A Night At The Movies

This post is for the guys…because I know what you’re thinking. Natalie Portman, she’s a good looking chick. And I need to get out of the dog house for inviting the boys over last weekend and leaving wings and half-empty beers between the sofa cushions. And hey, ballet is not my thing, but how much of the movie could really be actual ballet dancing. Yeah, why not, I’ll go see Black Swan.

And that is where I step in my friends. Consider it a Christmas present to you or just my good deed for the week. My advice to you- DO NOT DO IT. That is presumptuous, though, because what I look for in a movie may not be what floats your boat. As the theme song for the classic sitcom stated so eloquently, it takes different strokes to move the world yes it does. For example, just because I don’t prefer camerawork that is akin to 1980s home video footage of a child’s birthday party and that is so shaky and zoomed in that it merits nausea medication doesn’t mean others feel the same. And my feelings about watching a girl pick off her skin to the point of significant bloodshed 10 to 15 times in a two-hour period (not a big fan) may not be yours at all. But make no mistake, you are signing up for ballet. I mean, a lot of ballet. And visions of a dude in giant black feathery outfits using his position of power for sexual gain.

I won’t give away too much of the movie in case you are of a mind to see it. Just prepare yourself for a mixture of ballet and disturbing images…and not much else. I came out of it feeling like Ace Ventura immediately after realizing that Einhorn was a man, but maybe it’s just me. At least the night wasn't a total loss. On the way out of the theater I caught a glimpse of a larger than life cutout of Justin Bieber alerting me to his soon-to-be-released 3D movie, Never Say Never.

In two months these sweet red boots will look like they are coming right at your grill.

Say What?

Sorry for the lack of recent posts. Between Christmas errands, a lack of inspiration, and weather conditions that have dropped my core body temperature to a level that supports only the most limited and essential functionality, it has been a struggle. I was in a bit of a bummed out mood this weekend anyway, as this past Saturday was the first of the year without college football. Other than the Army-Navy game (which, all jokes aside, is well worth watching) and some FCS playoff games, the only thing related to college football that was on was the Heisman trophy presentation. I decided to skip that one, as the Heisman trophy doesn't do much for me in the best of years and certainly held no appeal with Cam Newton set to be the obvious winner. Given that there's about a 90% chance that, just like the one awarded to Reggie Bush in 2005, this one will be rescinded, one wonders if they even bothered to have the Cam Newton painting done to hang on the wall.

So by the end of the weekend, I'd say my mood was holding up about as well as the roof of the Metrodome...

Punting is likely to be a challenge in the reconfigured Metrodome.

Ahhh, but there is always something out there to brighten your day if you just keep looking. For me, it was the Big Ten that came to the rescue. Yes, if there is one thing the fine folks in the upper Midwest know how to do, it is providing a warm hearty laugh to fend off the falling temperatures. Actually, they are also quite adept at getting their doors blown off in championship games. Anyway, they released the names for their divisions today, and I can only assume that it was an early Christmas gift to lift the spirits of the cold and weary across the country. East and West? North and South? No sir, the Big Ten will be divided into the Leaders and Legends divisions. Bravo! That is fantastic.

Here's the rationale from the conference commissioner:

"The Legends, not too hard in that we have 215 College Football Hall of Fame members, we have 15 Heisman Trophy winners," commissioner Jim Delany said in an exclusive interview with The Associated Press. "We thought it made perfect sense to recognize the iconic and the legendary through the naming of the division in that regard. ... We've had plenty of leaders in the conference, that's for sure, but the emphasis here is to recognize the mission of using intercollegiate athletics and higher education to build future leaders."

That sounds good, much better than admitting that they couldn't create divisions based on geography because they wanted to split up Michigan and Ohio State. I don't know whether I will cringe or laugh the first time I watch Pam Ward kick off the telecast of the noon Big Ten game telling me with a straight face that "Wisconsin comes into today's game currently sitting second in the Leaders division, while Northwestern is struggling to keep pace in the Legends division." Actually I won't do either, since I won't be watching, but you get my point. A 12-team conference called the Big Ten with a Leaders division and a Legends division? Maybe there really is a Santa Claus.

Tough Duty: In addition to providing color commentary next to Pam Ward, Ray Bentley must now discuss the Leaders and Legends divisions of the Big 10 on a weekly basis.

Exercise Machine

During a brief respite from shoveling all manner of food in my piehole over the extended Thanksgiving weekend, I ran across There's Something About Mary on television. It was a pleasant trip down memory lane. I happened to be watching during Brett Favre's legendary cameo, in which he deadpanned "I'm in town to play the Dolphins, ya dumbass". It reminded me of a simpler time when I thought of Brett Favre as an old school gritty competitor who played the game the right way rather than an attention-starved egomaniac who sends pictures of his junk to hot girls 20 years his junior. (By the way, that article contains a picture of Jenn Sterger that just makes the whole story even funnier. "Hi, I'm Jenn Sterger. Yes, I am here to do a serious interview. No, I am not sure what happened to my t-shirt.")

Anyway, earlier in the movie there's a great scene where Ben Stiller picks up a hitchhiker. This guy, in addition to being a serial murderer, has what he believes to be a revolutionary money-making idea- a seven minute abs workout video. The premise was that this would put the well established eight minute abs video right out of business. Well, like much of the rest of this once-hilarious movie, that notion suddenly seems extremely outdated. How can that be, you ask? Look no further than the fine folks at ROM (The Time Machine)! Seven minutes for a quality workout? Hah! How about four minutes! That's right, all you need is three things:

1) Four minutes a day- check
2) $14,615- ehhh, maybe
3) The ability to successfully hop on board this bad boy...

Just put your foot right here and, wait, no! Hand, I mean your hand! Oh, the humanity!

Yikes. I thought that's what they put Khalid Sheikh Muhammed on down at Gitmo. Seriously though, the website is fantastic. I have never seen an angrier attempt at selling a product. The geniuses behind this contraption have no trouble letting you know that only one in 35 people who receive their free informational DVD end up purchasing the contraption. Why the low conversion rate? Could it be that it 25% of purchasers suffer a life-altering injury within 30 days of their first use? No sir, there are two primary hurdles.

The first one is the cost. While 15 grand might strike you as a lot of coin for an exercise machine, this is in fact the "absolute least expensive" method to improve health and fitness and is "far less expensive than...having other equipment at home". The even bigger issue, though, is "experts". I only put that term in quotes because that is how the makers of the ROM refer to them. The experts, you see, are "close minded" and will not be swayed from "giving their negative opinion or even ridiculing our ROM". Plus, they totally took away our cookies and won't let us play outside. Damn "experts".

So if anyone out there is looking for any last minute Christmas ideas, I think this is it. You or a loved one can drop 20 pounds in no time. Granted, it may be through the loss of a limb, but don't you worry about that. Letting those worries keep you from buying the ROM is letting the "experts" win. And I won't stand for that.

(Hat tip to my friend Martin, who sent the Fast Exercise link my way.)

Sticking It to THE Man

After dropping a game-winning touchdown pass in overtime this past Sunday, Buffalo Bills receiver Stevie Johnson was angry, and not just at himself. No sir, he wanted an explanation from the big man upstairs, as this Twitter post made clear.

I PRAISE YOU 24/7!!!!!! AND THIS HOW YOU DO ME!!!!! YOU EXPECT ME TO LEARN FROM THIS??? HOW???!!! ILL NEVER FORGET THIS!! EVER!!! THX THO... 5:12 PM Nov 28th via Twitter for iPad

God guides the football out of Stevie Johnson's hands during a critical play, unaware of the Twitter tongue-lashing he would soon receive.

