A Grammar Lesson With Dan Patrick and Me.

The other day, I was listening to The Dan Patrick Show on ESPN Radio, as I am wont to do on a Wednesday afternoon drive to get our paper printed. Best sports talk show on the airwaves (with Colin Cowherd running a close second). A-list guests, great back-and-forth exchanges, informed opinions. A very, very comfortable listen.

Patrick's former Sportscenter co-anchor, Keith Olbermann, who moved on to MSNBC several years ago after a battle of egos with ESPN, is now joining him for an hour each day, and Patrick has taken to calling that hour, "The Big Show With Dan and Keith."

On Wednesday, Patrick commented on something during the first hour about a guest that was appearing, and he said, "That's all coming up on The Big Show with Keith and me."

Ten or fifteen minutes later, he read an e-mail from someone who wrote in to chastise him for using bad grammar on the air, saying, "C'mon, Dan...it's Keith and I." Patrick half-heartedly apologized for upsetting English teachers everywhere, and went on about his business.

Meanwhile, I sat and stared at the radio (shoulda been staring at the road instead, seeing as how I was, um, driving, I know. But this was a grammar issue. Serious business!), wondering if Patrick or anyone on his staff would catch the fact that the e-mailer who took the time to correct Mr. Smooooth Sportscaster was actually wrong!

Dan Patrick was correct all along, when he said, "...coming up with Keith and me." You know how to test this? Remove "Keith and" from that sentence to simplify it, and see which one sounds correct. That's the one to use.

For example:

Correct: "Barry Bonds spent an hour making excuses for his extraordinarily large cap and shoe size while talking with Keith and me, denying any steroid use."

Correct (simplified): "Barry Bonds let it slip while talking with me off the air that he loooves the juice!"

Incorrect: "Brett Favre told John Clayton, Chris Mortensen, Keith Olbermann and I that he might play for another seven to ten years."

Incorrect (simplified): "Brett Favre also told I that he hopes Randy Moss will lead them to three more Super Bowls before they both retire on top."

See how that works, Mr. "I Before Me" E-Mailer Dude? The following examples also hold true:

Correct: "Keith and I often argue over who the best radio show host is during The Big Show hour."

Correct (simplified): "I know what the answer is, because the show's named after me, and I've got the best hair."

Incorrect: "The Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, the Oakland Raiderettes, the Seattle Sea Gals and me took a week-long bus tour of several NFL stadiums."

Incorrect (simplified): "Me didn't care where we were going, me didn't want that week to end!"

I just sent an e-mail to Dan Patrick, correcting the grade-school grammarian who wrote in to correct him. I doubt I'll get a reply, because Dan's got better things to do with his time than drag out an "I vs. Me" battle over two or three days. But it made me feel better.

Sad, isn't it? On the day of the year when I should be listening attentively for insider tips on which sleeper teams to send deep in my NCAA bracket, I spend my time yelling at the radio over a grammar issue.

Me think me have I priorities a bit bass-ackwards.

"I never made a mistake in grammar

but one in my life and

as soon as I done it I seen it."

—Carl Sandburg

Rhymes with "Rogue"

So my buddy Adam turns to me last Friday night, and says in my ear over the blare of the music, “I remember when bands used to play good music...(long dramatic pause inserted here)...like this.”

We were in a small, intimate concert venue in Milwaukee called Shank Hall that had a capacity of about 300 but was barely half full, being treated to some good ol’ southern rock by The Bottle Rockets, a group well past their prime that I knew and had actually purchased one of their CDs in the mid-90s.

Adam hadn't heard of them before and didn't know what to expect. I'd listened to their disc, The Brooklyn Side, plenty of times and hoped that they still had it in 'em to sound the way they did a decade and a half ago. And they did.

Three guitars, one drummer. Rock. And. Roll. Hard-driven rhythms and smart lyrics. They didn’t do anything flashy up on the tiny stage, and their drummer looked more apt to be a middle school science teacher than the pulse of a rock band (bottom left in the photo), but he could keep a beat, and the other guys in the band knew their way around their six-strings and mics, too.

They were playing for the love of being musicians, and, I suspect, because they had bills to pay. The tour bus parked outside was their only mode of transportation. There was no limousine ready to whisk them away to a private jet after the show.

The lead singer served as his own roadie, plugging in cords, testing foot pedals and bringing out his own guitars.

And I bet the last time they played a 10,000-seat arena was right around the same time I bought that CD. And the arena just might have been half empty.

But you can’t deny an hour and a half of good music when you hear it. That’s what we heard, and I was more than a little thrilled to be able to add them to my list of concert “have-seens”.

In between songs, they’d hawk their CDs and T-shirts and direct members of the audience over to the merchandise table “so we can keep playing small shows like this and keep our crowd sizes down, and don’t have to go back to playing big stadiums.”

Uh-huh. Right. I heard the sarcasm dripping off the mic as he said that. More like, “Please buy our stuff because there are only 200 people here tonight, and sales of that merch helps us afford to keep on rockin’.” I bought a live disc.

That concluded the first half of the night. What was to come was the real reason Adam wanted to attend, and I'd listened to this new guy's CD a time or two, as well, and was interested to see him live.

