realized his mistake.
Fortunately, the Astros went on to win the game, but it didn’t stop Lane from beating himself up.
This is what has elevated him to hero status in my book.
Instead of trying desperately to find someone, anyone, to blame, which is the new MLB way, or taking it out on inquisitive sports reporters who would dare to question the play in post-game interviews, Lane stood up and took it like a man.
"I just missed an out somewhere," Lane said. "There's not a lot you can say. You just certainly can't make mental errors like that."
According to the Associated Press writer, Lane went on to offer an apology to Astros fans instead of ripping them for their boos.
"The fans paid good money to see major league players," he said. "Stuff like this shouldn't happen."
Wow.
A ball player who actually cares about the fans.
This is only his second year in the bigs, and his first year as a starter, but I want to nominate him right now for the Baseball Hall of Fame.
In this age of cheaters and whiners and blame-dodgers, here is a player who actually owns up to his shortcomings.
Like guys who can hit 60 homers a year or book 300 career wins from the mound, Jason Lane is extremely rare.
And when you find someone this rare, he deserves the recognition, if only to balance the attention received by so many other players for their visits to the police station or the grand jury.
So while most don’t even know his name, you might want to write down Jason “Memory” Lane in your heart.
He is a reminder of when baseball truly was America’s game.