You tell him, Stevie! Honestly, that requires some serious stones. It’s one thing to not believe in God in the first place. It is quite another to believe that God has the power to guide a football out of your highly paid hands on national TV and then tell that same God to cram it. And not even in an off the cuff slip of the tongue. No, Stevie Johnson took to Twitter, typed out his retort, and published it. Hey God, you like that 24/7 praise you've been receiving lately? Well you can forget it now, brother! Oh yeah, and I'm going to make change in the offering plate next week, too. Deal with that.

If I'm being honest, though, I have to say I don't really have a problem with Johnson's reaction to the situation. When I initially saw the story, my initial thought was to bash him. Anybody who does believe in God has had this exact thought at some point, though. Johnson just went ahead and pecked that thought into his ipad and hit publish instead of just letting it bounce around in his brain. If you read through his Twitter postings, you'll see that he softened his feelings soon after. Actually you would first learn that " YUNG N.A.Z CLOCKWORK MIXTAPE HOSTED BY: ZFBEATS COMING SOON", then you would learn that he softened his feelings toward God. So I say good for you, Stevie Johnson! Your spiritual honesty is to be commended. I might not stand near you in a lightning storm, but I applaud you from afar.

Hello Savings, Goodbye Sweet Youth

I'm old. Please understand that I'm not completely delusional, and so this isn't really such a huge mental breakthrough moment for me. Still, it's a bit jarring when you have that eye opening moment when it all comes into focus for you. For me, it happened while perusing the Atlanta Journal Constitution earlier this evening. I ran across the pile of Black Friday specials and decided to dig in and see if anything looked appealing.

And then it went off the rails. Soon enough I had mapped out a day of big savings. Luggage, Christmas gifts, high powered flash lights! Bring it all on! That's when it happened. When you find yourself excitedly shouting across the room to your wife that Walgreens has a buy one, get two free special on wrapping paper, you can kiss your youth goodbye. Actually, I guess you can kiss your manhood goodbye as well.

The pile of Black Friday specials that brought news of discount televisions and my entrance into old man status.

Anyway, with that moment of catharsis out of the way, allow me to turn my attention to Black Friday in general. Don't get me wrong, I was aware of the general phenomenon. Retailers look to this day to kick off a giant holiday season and usher in profitability for the year. I thought it was a relatively limited event, though, focused on things such as electronics and appliances that one might be looking to purchase as a gift. Not so, my friends! In the market for a 9,000-lb. heavy duty wench? This Friday morning only, you can save $100. How about a 30-ton vertical log splitter? You can score the unbelievable price of $1,440 this Friday morning. Much like the one year membership in the jelly of the month club, that's the gift that keeps on giving the whole year round.

I'll have to leave it at that, because I need to call it a night. Kmart opens at 5am, and the two for $11 special on batteries only lasts as long as supplies last. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Don't Feel Fine)

Have you read the book of Revelations recently? No? It's been awhile for me, too, but I'm pretty sure I remember the highlights. At some point I believe the dead rise from their graves, the ocean turns to blood, and a bunch of locusts wreak some serious havoc across the land. And if I'm not mistaken, wedged right in there somewhere it says something about NCAA football turning from the greatest sport known to man into a colossal piece of flaming poo. Well, my friends, I feel relatively certain that day is upon us.

As I type this, I have the Alabama-Georgia State game on television (42-7 in the second quarter). Why, you may be reasonably asking, would I have such a game on? Well, I read earlier today that big news regarding the Cam Newton situation could be breaking during this telecast. Of course, that info turned out to be false. This may cause me to swear off college football message boards, which would be the third time this week I've made such a declaration. Even if you rule out some of the more outlandish theories I've run across- my personal favorite was that the White House is suppressing the case against Auburn because Obama's press secretary grew up in Auburn and is a big fan- there is a ridiculous amount of evidence pointing to the fact that at a bare minimum Cam Newton is ineligible by the standards the NCAA has historically used.

Heeeere come your 2010 Auburn Tigers!!!

And yet he rolls on, flashing his goofball smile and leading Auburn straight toward the BCS National Championship Game. What I can't get over is that the NCAA has all but forced schools to sit players for infractions that are the equivalent of jaywalking compared to this. Mississippi State's Renardo Sidney was ruled ineligible for one and a half seasons in basketball because the NCAA believed (never fully proven, just suspected) that his parents received $11,800 in benefits while he was in high school. I just want to make sure you caught that- ONE AND A HALF SEASONS! And yet with mounting evidence that Cam Newton's father solicited and received $200,000, Auburn's "dream season" rolls on. Perhaps the NCAA will ultimately handle this, but it is looking more and more likely that Auburn will get to play in the SEC and national championship games before anything happens.

But even putting that aside, it feels like college football has lost its way. Lest you doubt me, have a quick look at the bowl schedule this year. It's bad enough that somehow the already bloated bowl lineup was further expanded this year to include the New Era Pinstripe Bowl and the Ticket City Bowl, but have you seen when the National Championship Game will be played? January 10! No, my oversized mitt did not accidentally hit the 0 after typing January 1. The game is going to be played nine days after New Years. If they slide it back a bit more we can just roll it into the NCAA basketball tournament and have a real winner on our hands. I guess they don't realize this or care, but people have moved on from college football by that time. It's something on the order of 45 to 55 days since those teams played their last game, which is just absurd. It would be like having the NFL playoffs end in late January as they currently do and then playing the Super Bowl in mid-March.

So things are looking pretty bleak at the moment. And while the NFL currently offers some solace, even that may be fleeting given the looming lockout at the end of the year. I would suggest stocking up on canned goods and bottled water. If we can't rely on football to get us through the fall, it may come down to a combination of Major League Baseball and early season NBA. And that, I believe, is the final sign.

Overdue Post

It has been a rough week on the productivity front. The combination of the end of daylight savings time last weekend and the continually developing Cam Newton saga conspired to produce a lack of productivity noteworthy even by my standards. My workdays were spent refreshing Mississippi State, Auburn, and Alabama message boards in hopes of catching word of a new development on the recruiting of Cam Newton. For those of you who don’t frequent college football message boards, pat yourself on the back and do not under any circumstances change that. They are primarily the refuge of the unintelligent, the delusional, and the uncouth. And yet there I was, hitting F5 every five minutes, and trying to follow links to Twitter posts reporting whether Cam Newton did or did not attend the Auburn pep rally last night (he did not). Depressing.

Cam Newton, derailing Mississippi State's season and my work week

On the heels of accomplishing very little at work I would pack up for the day, full of ambition and ready to tackle some evening projects, including getting a new blog post or two up. Then I would set one foot outside into the pitch blackness that has descended on us since the end of daylight savings time and that was out the window. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was time for bed, even though every clock in the house claimed that it was no later than 7pm.

Meanwhile, my readership here at the old blog has likely been cut in half in my absence, meaning that I’ve gone from two relatives checking in to one and from 16 Europeans whose Google image searches for pictures of either Brigitte Nielsen or Justin Bieber erroneously lead them here down to eight. And then I arrive at home tonight only to find my spotty Comcast Internet service down once again. Damn you fates! It seemed that the universe was hell bent on preventing a new post. But then the clouds parted. Not only did I regain access to the Internet, but I found it full of crazy, quirky news.