If The Bottle Rockets show was a glimpse of a hard-rockin’ band on the downside of its career, then the headliner was a complete one-eighty, a singer/songwriter trying to establish himself and catch a lucky break on his way to fame and fortune.

And from what we heard out of him and his band, he’ll get that break sooner or later, and quite a few more people will have heard of Will Hoge (rhymes with “rogue”). My goal going in was to find out how he pronounced his last name, whether it was Will "Hogue" or Will "Hodge" or...whatever. So after his opening song when he stepped up to the mic and said, "Good evening, everyone, my name is Will "Hogue,"...I turned to Adam and said, "Well, that's good enough for me. I'm outta here." But of course...I stayed. And was handsomely rewarded with one of the greatest shows I've seen in quite some time. And I've seen my share.

Adam was more familiar with this guy than I was, finding his music online and reading a few reviews that said he puts on a pretty good live show. The phrase “pretty good” does not do justice to what we saw and heard. “Blown away” might be more accurate, or possibly “jaw-dropped awe.”

He had kind of an Edwin McCain sound and style to him, but perhaps even better.

Anybody in that room that night who wasn’t a fan when they walked in…had to be a fan when they walked out. Hoge and his bandmates gave it their all, and then about 20 percent more. Rock-and-rollers doing what they so apparently love to do. Rockin’. And rollin’.

Midway through the show, Adam went over and bought Hoge's new disc, and then after it was over and the lights were turned up, Will came over to the merchandise table to pose for pictures with his groupies and sign autographs. We hung around the bar area until the line of google-eyed girls dwindled to nearly nothing, and then got to shake hands with the future rock superstar and got an autograph for Adam's CD.

Earlier (much earlier) in the evening, Adam mentioned that if he was able to get an autograph, he had a profound thought about life that he wanted Will to write when he signed his name. But as we were chatting with him for a while, it became clear to Will that he knew what to write, and the CD came back: "Adam is NOT drunk!" followed by a squiggle/scribble thingie that was his autograph, I suppose.

Very astute observer, that Will Hoge. I might have to take a bit of the blame for that one, though, because I was probably the pace-setter early in the evening.

After Will went back to schmoozing with some of his other fans, we were graced with the presence of Erica, the band's promotional spokesperson/publicist/merchandise overseer/all-around hottie. While Adam pulled out the plastic to buy a couple more Hoge discs, she giggled at our levels of inebriation, regaled us with a few tales of life on the road with seven guys, and informed us that the very next night they were performing again in Chicago, a mere hour(ish) drive away.

While we strongly considered going the two-shows-in-two-nights route, in the end it didn't happen. But if you ever have the chance, I urge to you run…not walk…to see a live Will Hoge show. Simply one of the best sixteen-dollar adrenaline rushes you'll ever find.

Bottle Rockets.
Will Hoge.
Shank Hall.
Yeah, I can say it was a pretty good Friday night.

"Rock and roll: Music for
the neck downwards."
—Keith Richards

I Would Like To Thank The Academy

In the interest of not having the motivation to string several coherent paragraphs together that convey one common theme or idea or life lesson (because really, isn't this the first place you turn when looking for life lessons? thought so.), I give you bits and bytes of randomness from last night's Oscars:

• I realize that Jack Nicholson was in "The Departed," which won Best Picture, but doesn't it seem like even during a year in which he doesn't make a movie, he'd still get a reserved seat in the front row, center? He's like a fixture there. And what was up with him making Diane Keaton read all the nominees for the award they presented together? Was his vision a bit blurred, perhaps? Hmm.

• Joan Rivers had a Red Carpet Pre-Oscar special on the TV Guide channel, or whatever it's called, which I unfortunately caught a few minutes of as I was channel surfing. Will Smith was very gracious while being interviewed by her. (He gets extra-credit Oscar points for that.) If Joan has one more facelift, her ears are gonna touch. Someone should really tell her that her 15 Minutes were up twenty years ago.

• Ellen DeGeneres...rocks.

• Will Ferrell and Jack Black were hilarious in their song about why comedians like them are never noticed for an Oscar, and John C. Reilly (who was in "Tenacious D: The Pick of Destiny" with Black, and "Talladega Nights" with Ferrell) joining in to tell them to broaden their acting horizons was a classic touch. Reilly was nominated for both a Golden Globe and an Oscar for his supporting role in "Chicago" in 2002.

• Al Gore looked about as comfortable as Al Gore can look as he schmoozed with the Hollywood A-Listers and shared in the Best Documentary Oscar for "An Inconvenient Truth."

• Speaking of which...the highlight of the night for me (I even gave it an audible "Yesss!" and a fist pump if I remember correctly) was when Melissa Etheridge won the Best Original Song Oscar for "I Want To Wake Up," which appeared in "An Inconvenient Truth." Etheridge performed an abridged version of the song during the show, and really put herself into it. Up against three different songs from "Dreamgirls," and a Randy Neuman/James Taylor song from "Cars," I figured her to be the underdog. Good for her. Great song.

• I will not rent "The Departed." I will buy "The Departed." (Nicholson, DiCaprio, Wahlberg, Damon, Baldwin, Sheen. How can you go wrong?)

• While Forest Whitaker deserved to win for Best Actor, from nearly everything I've read and heard, I really wanted to hear Will Smith's acceptance speech. Will Smith has more style than any one human being should be allowed to have.

• Other acceptance speeches I was hoping to hear were from Mark Wahlberg, and Meryl Streep. No matter the awards show, no matter the award, when Meryl Streep gets up to speak in front of a group like that, you just know you're gonna laugh. She's subtle and smart and ridiculously witty.

• You know that Oscar has some pull when he can get Jerry Seinfeld out from whatever rock he's been hiding under to present the award for...(wait for it)...Best Documentary. (with a few minutes of stand-up thrown in as a bonus.)

• You know how else you know? Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg all appeared on stage together to present Martin Scorsese with his (finally!) Best Director Oscar.

• Serious "Hubba! Hubba!"s go out to Reese Witherspoon and Portia de Rossi, and to Emily Blunt, whom I didn't know before the show began, but I certainly noticed during the show. She's Brih-ish, and gorgeous, and was in "The Devil Wears Prada."

And the fact that I can rattle off this many random Oscar notes and know that the show was only fifteen minutes shy of FOUR freakin' hours long proves that I spent way too much time on my couch last night in front of the TV. I'm so ashamed.

"Whoever invented the meeting must have

had Hollywood in mind. I think they should consider

giving Oscars for meetings: Best Meeting of the Year;

Best Supporting Meeting; Best Meeting Based On

Material From Another Meeting."

—William Goldman

Whoa.

So.

Not so much with the posting lately, huh?

When this brand new year began, I set myself a couple goals for what I wanted to do with this blog (those goals including: a) write something in this blank white composition box; and, 2) hit that cute little orange "Publish" button from time to time), and as is illustrated by these 12 days of silence, I'm failing miserably in achieving those goals this month. However, in my defense, February has at least 2,880 (and sometimes as many as 4,320!) fewer minutes than all the other months on the calendar. So time was most definitely working against me.

I'm in a bit of a February funk, and every evening when I thought maybe I should sit down and put some words here, I pondered the self-indulgence of this blog project...always talking about "I" and "me" and "my" and more with the "I" again...and my mind always flashed to the catchy title of that fun grammar book, "Woe Is I."

Instead of focusing on the "I" part of that title—"I like chicken wings," or "I think Matt Millen's a big goofy clod," or "I wish coffee grounds would stay buried in the, um, ground"—I spent more time focusing on the "woe." I've had a February filled mostly with woe. And I figured no one really wanted to read about the woe, I didn't feel much like talking about the woe, so my solution was to stay away from the blog so as not to reveal the woe.

Don't get me wrong, I like talking about "I" and "me" as much as the next guy, and more of that is soon to follow, to be sure. And I've been doing a few things that needed doing in order to say "Whoa!" to the woe, and get back to rambling about odd topics and attempting to invent B-grade jokes to include in these paragraphs.

Went and spent some "just hangin' out" time with some of my very favorite people, and saw life from a 5-year-old's perspective. You know what's important to a 5-year-old? Duck Duck Goose, hopping around on one foot, and playing tic-tac-toe. (Or should I say...winning at tic-tac-toe. Because every time we played, she'd start, and I'd always block her first attempt at three X's in a row, and then she'd creatively add an extra row to the grid, or sneak an extra X in there somehow, or erase my O. Little did she know that I would have let her win a couple moves later. But the game never seemed to advance far enough for that.)

Anyway...today, I've just been out to run a few errands and gather some essential supplies—bread, water, duct tape, roll of 6 Mil plastic sheeting, beer, pork rinds, 55-gallon drum of cooking lard, red felt-tip markers, one gross of AA batteries, and the entire Britney Spears discography—and plan to spend the rest of my weekend hibernating and watching it snow.

For now, I'm going to go and organize my bookshelves. (shut up. it's therapeutic.)

"Whoa! to the woe."

Million-dollar mantra that will one day be the cornerstone of a motivational speaking empire rivaling that of Tony Robbins? Or ridiculous use of homonyms that'll never even sell a dozen bumper stickers?

(Don't answer that.)

"Talk happiness.

The world is sad enough

without your woe."

—Orison Swett Marden

Buffaloes Have Wings?

I'm getting pretty well-versed in the language of chicken-wing lingo. And I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

I can throw around ordering terms like "wet" and "sloppy" almost like a pro; you can put the hottest flavors of sauces in front of me and I won't flinch or request an emergency beverage; and I've just recently done the research to discover what the mysterious third "W" stands for in the nickname "BW3" when referring to the popular national chain, "Buffalo Wild Wings."

This is a bit too much time spent on the subject of chicken wings, I fear. But yet...they're ohh, so gooood.


I first got the taste for chicken wings maybe a few years ago, but it wasn't until the last year or so that I think I've become addicted. If there's a place with wings within a few miles, I say let's go!

BW3's is gaining greater popularity, and is a cool place to go and hang for a sporting event, with their big-screen TVs and 23-oz. beers. And the cute waitresses aren't exactly a deterrent, either.

The hottest flavor at BW3's is called Blazin'. And they used to have a Blazin' Challenge, where if you could eat a dozen of those wings in six minutes or less, you'd get, like, a t-shirt. Alas, that challenge is no longer available at most locations. So I'm unfortunately sans free bright orange t-shirt.