And so I’m back! Back to make sure you know that sometimes when you make the late night run to the porn shop, you not only solve your evening entertainment quandary but score a lottery ticket worth $129 million. It isn’t surprising to learn that only one guy out of the group that pooled their resources to purchase the ticket was willing to reveal his identity. It was surprising, however, to see that he said the following:

"The only thing I can assume is that the Lord trusted us to do certain things with the money that He bestowed upon us," he (Mike Greer) said. "That's the only thing that I can gather."

Yes, Mike, I believe you are correct. The Lord, who does indeed work in mysterious ways, saw fit to guide money into the hands of you and your friends, trusting that you would use that money to buy porn and lottery tickets. Makes sense.

And that’s not the end of it. Next I ran into some news on my favorite industry, the airlines. Apparently Nepal Airlines, when faced with an issue with one of its planes, sacrificed two goats to address the issue. Fantastic.

“Hey, looks like one of the engines is down. Should we pull the plane back in for repairs?”

“Nah, boss says we’re running late. Just knock off a couple of goats and let’s get out of here.”

Is that a separate line item on Nepal Airlines’ income statement? I wonder if they have analysts that crank out spreadsheets evaluating whether to focus on plane repairs or additional goat sacrifice.

Booooooooo!!!!!!!!

Does the title of this post refer to the sound made when one is extremely unhappy, often at a sporting event or political rally? Or could it be a reference to Halloween, the much ballyhooed holiday that has just come and gone for another year? Perhaps both are true, for if ever there was a holiday that deserved to be heckled and berated, this is surely it. Is there any holiday even remotely close to the level of annoyance that is Halloween?

I don't mind admitting that I am essentially a cranky old dude at this point, but even in my partying heyday I wasn't a fan. The initial idea of thinking up a super witty get up may be appealing, but the fun quickly fades once your mullet wig is scratching the hell out of your head and your polyester bell bottom pants are continuing their all night wedgie assault. Last year I bought what I believed was a humorous and not uncomfortable 70's one-piece jumpsuit. Only when I headed to the restroom for the first time did it dawn on me that I was facing the prospect of fully disrobing down to the knee level in order to execute an effective pee. Not good.

Not to mention the fact that there are just some disturbing sites that come with the Halloween scene. Sure you may run across a good looking cheerleader or nurse, but then you look around in the beer line and come face to face with these guys.



Okay, you may be saying, but Halloween is about the kids and good old fashioned trick or treating fun. And even though Halloween fell on a Sunday (something that the next Congress should take a long look at outlawing), I decided to get in the spirit and embrace it. And for awhile it went pretty well. I enjoyed passing out candy to the kids and seeing them having a blast. If only it had ended after that pleasant run- somewhere around 7:30pm when the time had come for holing up with a movie and ceasing human interaction. Alas, it did not. The trick or treaters kept on coming, and the average age trended decidedly higher. I'm fairly certain that I hooked up a couple of freeloaders older than me with some free Twix at one point. At about 9:30pm, after the last of the free candy had been requested and dispersed, my wife and I took our dogs out in front of the house. Only then did we realize that someone apparently felt that the two candy bars they received from us were inadequate and had helped themselves to one of our pumpkins on the way out. Classy.

Out of Control

Did you know that "Pizza Hut has lowered the price on everything on the menu"? No? Nor did I until I heard and saw a Pizza Hut spokesperson loudly belting this proclamation out on my computer at work while trying to catch a quick sports fix on ESPN.com. I made the mistake of clicking on a link from their homepage and on came the video ad in the corner of my screen. Hey, newsflash to ESPN and others- a giant chunk of your readers are either at work or some other place where blaring video is less than desirable. It's reminiscent of the overly aggressive folks manning the kiosks in the middle of malls across the country. All you want to do is keep the head down and make a beeline for Auntie Anne's Pretzels and the next thing you know you are brushing off some chick trying to force you to try out her special facial cleanser made with ingredients from the Dead Sea.

I certainly don't mind ads littering the sides of web pages, but you can't have the video, and especially audio, start running automatically when the unsuspecting viewer opens the page. Throw in the new phenomenon of these giant expanding banner ads and there are some otherwise solid websites that are about to lose me. It turns into a white knuckled stress-fest to see if I can shut off the Pizza Hut video without accidentally dragging my mouse over the Nissan ad on the side that turns into a full screen car, all before my boss walks by and thinks I'm watching a damn movie.

I guess we had this coming. We were offered the chance to pay for our Internet content and we balked. Paying for subscriptions was never quite palatable to most of us, and so the onslaught of banner ads started. And as I said, as long as they are restrained I am all for it. I don't even mind Yahoo! filling my entire screen with a picture of an apparently deranged girl who is so pumped about Yahoo and other social websites that she blasted her arms full of tattoos promoting them.

You might want to throw one on there for eHarmony while you're at it.

So ESPN.com, consider yourself warned. I may not be one of your "Insiders" who you have duped into paying you for "premium" content, but I still have rights.

The Audi is Gone Baby Gone

I bid an impromptu farewell to my car last week. As I mentioned in my last post, my not-so-dependable ride broke down on my way into Savannah for a work conference last Monday. The estimate I received the next day was, uhhh, not good. Specifically, the mechanic told me it would be at least three grand, and probably more. No thanks. So I made arrangements to have the Audi towed off one final time, with the proceeds going to charity. It was a bit surreal to be leaning against the front wall of a repair shop with luggage, golf clubs, and a tote bag full of everything I could grab out of my dilapidated "luxury" car watching it bounce down the back roads of a foreign town on the back of a tow truck. It did seem like a fitting end to the relationship.

So I'm in a bit of a scramble to get a replacement ride and generally feeling like things are just a bit off the rails. At least I did feel that way until a news story this morning gave me some perspective. I noticed a story about an actress from the movie Gone, Baby, Gone being arrested. I wasn't thrown off by that. Hey, it's not uncommon for the bright spotlight of fame to lead people down the wrong path and cause some poor judgment. But then I opened the article. Whoa. I understand that a mugshot is obviously not going to capture you looking your best, but that is brutal. Never mind the fact that she was busted trying to steal a used 32-inch TV. What, was the "need a penny, take a penny" bowl at the local QuikTrip too tough a heist? What's that worth, like $75? Anyway, this story appears to have a happy ending. As the article states,

Schwindt (boyfriend) told us that Quigg, who has two children, ages 8 years old and 19 months, is “addicted to heroin.’’ He said she’s at the CAB Boston Treatment Center doing a seven-day detox.

“She has a problem and, hopefully, she’ll get help," he said.

Fantastic. Typically a nice seven day run is more than enough to kick heroin.

Jill Quigg, looking good even before the start of an express heroin-detox session.

Road Warrior

I’m a creature of habit, a man of routine. My recent increase in work travel has forced me to try to become more flexible, though, which I think is a good thing. My wife might disagree, what with the night sweats and panic-stricken Sunday night dreams, but such is the price of progress.

So I hit the road again this fine Monday with a sunny spirit and a skip in my step. This time I was driving, not flying, and Savannah was my destination. I have to tell you that it’s quite tough to keep that smile plastered on your face when your car shuts down on you and the steering wheel locks up as you cross the scenic bridge over Savannah doing about 65 miles per hour. Mercifully, that noted Audi craftmanship kicked in and kept my car (which has given me troubles on more than one occasion) going until I found a nice quiet place to stop.