A buddy and I were at the B-Dub's in Green Bay last fall, and I told him I thought I'd order a few Blazin' wings just for fun. And his response was, "You're not gonna eat thooose." Which, of course, made me more determined to order them. Our waitress, who was clearly being extra flirty to secure a bigger-than-20-percent tip at the end of our stay (which she got...I'm not saying, I'm just saying), saw that I was handling the Blazin's quite well, and told me about their "Atomic" wings, which weren't on the menu, but were even hotter than the Blazin'. I told her I'd keep those in mind for next time.

Next time came, and while the lovely Elizabeth (yes, I remember her name) wasn't working that night, I asked our waitress if they still had Atomic wings. And she told me they stopped serving those because of the lawsuits that had been threatened. Don't know if I believe that or not, but who am I to argue, right? I asked her, "If I promise not to sue, can I get some Atomic wings?" She, of course, said no. But she said she could serve me some "sloppy" Blazin's, which is just wing-speak for slathered around in the sauce a little bit more than normal.

Speaking of cute waitresses (scroll back up...it's up there somewhere), I haven't been to Hooter's since I've been on my wing kick, and I think I've only had one or two of their 911s in my life, many many years ago...so someday I'll have to stop in there and compare Blazin's to 911s. Yeah, that's why I'll go in there. For, umm...research.

Down here near the end of this post, though, I'll share a little secret with you all. If it's the best wings you're after...not big-screen TVs, not a distracting waitstaff, but just plain ol' great wings...then Legend Larry's is the place to go. With locations in Manitowoc and Sheboygan, their wings are almost twice the size of BW3's. They don't have as many different flavors as B-Dub's, but if you want hot hot hot sauce, order the D.O.A.s, and get 'em "wet." And have a beverage handy. Or a sno-cone. Or a piece of dry ice.

If you value your lips and your tongue and would like to keep them a while longer, try their medium or hot flavors, and you'll be hooked.

It's kind of a sad commentary that I can write this much about...chicken wings...isn't it?

"Living at risk is

jumping off the cliff

and building your wings

on the way down."

—Ray Bradbury

Sometimes New & Improved...Isn't

I've had about enough of "new and improved."

So many things tout themselves as "new and improved" these days, that the phrase has lost its meaning. Instead, some should be advertising, "slightly different, but not quite as good as it used to be." But marketing like that isn't gonna move a lot of product, now is it?

Case In Point No. 1:
Diet 7-Up has recently given a slight modification to its plastic bottle labels, adding the phrase, "Now more Lemon Lime taste!**" And if you twist the bottle around, eventually you'll find that the "**" in that phrase refers to a, "**New Formula." Pardon me, guys, but did you consult your regular drinkers before you went and messed with a good thing? Maybe some of us don't want more lemon-lime taste. Maybe some of us were perfectly happy with the way the taste was for years and years. If we wanted more lemon-lime taste, we'd drink Sprite!

I can see Sprite's new marketing campaign coming a mile away.
"Now tastes more like 7-Up than ever before!"

Needless to say, I'm not entirely pleased that some suit who probably sits around drinking Tangueray and tonics all day instead of the soft drink that made him filthy rich has decided to fuck with the formula of one of my regularly consumed carbonated beverages.

And it's not the first time. Oh, no. Which leads me to...

Case In Point No. 2:
Several months ago, Diet Mountain Dew started adding the slogan, "Tuned Up Taste," to its packaging. Not to beat a dead horse, but...the taste wasn't broken, so why fix it?? Why take a perfectly delicious citrusy beverage, and tweak it so that when people crack one open and take a drink, they stare at the can and say to themselves, "Hmph. What did they do to that?"

Please leave my soda pops alone!

(Neurotic Grammatical Aside: If Diet Dew is gonna advertise its new taste, shouldn't it be written as "Tuned-Up Taste"...with hyphen inserted as such? I mean, a "small, green ball" can be broken down into a "small ball" and a "green ball," so no hyphen is necessary. But it's not "tuned taste" and "up taste". It's "tuned-up" taste. Compound modifiers, people. Let's use them correctly, shall we? Alas, no hyphens on their packaging. Perhaps the people at Dew would like to hire me in a newly created position as Aluminum Can Proofreader.)

If you think this rant is limited to only carbonated beverages, read on.

Case In Point No. 3:
Several years ago, I wrote a column on mustard. (believe it...it can be done.) A well-known mustard brand that shall remain nameless so as to avoid scandalous defamation lawsuits (French's) advertised on its yellow mustard bottle a "new stay-clean cap!"

Hooray! said I. No more molten lava mustard ooze from the old-style, cone-shaped, twist-up caps (that's three compound modifiers in a row!! stop me before I modify again!) where after squeezing some onto your brat or burger and placing it back on the counter in the open position, whatever residual mustard that was left in the tip would creep out of the top and down the spout.

This new cap has a concave shape and looks better suited to teeing up a golf ball than it does to dispensing a condiment. And it might be a "no-more-ooze" cap, but it's far from "stay-clean."