So after making peace with being at the mercy of a Savannah mechanic not of my choosing and watching the Audi assume its all too familiar spot affixed to the back of a tow truck, I made my way into the Savannah Westin hoping to get the evening back on track. Unfortunately, the check-in experience only added to my annoyance. After giving me my room key, the desk attendant informed me that I was eligible to select the "green option". This gave me the right to decline housekeeping services during my stay in exchange for a $5 gift card that could be used in Starwood restaurants. I have to admit that after mulling it over for awhile, it doesn't seem like such a bad deal. Given that in my single days I routinely bedded down in a residence that didn't see what would be referred to as housekeeping services for six month stretches, skipping two days of sheet changes isn't such a rough proposition. I think it was two things that bothered me. First, they really shouldn't present it to you as though you've qualified for an exciting offer. When I heard "You're eligible for...", I was envisioning a free canister of mixed nuts or perhaps an exciting free authentic Savannah souvenir. Second, it truly drives me crazy when such things are labeled as green. The only reason they offer it is because somebody somewhere crunched the numbers and figured out that the average total cost of cleaning a room is somewhere north of $5. I'm more than fine with that, but don't try to guilt me into accepting under false pretenses.

So after all of that, I've made my way to my admittedly pleasant hotel room and am watching what appear to be the final minutes of the Braves season. Bobby Cox looks pretty bummed out, but I'm giving him a run for his money.

Jim Mora and BP Undermine My Sunday

Greetings everyone, I apologize for the delay in posting. This update is coming to you from somewhere above Fort Defiance, Arizona (sounds like a nice place for a little R&R) as I return home from a quick business trip to Los Angeles. Actually, I’m not enough of a technology adopter to access wireless Internet during a flight, so technically it will be posted from my house just like every other one. By the way, did I miss a news story at some point concerning some kind of revolutionary new airline software? Somewhere along the way they figured out how to ensure that every single flight is filled to maximum capacity. It wasn’t that long ago that after taking my seat on a flight, I would watch the passengers file by praying that the seat next to me remained vacant. And there was a realistic chance of just such a blessing occurring, too. These days there’s not a chance in hell of that happening. How these airlines constantly teeter on the verge of bankruptcy is a mystery to me. Flights seem more expensive than they’ve ever been, they try to charge you for everything you would rationally expect to be a standard component of the experience, and they are apparently running flights at 100% capacity.

Anyway, a couple of things have been bouncing around in my head ever since I watched the Falcons game Sunday. It was a good one, with the Falcons overcoming a sluggish start to pick up a last second victory that moved them to 3-1 on the season. Still, a bit of the joy of the overall experience was lost right from the start when I realized that Jim Mora would be one of the color commentators in the booth. I assume having Jim Mora do the Falcons game was an intentional move by Fox, as it has already happened multiple times this year. Now I don’t profess to be versed in the nuances of the broadcast sports business, but my assumption has always been that your goal was to incentivize people to watch your programming. I must have been mistaken, though, because Fox is clearly doing its best to drive would-be Atlanta viewers away. For starters, his commentary is a toxic blend of absurdity and inaccuracy. He spent virtually the entire game heaping praise on the San Francisco offense and its interim coordinator, despite the fact that it managed to produce a grand total of seven points for the entire game (incorrect). He also blurted out with childlike enthusiasm that he had “goose bumps” after a play in which a defensive back broke up a seven yard pass attempt (absurd). Heaven help his fellow announcers in the booth if something exciting actually happens. Leaving his wayward comments aside, though, why would Fox think that Atlanta fans would want to listen to or see him in the first place? “Hey, you know what I haven’t thought about in awhile? The coach who led us to two straight underperforming seasons while acting like an immature jackass and going on radio stations talking about how it was his dream to take a different head coaching position.” That was fun, let’s relive those halcyon days a bit more.

"Hey Atlanta fans, remember how miserable Falcons games used to be? Who's up for a little more Jim Mora?"

So just when I had done my best to make peace with the sweet sounds of Jim Mora’s analysis, here comes one more ad from BP about how seriously they take their responsibility to clean up the Gulf in the wake of this summer’s tragic oil spill. Are these guys really this clueless about the American mindset? Do they not get that the public can’t be bothered to care about anything that happened more than a month ago? For the love of God, Mel Gibson is probably about three quiet months away from winning an Oscar, and Bernie Madoff could put out his memoirs and make millions at this point. We lack the ability to stay pissed at anything for that long…unless you keep reminding us! So on the TV comes Iris Cross with a serious look and a somber sounding voice. “I was born in New Orleans, my family STILL lives here,” she intones as pictures of bummed out fisherman and beaches flash on the screen. Oh really, Iris, then why the hell are you a corporate shill for BP?! I think I hate you, and oh yeah, now that I think about it, I hate your company as well. You already polluted the Gulf of Mexico, must you and Jim Mora collude to do the same to my Sunday NFL experience?

"Iris Cross, here to remind you that both I and my company suck."

Sometimes You (Don't) Wanna Go Where Everybody Knows Your Name

There’s no warmer feeling than being recognized by familiar faces. Whether when entering church, the gym at the Y, or perhaps your neighborhood bar, it truly lifts the spirit when those that work at the establishment give you a smile of recognition. You know where this doesn’t apply? The Panda Express. No, it is rather quite embarrassing when the pleasant woman standing behind the array of mass produced Chinese fare smiles at you and then calls your order out for you. Such was my experience at lunch today (continuing a string of recent unpleasantries during lunch).

Panda Express employee: “How are you, sir?” with a smile as though she’s surprised I had managed to hold out for as long as I had (two weeks!) before returning.

Me: “Umm, okay.”

PE employee: “What can I get for you today? Oh, orange chicken and mandarin chicken, right?”

Me: “Yes” while reaching for the Blackberry, looking around nervously, and making a mental note not to return to Panda Express for quite awhile.

Here's a suggestion to employees/managers of basically all fast food establishments. Even if someone comes into your swillhole "restaurant" daily, act like it's the first time you've ever seen them. If they are in there enough for you to recognize them, you've obviously already won their business. I'm certainly not advocating rudeness, by the way. Be pleasant and peppy, just don't make it seem to them and anyone else in earshot that they are your location's top revenue driver.

So management of the Vinings Panda Express, take note. If you want my business (after my hiatus that must now extend at least three weeks), you will act as though you have never seen me the next time I grace your premises. You may be the most convenient provider of orange "chicken", but you are not the only one!

Being recognized at Cheers, far superior to being recognized at Panda Express

The Hideous Free Work Lunch

There isn’t much that’s sacred in corporate America these days. The soul of the American white collar worker received its pink slip a couple of years ago, and basic dignity was shown the door last year in uncomfortable fashion with two weeks’ severance and a kick in the pants as parting gifts. Still, we need something to which we can cling, a last bit of turf to call our own. I submit to you that lunch is the final frontier. I’m not demanding extended time out of the office every day or anything of the sort. I eat at my desk quite frequently and am more than happy to do so.

No, I request only that I be allowed to dine on a meal of my choosing without being made to feel like I’m pulling a shady move. Nothing drives me crazier than having to deal with a work lunch where sandwiches are provided. I honestly don’t mean to sound ungrateful. If I wasn’t appalled by tomatoes and the combination of juice and seeds they bestow on every piece of bread and sandwich meat with which they come in contact, it wouldn’t be a problem. I can actually get past the shredded lettuce which couldn’t be entirely removed from your sandwich if attacked with a shop vac. But I wouldn’t even mind that all sandwiches are ordered with the presumptuous mindset that everyone loves deli sandwiches with lettuce and tomato (and occasionally even more egregiously, with mayonnaise) if I could be allowed to alternatively go procure a lunch of my choosing. After all, that’s what all the long hours are for, are they not? So that a man can take six dollars of hard earned disposable income and buy something moderately appealing for lunch rather than staring down the barrel of a lunch that triggers nightmares from my youth. I thought I was past the point of being forced against my will to eat food that I find disgusting. If I finish this wretched tomato-drenched sandwich, do I get an extra 30 minutes of cartoons on Saturday? And one other question before I move on. What in the hell is with the chip selection that accompanies these pre-ordered lunches? I feel relatively certain that plain Lay’s potato chips and Sun Chips would both have been discontinued long ago had they not worked their way into the corporate lunch racket.