Inside of that concavity are four flexible plastic flaps that direct a stream of mustard toward its intended target. However, after the first use, it forms that dry mustard "skin" thing that awaits you on its next use. So you're forced to break through that barrier with an extra-firm squeeze, which can throw off your mustard aim by several inches. So instead of Mustard On Rye Bread Awaiting Summer Sausage, you've got Mustard Art On Microwave Oven Door, or Mustard Stain On Shirt Previously Being Worn To Work.

I firmly believe that the people at French's are in cahoots with the people at Bounty paper towels. Because any day now I expect to see Bounty's new slogan:
"Now able to tackle more mustard spills than ever before!"

Look. All I'm saying is that if all you marketing and R&D geniuses out there want to spend your workdays "improving" something, concentrate on the things that need improvement. If you're stuck for ideas, I've got a few to get the ball rolling:

• The current White House administration. While a new one won't effectively take office until 2009, that gives you plenty of months to work on improving the one we have now. Please work quickly...for all our sakes.

• My salary. This one should be easy. Simply take any old spare zero you have laying around somewhere, and insert it immediately to the left of the decimal point. And take the rest of the day off for doing such a good job with that one.

• My golf swing. (FORE!!)

• The Detroit Lions. (uhh...this one may take some overtime.)

• My internet connection. The only reason I still have dial-up is to afford myself the opportunity to use the verb "slog" on a regular basis.

"Marketing is the science of

convincing us that what you get

is what you want."

—John Carter

An Early Night (Well...Maybe Not)

I shoot in a dart league on Tuesday nights, and while I enjoy it most nights because it breaks up the week pretty well, I often find myself arguing during the day on Tuesday with...myself. About whether or not I really want to go. About how long I plan to stay out. About what type of beverages I may or may not drink while I'm there.

Here's a little peek into my thought process on an all-too-common Tuesday during dart season.

— • — • —

7:20 am — Drag yourself out of bed after slapping the snooze button one too many times. "Ugh, I don't wanna go to work today. Ohhh shit, I have darts tonight, too! I'm starting to get tired of league. Maybe I won't go. Who can I get to shoot for me?"

9:09 am — "OK, fine. So I'll go and shoot, have a couple sodas, leave right after the last game, and I can be home by 9:00. Maybe I'll get a movie or something and watch that."

10:37 am — "Man, this morning is going slow. Isn't it lunch time yet? After work today, I should really run over to...oh, wait. Nope. Can't do that. Gotta go shoot darts."

12:44 pm — "Hah! Morning's over. Allll this work to do, though. Damn, I could really use a beer. OK, so if I have a couple beers during league, that's fine. Relax a little, shoot some good darts and get out of there at a decent hour."

1:39 pm — "Gregg, you're running out of weeks this year, and you don't have a sixer yet, you know. Tommy just got one last week, are you gonna let him stay ahead of you all season? Gotta get one. Shoot 'em good tonight."

3:27 pm — "I wonder how far ahead of the rest of the league I am in tons. I haven't seen a stat sheet in weeks. Last week was kind of a below-average night, better make up for it tonight. Hit that middle."

5:59 pm — "Nope, can't stay later tonight at work, I've gotta get to league. We're shooting the second-best team, and I need to get there early to warm up a little. My team needs me, and I need to get some good stats, and a bunch of wins."

6:45 pm (driving to the bar) — "Hit your sixer tonight, Gregg. Shoot 'em straight, shoot 'em hard. Hit your sixer, hit your sixer, hit your sixer, hit your sixer."

7:06 pm — Orders a beer even before taking jacket off. "Mmm, that's good. I've been looking forward to that since lunch! Just a couple beers, though. And don't hang around all night after league, either. Make this an early night, remember?"

8:42 pm — "Wow, three hat tricks tonight, and nine tons! Glad I came out to shoot. Didn't get my sixer, but I'm sure that'll come one of these weeks. For now, I really better get goi..." (out loud) "Hey, you guys wanna shoot a few games for money?"

10:41 pm — Several games of darts later, with a few extra dollars in the pocket, you start an 18-minute, spirited discussion about the final score of Super Bowl XXI (no one can remember). This is immediately followed by a 22-minute debate on why Barry Sanders was a better running back than Emmitt Smith or Walter Payton. Or Jim Brown, for that matter.

11:23 pm — "Man, I could really go for some chicken wings." (out loud) "Who wants wings??"

12:46 am — One dozen hot wings and a Pabst Blue Ribbon later (hey, PBRs are only a buck on Tuesday, how can you go wrong??), you realize how late it's gotten.

12:54 am — "Ugh. Next week I'm definitely not staying out this late. In fact, maybe I won't go. Who can I get to shoot for me?"

— • — • —

I'm pretty persuasive toward myself to change my mind, aren't I? Yeah, like it takes a lot of arm-twisting to get me to stay out and shoot cash games or go eat hot wings.

"Late to bed and late to wake

will keep you long on money

and short on mistakes."

—Aaron McGruder

Extreme Home Makeover

I recently read an article where some big uber-rich guy is going to build and sell the world's most expensive home. In Bozeman, Montana, of all places.

Tim Blixseth, who made his fortune in timber and real estate, is in the process of building a 53,000-square-foot home that he plans to put on the market for $155 million. This price tag tops last year's most expensive home, Updown Court in Windlesham, England, which has an asking price of $139 million. And Rosie O'Donnell's best pal, Donald Trump, has a property in Palm Beach that he's trying to get rid of for a measly $125 mil.

The Montana mansion, which will have 10 bedrooms, will be located at the Yellowstone Club, a members-only ski and golf resort, and will sit on 160 acres. It'll feature a private gondola-like chairlift that will carry residents to the club's private slopes. Other features include an indoor/outdoor swimming pool and a home movie theater.

Must be rough. Too bad I don't ski, or I'd be putting in my bid.

Instead, I found a property around my area that might not have the polish and shine of a brand new mansion, but it just screams "home" to me. Perhaps some would consider it a lost cause. I, however, think that a fresh coat of bright yellow paint would work wonders. And maybe some caulk.

The term "open-concept" seems to be a bit of an understatement for this place. And if the wind blows too hard one night, you better be ready to run for cover. And I don't mean inside the house.

I will admit that the garage looks to be too far gone to salvage.

But I bet the owners would thrown in this fancy antique pick-em-up truck if the bid was to their liking.

"Home Sweet Home."
Different things to different people, eh?

"Always live in the ugliest house

on the street. Then you don't

have to look at it."

—David Hockney

I Wish

In early 1998, Pearl Jam released an album called, "Yield," and it was a must-purchase for me. Not because I'm the biggest Pearl Jam fan on the planet; I like 'em OK enough, but they probably wouldn't even crack my top 30 favorite groups. I bought their debut album, "Ten," back in 1991, but who didn't? They were all the rage back then, and that's a really good album.

"Yield" has one of those songs that you hear once on the radio and immediately point your car in the direction of a music store. And that song is "Wishlist." It's got Eddie Vedder's familiar voice, nearly monotone throughout, and sometimes close to a mumble.

But the lyrics are really "think-outside-the-box" ideas, and they make you want to sit down and write your own abstract wishlist. Perhaps I'll do that in a future blog entry, but for now I was led to this entry tonight because I had the song going through my headphones at work today about a dozen times in a row. (and another three or four as I sit here writing this.)

If you don't own the song, or don't know the song, it's worth the 99 cents. And if you download it and don't agree, let me know. I'll send you a refund.

Here's Eddie's wishlist (at least in 1998 it was. maybe it's changed.):

I wish I was a neutron bomb, for once I could go off
I wish I was a sacrifice, but somehow still lived on
I wish I was a sentimental ornament you hung on
Your Christmas tree, I wish I was the star that went on top
I wish I was the evidence, I wish I was the grounds
For 50 million hands upraised and open toward the sky

I wish I was a sailor with someone who waited for me
I wish I was as fortunate, as fortunate as me
I wish I was a messenger and all the news was good
I wish I was the full moon shining off a Camaro's hood

I wish I was an alien at home behind the sun
I wish I was the souvenir you kept your house key on
I wish I was the pedal brake that you depended on
I wish I was the verb 'to trust' and never let you down

I wish I was a radio song, the one that you turned up
I wish...
I wish...

It's very fitting that the song fades away so quickly at the end that you really have to turn the volume up pretty high to catch that last line about the radio song that you turn up.

So which of those wishes on Eddie's list jumps out as a favorite of yours? I like most of the ideas, but I've got one that I'd choose above the rest.

And...what would be on your wishlist if you made one?

"How I wish that somewhere there existed

an island for those who are wise

and of good will."

—Albert Einstein

I Want To Be a Paperback Writer

If someone told you to put a pen to paper and write non-stop for ten minutes—no thinking, no editing, no crossing out—on the subject of, I dunno, bananas...could you do it?

I spent the last three Saturday afternoons in a writing workshop, and that’s an example of one of the exercises we did, taking specific prompts like that and doing timed writings.

The idea is that free-writing about bananas might lead your subconscious to a deeper topic about which you really wanted to write...like a Christmas memory with Aunt Nell, perhaps. (who maybe was bananas!)

There were seven of us in the class, led by a high-energy instructor who had mountains of information to share and gazillions of techniques to get us writing and keep us writing. None of us students earned a living with our writing, but we were all writers, all there for basically the same reason: we knew the thrill of putting a word down on paper or screen, and then putting another word after it, and continuing on that path to see where it would lead us.

My bookshelves contain dozens of books on the writing craft: how to free your creativity, how to overcome writer’s block, when to use “laying” instead of “lying.” I’ve spent more time reading about writing than I’ve spent...writing.

And while learning about writing is an integral element for writers of all levels, the bottom line is that if you want to be a writer, you’ve gotta write!

For the record, I knew this simple rule going in...but it was reinforced during our hours together, and often it needs to be slammed home a few times before the light bulb goes on and you tell yourself, “Ohhh yeah. I better sit down and write.”

Sure, I’ve got this blog, and I write a weekly column, and I’ve been known to write mini-novellas in e-mails to friends.

But I don’t practice my writing as much as I should. Just like a pro hooper still shoots layups before each game, a writer needs practice, too. I need to put in my time writing about bananas, doing my layups.

I didn’t know what to expect when I signed up for this workshop, and when it said enrollment was limited, I wasn’t sure if that meant 30 students or 10. We had seven, and spent our sessions around a table in a “group discussion” setting, not exactly my strong suit.