A youngster acquiring the skills needed to make it through a corporate lunch meeting

But I am not all complaints and bitterness, my friends. No, I have a solution for the lettuce and tomato haters out there who peruse their Outlook calendar and see the dreaded working lunch meeting in their future. It’s relatively simple, and though it requires some violation of social norms it can be pulled off fairly easily once you’ve got the technique down. Now your standard boxed lunch is going to be a deli sandwich cut in half with a meat of your choosing and the aforementioned lettuce and tomato. What you do is quite simply take the two defiled halves and turn them into one oversized, tolerable half. Grab your boxed lunch and head for your seat. Wait until there is sufficient commotion or, even more ideally, a presenter has started talking. When everyone’s focus is elsewhere, you slide the entire top of both halves off to the side. This removes the ruined top piece of bread as well as the lettuce and tomato. You next subtly take one half and flip it over on top of the other, thus making one large half sandwich. Not only are the unwanted toppings gone, but the two pieces of bread you kept typically have not even been touched by tomatoes.

There is an advanced version of this in which you grab an extra napkin and attempt a detailed wiping of the cheese to further purify your sandwich, but that is not to be attempted by beginners. Having your boss watch you polish a slice of Swiss cheese with your napkin while the rest of the room discusses the contents of a PowerPoint slide is something to be avoided at all costs.

Get Ready to Embrace Air Travel Once Again!

I've been on quite a few flights lately, and without question the process is at best a nuisance. From chatty fellow travelers to lengthy security lines, it often feels less pleasant than the bus ride through Pakistan in Spies Like Us.

However, I think my fellow flying compatriots would all agree that one issue stands head and shoulders above the rest. Fix just this one issue, and the airlines will be back on the path to customer loyalty, an improved travel experience, and the return to bottom line profitability that would certainly follow. As I'm sure you've guessed already, the issue is legroom. Too little legroom? Passengers feeling like they've been shoehorned into their seats? Of course not! How ludicrous. No, the problem would seem to be excess legroom.

"If only her row was a bit closer, I could more properly affix my knees to the back of the seat."

Rest easy, though, weary traveler. The airlines have been laser focused on the issue and are close to rolling out a solution. Behold the "SkyRider", the new seats apparently set to be installed in coach in the near future.

The SkyRider, facilitating travel to faraway lands AND a three hour gluteus maximus workout!

Read the entire article if you are so inclined, but here's the key part:

The design, named the “SkyRider”, allows just 23 inches of legroom, which is about seven inches less than the average seat's space of 30 inches.

Shaped similar to a horse saddle, passengers sit at an angle, with their weight taken on by their legs. It allows seats to be overlapped.

The seats would also offer storage space including a shelf for carry-on bags and hooks to hang a jacket or a handbag.

The makers say the seat would allow budget airlines, such as Ryanair, to cram more passengers into their tight cabins.

It appears that currently this is primarily being sought out by low cost European carriers, and that it may also face safety regulation hurdles. Rest easy, though, for I have no doubt that their American counterparts will be on the case soon enough. Now if they can just cut back a bit more on the peanuts and pretzels and perhaps further restrict passenger access to drinking water, I think they might just have a winner on their hands.

Facebook

Well, my wife is currently pulling a TV session that is taking the term horrendous to a whole new level. Specifically, that involves switching back and forth between the MTV Video Music Awards she recorded last night and the current episode of Bachelor Pad. It’s bad news for me, but good news for you, because D’Arcy is back on the blog. Look at that, I wrapped cockiness and a third person reference to myself into one sentence as an homage to the NFL players currently participating in a Monday Night Football game that I can’t see.

Being at the computer also allowed me to check my Facebook account, which is almost more overwhelming than I can handle. Back when I signed up for Facebook a couple of months ago, I received a number of comments expressing shock at my decision to do so. I don’t remember roaming the countryside launching into invectives against Facebook or its membership, but perhaps I’ve just tucked those episodes far away in my mind following my decision to join. I think my reluctance had more to do with the seeming nonstop nature of it rather than any superiority I felt to the website or its participants.

After a couple of months as a fringe member of the Facebook community, I’m not critical of it in general. I definitely have questions, though. First of all, how in the hell do some people post so frequently? I can’t even remember whether or not I washed my hair at the end of half of my morning showers. How do people remember to let the world know that they are headed out for a jog? Or honestly, why do you even want to? Again, I'm not critical, I just assume that people don't care whether or not I'm currently noodling over whether the barbecue I just found in the back of my fridge is too old to safely eat for lunch. Some updates read like a real-time journal of a Frank Ricard Saturday.

Well, um, actually a pretty nice little Saturday, we're going to go to Home Depot. Yeah, buy some wallpaper, maybe get some flooring, stuff like that. Maybe Bed, Bath, & Beyond, I don't know, I don't know if we'll have enough time.

Also, how do people deal with taking what appear to be dozens of pictures a day and posting them? My wife and I have about an 18 month stretch of our lives for which I believe there is not a single shred of photographic evidence. Yet a visit to Facebook leaves me feeling like the only person in my extended network of friends who forgot to photograph and post my half-eaten inaugural Chick-fil-A spicy chicken sandwich.

Either way, God bless you frequent Facebook posters. I say go for it. I honestly wish I was better at the whole thing. Regale us with your inspirational quotes and the results of your journeys to Publix!

I'm Big In Europe

Hey, let's get a shout out from all the Serbs in the audience. Let me hear you! As this map from the traffic measurement tool clearly shows, Sic Transit Gloria is blowing up in Eastern Europe.

Someone in Serbia went searching for an American-style denunciation of Julia Roberts and the PGA and struck gold.

I guess when you put a high quality product out there, you can count on Europeans to climb on board the bandwagon, a fact to which this legend of both film and music can certainly attest.


For the record, I am 100% certain that the Serbian visit was some sort of random Internet anomaly. In all seriousness, though, I do appreciate everybody sticking with this thing and checking in from time to time. The blog just hit 1,000 visits, and even after you back out the one from my Serbian friend, that's still pretty solid.

And have no fear! Though the PGA season is coming to a close, Julia Roberts' latest film is already fading from the spotlight, and Burger King is now under new ownership, we'll have plenty about which to get riled up. I might even touch upon corporate America, the mother lode of angst, at some point. I'll need to recruit a volunteer to swing by and secure my belts and shoelaces before touching that one, though.

The Rules of Golf- Still Absurd

I do love golf. I want to get that on the record, because this blog is in danger of appearing to be the farthest thing from a fan of the sport. Having said that, when something appalling just presents itself to me, I'm going to comment.

So golf is having quite a run. First, the PGA ruined its eponymous championship. And now, the absurdity of the rules and "integrity" of the game has surfaced once again in the story of Zach Nash. Young Zach, a 14-year old golfer, won the boys 13-14 age division at the Milwaukee County Parks Tour Invitational. Now, that's not exactly the biggest tournament on the golf calendar, but it was clearly a big victory for the youngster. Here's what happened next:

After his victory, Nash went to the Rivermoor Golf Club — where he played 36 holes nearly every day this summer — to practice more and talk to one of his mentors, Chris Wood, the club's head golf professional.