Never the most vocal member of any group, I’m more comfortable in a classroom setting where I can sit in the back row near the heat register and blend in. If I want to express myself, I grab a pen or a keyboard, rather than raising my voice to speak. (gee, I must be a writer, or something.)

But a slight transformation took place among that group. I found myself opening up a little more than I’m used to. I cared a great deal about the material, and once in a while I knew what I wanted to say, and I said it. Out loud. I kinda fit in, I guess.

There were eight very different personalities around that table, but it was an easy, loose environment in which to share ideas and questions, and to read each other’s work.

By the end of our last class, I learned that, to some degree, I know what I’m doing. I also learned that I’ve got a long, long way to go. I learned that there are so many people out there with so many fascinating ideas, it’s fun to see how those ideas translate to the page.

And I learned that I have to write.

I...am a writer. Are you? Grab a pen and find out!
And give me ten minutes on...aardvarks.
Or, Idaho potatoes, perhaps.

“So it is very deep to be a writer.

It is the deepest thing I know.

And I think, if not this, nothing—it will be

my way in the world for the rest of my life.

I have to remember this again and again.”
—Natalie Goldberg

...With Nothing More To Buy, Ever!

In about a five-day span last week, I received mailers from the following in my mailbox:

• Quality Paperback Book Club
• Rhapsody Book Club (romance novels)
• Mystery Guild
• One Spirit (mind. body. spirit.)
• Book-of-the-Month Club
• Writer's Digest Book Club
• The Literary Guild
• Crafter's Choice
• History Book Club
• The Good Cook Book Club
• The Military Book Club
• Crossings Book Club for
Today's Christian Family
• Doubleday Book Club

I feel sorry for the mailman that had to lug that load on his shoulders.

I've been courted by many of these clubs in the past, and have been a member of several, because let's face it...who can pass up cheap books? (if you raised your hand and answered, "Me! Me! Me!" to that question, then you and I are such very different animals.)

It appears, however, that my contact info has been shared with several new lists since the last go-round, because a few of these I've never heard of. Rhapsody Book Club? Crafter's Choice? Umm, The Good Cook?? (puh-leeaase. only if you've got titles in there like, "188 Ways to Burn Toast," or "How to Successfully Order Pizza for Delivery After the Pot Roast Has Been Charred." study your target demographic more closely, people.)

I can't resist offers that advertise four books for a penny apiece, or a buck each, or whatever it may be. Even with the shipping charges they tack on, it still works out to be two of my very favorite words in the English language when placed side-by-side. Cheap. Books.

And they always try to sweeten the deals in case you were riding the fence about those first four books. "Order a fifth book now for only $5.99, and reduce your commitment to only one book in the next year!" or "Take three books free just for joining, plus a fourth, plus a fifth...and oh, hell, why not, a sixth book, too! And have nothing more to buy, ever!"

And if not additional books, then they offer some lame gift, like a tote to carry all your brand new books with you everywhere you go. Or a handy desk reference. Or...this is my favorite so far, one I haven't seen before...a red polka-dot umbrella and tote set. (that's from Rhapsody, because apparently you're going to no doubt be spending all summer on the beach, reading all the trashy smut books they send you.)

If I didn't mind being overrun with reply cards to send back, or boxes to click online to prevent a billion selections of the month from being sent to me each month, I'd join each and every one of those clubs to see how many more mailers I'd get the next time.

But I think I'll choose a bit more wisely. I mean, really...what would I do with a red polka-dot umbrella, anyway?

"Getting out of the hospital is a lot like

resigning from a book club.

You're not out of it until the computer

says you're out of it."

—Erma Bombeck

"A man who doesn't read good books

has no advantage over the man

who can't read them."

—Mark Twain

They're Blue, Man.

Over the holidays, my teenage nephew had a band revue at his high school, with a bunch of acting skits and musical numbers and a general theme that flowed from beginning to end to tie it all together.

It kinda blew me away, because I don't remember any groups in my high school...band or drama or chorus or otherwise...putting on productions as impressive as the one I saw that night. They did a great job, and were thoroughly entertaining.

My nephew's a percussionist, and during one skit in the program, he and several other members of that section were in a diner setting, and used what they had around them to bang out some rhythms. A few guys used knives to "drum" on the tables they were sitting at, and a couple others used Tupperware bowls turned upside down.

The unusual "instruments" they were playing led me to make a loose connection between them and Blue Man Group. (very loose, I know.) And a light bulb went off in my head that night, that my nephew was gonna get a ticket to see them for a Christmas gift. If he could play Tupperware bowls, I wanted him to get to see guys playing PVC pipes and 55-gallon drums and...and...whatever else it is we'll find there.

I've always had an itch to see Blue Man Group. I've heard many spectacular things about how wild and energetic and wacky and unique their shows are, but for whatever reason I never did much research into finding out where they play. Turns out they have regular shows in New York and Chicago and Boston, and their biggest production shows are in Vegas, I believe.

So sometime in February, I hope, or early March, we're going to the Briar Street Theatre in Chicago to check 'em out on a Saturday or Sunday. You can bet that'll be a blog-worthy entry after I see that show. And maybe my expectations are too high, but I can see myself needing at least an annual Blue Man fix after I experience them the first time. I'm heading to Vegas in April, so if I become quickly addicted after their Chicago performance, I might have to catch their show at the Venetian, too.