"I was showing everybody my medal and then Chris and I went and we were having a soda and he said 'Hey, whose club is this? And I said 'my friend's.' And he said 'This makes 15.' I was in shock after that," Nash said.

The penalty for breaking the rule, called rule 4-4, is two strokes for each hole played with more than 14 clubs, with a maximum of four penalty strokes. But since he didn't notice his extra club during the tournament, a penalty wasn't added. That meant he signed an incorrect scorecard, which he knew disqualified him.

Nash said golf prides itself on honesty and players calling penalties on themselves. While the decision was clear, he said he couldn't help but cry a bit in front of Wood. Wood had to call Nash's father, Bob, to pick him up.

Later that night, Nash called Andy Landenberger, junior tour director for the WPGA, to explain what happened. He sent back the medal, which Landenberger said he would present to runner-up Dane Reinhardt, who shot an 80.

Nash, who has been golfing for about three years, said a friend spent the night at his house before the tournament and left a 5-wood club, and he put it in his bag not realizing it made a total of 15.

Alright, this is unacceptable. I understand this kid is going to get on television and have articles written about him, so he probably ends up better off when all is said and done. Still, how does any of this make one bit of sense? A friend stays at your house, accidentally leaves one of his clubs with yours, you don't use it all day, a jackass club pro that is supposed to be your friend and mentor sees it and calls you out costing you your medal, and this is a feel good story? No way. Clearly the kid got no benefit whatsoever from the extra stick in his bag. Why would the club pro even point it out? What is he doing scanning the kids bag looking for infractions?

This is the kind of story that will get bounced around in golf circles and be breathlessly retold by Jim Nantz and Jimmy Roberts with melodic tunes in the background. Meanwhile, the rest of the world just keeps moving on down the road. Golf- doing it the right way, and becoming less relevant by the day.

Buffalo Wild Wings Ruining Televised Sports for Another Year

Happy Labor Day! More importantly, we can all breathe a sigh of relief now that football season has returned. Last Sunday I found myself on my couch choosing between watching the Little League World Series and the US Amateur golf championship. Because if there's anything that can top watching 12 year old's play baseball, it's watching 17 year old's play golf. On top of that, ESPN and SportSouth were showing high school football games to round out the selections. Hey, anybody got footage from a bar mitzvah or some church league hoops while we're at it? Unreal.

The only downside to the joy of having football back on the tube is the return of the godforsaken Buffalo Wild Wings commercials. Surely all of you remember this gem from last year...



So let me make sure I understand. The loser in the #2 jersey is so desperate not to return home to his mother's basement that he asks the referee to cost his team the game and "send this thing into overtime"? Beyond the absurdity of rooting against your own team and the referee somehow communicating with you through the television over the bar, can I ask why it is that your time at the oh so sweet Buffalo Wild Wings is dictated by the end of the game? If you're having such a blast, may I recommend just staying for another beer, celebrating your team's victory, and watching the start of the next game? What blows my mind is that they have had an entire year to ponder the idiocy of these commercials (they ran a similar one during basketball season), and the outcome was to basically remake the same commercial using the groundskeeper instead of a referee?! I can't find the horrendous new commercial on YouTube, which is perhaps a blessing in disguise for all of us. Watch a little football, though, and it won't be long before you're subjected to it. If you don't have DVR, it's almost enough to have you longing for the Little League World Series.

Behold the Power of the Blog!

Call it coincidence if you will, but I'm not buying it. On Monday, Murls posts a scathing piece ripping Burger King and Quiznos on this very website. A mere two days later, not only does it emerge that Burger King was a potential sale target after their stock price had declined in recent weeks, but the spokeswomen for one potential buyer made it clear that they have no interest at this point. The owners of Quiznos are no doubt in emergency crisis management sessions at this very moment.

I couldn't agree with the anti-BK sentiment more. In fact, I boycotted the place for at least two years in my younger days after they waited 20 minutes to tell me that they didn't have what I had ordered and paid for. That was on the heels of numerous other customer service offenses, which was finally enough to make me walk away from the Italian chicken sandwich of which I actually used to be quite fond. I wish I could blame a portion of my boycott on the cleanliness issue, but since at the time I routinely ordered food from an Athens Chinese establishment with a sticky floor which required significant effort to walk across and a health code rating of 73, that would be less than honest.

Prognosis . . . Negative

***Post by Murls

I’m on the road a lot these days for work. I am also blessed/cursed with a bit of a low-rent appetite when it comes to lunch. This combination, in my opinion, qualifies me to analyze the nuances of our nation’s eateries, ad nauseum, no matter how little facts I may actually be working with. My wife would tell you that I can go on for days . . . for now, let’s pick one tiny category and get the ball rolling. How about “restaurants that are in a swirling death spiral down the turlet of inevitable failure”? Just 2 for now. Cool? Cool.

1. Burger King – sounds crazy to say it. Back in the 80’s it always seemed like Burger King was the formidable, albeit lesser, arch-rival of McDonald’s, the Pepsi to their Coke. Sure it was second fiddle, but the universe had to keep Burger King around just to ensure the proper balance of things. But somewhere between then and now, things went downhill, and this is before they pinned their hopes on a giant-sized KingCranium that is pretty funny but also kind of gross and in no way prompts me to sling processed meats down my gullet.

Really there’s just too much wrong with BK to list, but in a nutshell . . . their fries blow, their attempt at branding over the last decade has been a strange mix between non-existent, low-rent, and bizarre, and of course, 9 out of 10 BK Lounges are no cleaner than a set of motel sheets dipped in Hunt's ketchup and hepatitis.

Pop Quiz: Stare at this ad for two minutes and you’ll see: a) a sailboat, or b) Debbie Gibson preparing to fellate a 7 inch sandwich.

Burger King’s desperation can be seen in their constant churning out of gimmick foods – chicken fries, funnel cake sticks, seven-inch dong sandwiches, and most recently, ribs. Yes, ribs. But what will ultimately be their demise is the fact that they are hands-down the worst run of all the fast food chains. BK employees are long overdue for a Knute Rockne pep talk, or at the very least, some type of brochure that explains that they are actually working, at a job, where you’re supposed to . . . work. And not put boogers in people’s food.

OVER/UNDER of life on earth – 10 years. Papa bear has deep pockets and they can probably push their schtick on some 3rd world countries for a while.

2. Quizno’s – Hmmm, not sure what happened here. The first time I ever ate Quizno’s was in Cincinnati and it was definitely the first of its kind. Awesome. I think I ate there 3 times in the span of two days and then wrestled with fortnightly cravings upon returning home to the ATL. Soon enough, Quizno’s exploded into every town in America, billed as the nation’s fastest growing franchise. Then they pumped this little gem onto TV screens across America:

Holy bejeezus balls. I’m guessing their advertising firm was lined up, blindfolded, and systematically executed one by one after this sucker aired (although admittedly, the pepper bar line is pretty funny). But okay fine, mistake was made, and yet again one corporation learned the “disgusting rats don’t make people want to eat our food” lesson, the hard way.

I was able to power through this mishap, and I continued to hit the Q if it was in plain view. Yet even with my veteran status, I never quite understood how the frick to order at that place. Do I say what I want now, or do I wait until after my meat-laden bread plank comes out of that toaster? Oh, I order SOME of the stuff now? Okay, lettuce, tomatoes . . . what, those are after? Olives are now?! WTF!!!

Sounds nit-picky, but little things like that can often crystal-ball me the certain death of a franchise. Maybe after cracking the riddle of how to make their trays look like a “Q”, the big swingers up at headquarters were feeling a bit cocksure and got lazy. Understandable.

"Hundred bucks says you can't get it into the trash can."

Anyway, the novelty has certainly worn off for Americans, and other chains have popped up offering superior versions of toasted sandwiches (see Firehouse Subs), less commercials with rats, and less suicidal tendencies post-grub ("wait, that sub had pepperoni on it too?”). And so today I can hear the ringing of the death knell as Quizno’s scrambles to offer $4 torpedos, $3 bullets, and will soon roll out their $1 “throwing stars”, keeping consistent with the appetizing ammunition theme.

OVER/UNDER – 4 years. I take no pleasure in saying this, by the way. The poor franchisees jumped on it when it was hot, and my guess is that 90% of them never made any real money before the thing went sour. Now they’re just hanging on, hoping somehow the ship will turn around. It won’t.

Other Notables:

- Baskin Robbins: Yes I am heterosexual. I happen to appreciate a solid ice cream cone every once in a while . . . one man and his lickin' cone. Trust me on this call, Baskin Robbins is on borrowed time.

- Any mexican restaurant that charges for chips and salsa (you know who you are). Perhaps this is simply wishful thinking on my part.

Eating Out Isn't What It Used to Be

I’ve always been under the impression that when you’re feeling a bit down, the best thing to do is to get out there- get out among your fellow man to have your spirits lifted. I must say that recent events lead me to believe otherwise. First, there was my less than stellar flight companion a couple of weeks ago. And now, on the heels of that brutal experience, I can add dinner last Thursday night.

After a long week, we decided to head out to grab a bite to eat. We ended up at Six Feet Under. It's a pleasant place with a solid menu, nice beer selection, and a rooftop deck. You know what you don't expect to see at such a place? An 11 year old girl doing what I assume must have been a cheerleading routine over and over again. She would typically start out doing just the hand motions while sitting in her chair and somewhat quietly chanting the cadence. Then, inevitably, the spirit of the routine would take over and out of her chair she would go. Now standing less than 10 feet from me (as I attempted in vain to focus my attention on my fried scallops), she would really get into it. This included hands behind the head, a karate chopping gesture, some louder counting, and a good bit of hip gyration that I would have expected to draw protests from the parents of the girls aiming to make this cheerleader squad. That didn't appear to be the case, though, because this whole session went down under the approving eye of the girl's mother. Sadly, the practice session came to an abrupt halt after she knocked the emergency exit door open (setting off an alarm) during one of the aforementioned gyrating portions of the act.

To cap it off the general indecency going down around us, my wife let out an exasperated gasp about halfway through dinner.

"Yeah, I know this girl is doing a cross between Mr. Miyagi and Beyonce. I'm trying to look elsewhere."

"No, not that, you have to check out this couple sitting behind you."

It turns out that as a means of showing affection, they were getting up in each other's grills and playfully rubbing their noses back and forth. How about a little decorum, folks? If you decide to dine in a public setting, keep your beak to yourself and keep your pre-teen child's cheerleading practice on hold until you get home. I don't think it's too much to ask.

Julia Roberts Rears Her Head Yet Again

It wasn't supposed to be this way. Damn you, Julia Roberts, I will not let you take over my blog! That said, I must revisit your wretchedness one last time. After the excellent guest post by Murls and my follow up, I thought we had left Julia Roberts in our collective rear view mirror. And then, unfortunately, my wife asked me last night if I had heard about her recent conversion to Hinduism. "Uhhh, no, and for God's sake can we keep it that way?" was my response. Unfortunately we could not, and soon enough I was reading an article discussing Julia's conversion.

The gist of it is this- Julia Roberts, while filming Eat, Pray, Love, converted to Hinduism. As a result, a priest renamed her three children Laxmi, Ganesh, and Krishna Balram. I'm no expert on Hinduism, and in all seriousness I understand that Krishna Balram is quite probably a highly respected name in that faith. But can I just say that a decade or so from now, when paparazzi cameras are following an adolescent Krishna Balram into crystal meth houses, and Julia and her godforsaken husband are trying to figure out where it all went wrong, this might be a good place to start? Were you to continue reading the discussion with Julia, which apparently is part of an upcoming story in Elle magazine, you would also learn that she also now believes in reincarnation. The oh-so-deep-thinker Julia says that after her hectic and stressful current celebrity life, she hopes to be reincarnated as "something quiet". I have no doubt that you will be, Julia. The Hindu gods have already blessed you with the mouth of a catfish in this life, and I can think of no quieter animal than that.

Someday in the future an innocent catfish will be paying for your sins of today, Julia.

The PGA Tour Is Doomed, Part II

As I briefly described in Part I, the PGA tour is hanging by a bit of a thread these days. No one has consistently stepped up and taken advantage of the vacancy left by the implosion of Tiger Woods. Still, I certainly understand that neither the PGA or the United States Golf Association (USGA) can be blamed for that. I have no doubt that they are praying either for Tiger to return to form or for someone else to elevate their game to the point where they can actually motivate viewers to return. But while I won't blame tour or USGA officials for the current state of play, I have a serious, serious gripe. I will try my best to lay it out more tactfully than the profanity-laced tirade I directed at my television on Sunday evening.

First, how about a little test to determine your legitimacy as a golf fan in the eyes of both the PGA and the USGA? In the picture below from a major golf tournament a few years ago, which person is the most important to the event?

If you went with the top ranked Tiger Woods or his highly touted opponent Padraig Harrington, you would be incorrect. If, for some reason, you chose the rules official on the right, you are correct (and I hate you). Golf has an absurd obsession with its rules and with letter-of-the-law enforcement, and both are extremely problematic.

Let's start with the rules. Good God, the rules. It is perhaps easiest just to lay out an example. Are you aware that according to the USGA rulebook, rabbits, moles, groundhogs, gophers, and salamanders are deemed burrowing animals? You might wonder why the rules of golf address the status of salamanders. It is because you are only entitled to move your golf ball out of a hole in the ground if it is made by a "burrowing" animal. So if it is deemed that the hole was created by a dog, which is a non-burrowing animal (this is an actual example on the USGA website), you are not allowed to move your ball. Brilliant. The USGA rulebook is literally full of gems such as this.

So I hope we can agree that many of the hair-splitting rules of golf are completely absurd. That in and of itself, though, wouldn't be an insurmountable problem. No, the deal breaker is the method in which these rules are enforced in tournament play. You see golf leaves the keeping of score up to the players themselves, and that is what causes the absolute injustices that occur far too frequently. The first thing to keep in mind about this unnecessary and archaic way of doing things is that both the PGA and the USGA are EXTREMELY proud of this setup. They claim that relying on players to keep their own score is what makes golf more honorable and noble than other sports. But here's the problem- tour officials are lurking and waiting to catch players on inadvertent mistakes and technicalities. And in golf, they don't just correct your score or the situation, they hit you with penalties. Quite often, the penalty is complete disqualification from the tournament. True story- in 2007, Sergio Garcia was disqualified from a PGA event because his playing partner accidentally wrote down the wrong score on a hole for Sergio. That's right, because the guy he was playing with made an error writing down his score (one player keeps the official score for the other playing partner), Garcia was DQ'd. Absolutely unreal.

It would be the equivalent of the home plate umpire in baseball not announcing balls and strikes but penalizing the batter if he guesses wrong and heads down to first base thinking he drew a walk. And the scorecard travesty is just one example at the end of the round. Players are subject to this lunacy throughout the round. What drives me crazy is that there are now rules officials out walking with every group. It would seem quite logical to me that if questionable circumstances arise, it would be on the rules official to preemptively issue a ruling so that the player knows what they are facing. But no, they revel in lurking in the shadows and allowing players to walk into traps for which the officials can then gleefully destroy their round and tournament.

"Hey, rules official here, what's the best way to screw this guy? Keep it down, he's right beside me."

All this brings us to the asinine end to Sunday's PGA Championship. Dustin Johnson came to the 18th tee leading by one and proceeded to honk his drive into the area where the crowd had gathered. He headed over, cleared out a bit of space, and hit his second shot following his normal shot routine. That involved his club head touching the ground, and that would come back to haunt him. After finishing up with a bogey, he thought he was to be part of a three-man playoff. He was quickly informed otherwise by a rules official, who met him on the 18th green with a sad and somber look that I would have taken as genuine if I didn't know how those guys revel in these situations. Let's do one more test. What do you notice about this picture of Dustin Johnson hitting out of a "bunker" that is rather uncommon?



If you went with the fact that about 1,000 people are standing in the supposed bunker (including tournament marshals), you win! What an absolute joke and disgrace. As mad as I was watching it go down, what truly put me over the top was the predictable turn that Jim Nantz, chief announcer cheeseball and tour suck up, made as the situation progressed. There was about a 10 minute stretch from the time Johnson was first confronted on the 18th green until the official announcement of a two stroke penalty was made. During this time, Nantz slowly shifted from the initial stance of all the broadcast team, which was that there was no way that could be deemed a bunker, to the stance that it was a tough break but that technically is the rule so that's how it has to be.

And what was the net result? Dustin Johnson, an up and coming golfer that just might fit the bill of much needed rising superstar, sitting in the clubhouse while yet another also ran (Martin Kaymer) hoisted the trophy at a major championship. Rather than talking about the great shots of the week and whose game was on the rise, we're talking about the specifics of rules and the "integrity" of the game. It's just the way the PGA and USGA like it. Unfortunately for them, they're the only ones.

Things to Keep to Yourself

I don't normally post article links on here, but this one was too classic. While getting caught up on the world of figure skating (what?), I ran across the following headline:

Ex-skate champ Bobek gets probation on meth count

I was intrigued, so I clicked on the article. Apparently Nicole Bobek was once a successful skater but ended up involved in a crystal meth ring. She was sentenced to five years probation and, I think, now wants to get her life back on track. I'm not 100% certain, though, based on her quote about the whole situation...

"Nothing but positive things can come out of this," Bobek said outside the Jersey City courtroom where she was sentenced Monday. "It's been a long 1 1/2 years. I'm looking to get back onto that ice."

Hey hon, just a quick word of advice. If you're really "looking to get back onto that ice", you might want to keep that to yourself. That is, after all, what got you in trouble in the first place.

Nicole Bobek loves being on "ice"

The PGA Tour Is Doomed, Part I

I should have known better, I really should have. It's a significant statement about the appeal of the PGA tour as things currently stand that I only realized the PGA Championship, golf's fourth and final major of the year, started on Thursday while randomly checking Yahoo! Sports at work. I'm not a completely over-the-top follower of the PGA, but that I wouldn't even realize a major was going on would have been completely impossible prior to the past few months. Even worse, the realization that such a big tournament was getting underway didn't inspire me to get caught up and ready to get dialed in for some golf. No, it made me decide that this was the right time to completely skip out on the whole thing.

My rapidly disintegrating interest in professional golf is obviously tied in large part to the Tiger meltdown that started last Thanksgiving with him wrapping his SUV around a tree after firing off one too many texts to his collection of unseemly broads. I make no apology for the fact that I watched tour events largely to soak in the majesty of Tiger in top form. I had no problem with the networks' decision to continue covering Tiger even when he was 10 shots off the lead, as he was still more likely than anyone else to produce an insane shot, not to mention actually inject some life into the otherwise stodgy galleries.

Nonetheless, I stand ready and willing to watch some entertaining golf, even if Tiger's not going to be the one to produce it. Give me some sweet shot-making, a power swing, and (please don't forget this part, aspiring golf "super stars") a non-robotic course demeanor, and I'm in. Instead, major after major is being won by also rans who can be reliably counted on to fade back into the mediocrity that their game demands.

Louis Oosthuizen, winner of the 2010 British Open, and apparently less interesting that whatever is on the television

So knowing all of this, I steered clear of this past weekend's PGA Championship entirely. Until, that is, I returned home Sunday afternoon just in time to catch the final hole. How I wish I hadn't done that, for the mere 20 minutes I watched still has me infuriated a full 24 hours later.

More to come tomorrow in Part II...

Flying the Friendly Skies

So air travel's a blast, huh? I know this is news to no one, but it was driven home to me in painful fashion last week. I traveled to Minneapolis for a few days for work and was reminded of just how horrible the whole experience has become. The return flight was delayed, resulting in our landing at 11:30pm. As I still felt entitled to dinner, the end result was my sitting in the dark at home wiping the mayo off of a Wendy's spicy chicken sandwich at 12:45am on a Thursday night. Good times.

As annoyed as I was by that debacle, you can't get too upset about a flight delay of an hour and a half. The flight out on Tuesday was another matter, though. I'm not mad at the airline about this. I can't say I was actually mad at anyone, just very, very annoyed.

It started with me running a bit late (typical) as I rolled into the Atlanta airport. I pulled all the way up to the parking deck entrance before realizing that the only area with any open spaces was hourly. Faced with a time crunch, I hit the hourly zone hoping my employer would see fit to reimburse me. I then endured the misery that is security at Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. You all know the drill- long lines, fellow travelers who missed the notice that you can't carry 48 ounce bottles of hair product through security since A DECADE AGO, stripping down to your boxers, redressing while your belongings continue moving down the conveyor belt.

So I was already in a state of semi-disarray as I stepped on board and headed for my seat in row 45. I was unaware that the engineers at Delta had even found a way to wedge that many rows in. As I finally arrived at row 45, I noticed a kid about 10 years of age already seated in the aisle seat. I was to endure this flight seated between him and a guy in the window seat halfway through a Domino's pizza he brought on board. The kid wasn't all that pleased with me at first. You see, he had already lowered his tray and set up a battle scene among eight or nine action figures he brought with him for the flight. And though he most assuredly enjoyed his enactment of some sort of battle for world domination among these action figures, complete with his replicating the sounds of flying and gunfire, I soon learned that there was something that he enjoyed even more- talking. Among the things I learned from my fellow traveler prior to his mom finally yelling at him to stop talking to me about three hours into the experience: there is some special feature to the chest plate in Iron Man's armor; he doesn't want to be a pilot because planes have too many buttons and he wishes they were like cars; he really likes Iron Man (this was proven when he put on a giant arm/wrist pseudo-weapon toy which he held up to the left of my face for a couple of minutes until I looked over; he would really like to meet Stan Lee, the creator of Marvel comics; he will never smoke but he might chew on cigars because that's not bad. I'm leaving out many, many things that I've managed to block from my memory. Did I mention that this flight was delayed as well and had no air conditioning in my part of the plane for the first hour I was on board?

I have more to say about airline travel in general, but I will save my complaints about people who recline their seats all the way back and the bag of eight microscopic pretzels they now serve you for another day.

A small portion of the scene to my left on last week's flight