Has anyone reading this ever seen them, or know anyone who's seen them, who can give me a little first- or second-hand gossip before we go down for the show? I'd be curious to hear any and all opinions.

I'm looking forward to it. They're talented, they're innovative, they're kinda crazy, they're wildly popular...

...and they're BLUE, man!

"It's a rock concert, heavy on percussion.

A display of magic and illusion.

A critique of modern technology

and information overload."

—Glenn Sumi, reviewer

Get It While It's...Disgusting.

So, we’ve got one of these in the neighborhood now. Well, not exactly in the neighborhood, but about 10 miles down the road. Close enough.

This doesn’t affect me all too seriously, because I may be the only person in the country who’s never been in a Starbucks. But I realize that its presence has increased our area's hip-and-trendy quotient by a factor of at least…one.

I’ve never been a coffee drinker, and I don’t see myself becoming a coffee drinker. When someone takes a sip of coffee and I hear them say, “Mmm, that’s good coffee,” it translates for me into, “Mmm, that’s a good cup of hot, liquid dirt.” Doesn’t make sense. The term “good coffee” is an oxymoron of the highest order in my vocabulary.

Over the past several years, I’ve approached coffee with something of an open mind. During holiday get-togethers, I make it a point to have one cup of coffee. So that’s like, three or four cups a year. (three or four too many, if you ask me.) I continue with this experiment to give my family members a chance to chuckle as they watch me choke down the “tasty” beverage, while affording myself the opportunity to ask, “Whyyy do you people drink this stuff?”

How can a beverage with such a pleasing aroma during the brewing stage produce such a disgusting end result?

But now, I’ve got the most famous coffee shop just a short drive away, and I’m sure I’ll do some very thorough research into its lineup of beverages. While I’ll never approach the status of being a “regular” in their ordering lines, I’ve got to at least go exploring. Because they don’t serve just hot, liquid dirt. Oh, no.

We’ve all seen “Friends,” right? There’s the big oversized latté mug, and the tiny espresso mug and the extra-tall mug for…extra foam, or whatever. And Starbucks has its Frappucinos and its espressos, hot or iced, and its seasonal lattés of eggnog and gingerbread.

I get to learn which of their drinks have steamed milk and which have foamed milk, and some will have a double shot of this and…oh, boy, I’m in for an education, to be sure.

For the most part, I’m willing to try anything when it comes to food and drink, so I have no problem admitting that there will undoubtedly be something on their menu that I like. But it’ll have to be a pretty heavily flavored something, because the chances that you’ll hear me walking out of there with a regular coffee, uttering the phrase, “Mmm, that’s good coffee,” are about as good as ever hearing me say, “My, that Britney Spears is one smart girl.”

On Christmas Eve and Christmas Day I managed to have two cups of coffee in two days, probably a personal best for me. And while those coffees earned high praise from the regular coffee drinkers around the table, I still didn't get it. And I never will.

Easter's the next time I'll force myself to choke down a cup of coffee, and then I'm good through the spring and summer until Thanksgiving again. Lucky me.

Gimme a Diet Dew, a Diet 7-Up, a cup of tea (iced or otherwise) or just plain ol' H20 any day, thankyouverymuch.

“Fear is when you’re stuck in traffic

and you realize that you’ve had

two cups of coffee and a bran muffin.”
—John Mendoza

What An Honor

I feel so...important.

Never has such an honor been bestowed upon me, so I'm not sure what the proper etiquette is here. (except to look up the word "etiquette" and make sure I spell it correctly, with only one double-t pair, and not two.)

I've been named TIME Magazine's Person of the Year. I don't know what to say.

All of you reading this should start practicing your shocked-and-awed expressions as well, because you've been given the same award.

Yes, you. And you.
And you and you.
And you, too.

The idea behind naming
several hundred million
people as the
"person" of the year
is to give us all credit
for changing and
controlling and manipulating
the Information Age.

Through blogs and
YouTube and MySpace
and breaking news
video clips. And more.

Joe and Josephine Average are being heralded as the ones that can make important news travel fast. And I don't disagree with that.

But out of more than 800 readers who wrote in to voice their opinions after the issue was published, nearly half of them called it a cop-out. And I don't disagree with that, either.

While it's a remarkable thing that's happening to Web 2.0, as it's being coined, surely there could have been an individual more deserving than bloggers or amateur videographers. Were you to press me for a specific example or two, I'd ashamedly have a blank expression. (Britney Spears, perhaps? Oh, wait. She's up for Mother of the Year. Sorry...got those two confused for a minute.)

My point is, in the past it's been given to presidents or queens or popes. The entire list, dating back to its inception in 1927, can be found here. Do I deserve to be among them simply because I ramble on a blog? Or because I read a handful of them regularly?

This isn't the first year that TIME has chosen a group rather than an individual. Past winners have also been Hungarian Freedom Fighters, U.S. scientists, Middle-Americans, and American Women, to name a few.

In 1982, the computer was the first object to be named Person of the Year.

And here we are a quarter century later, taking that object, coupled with Al Gore's magnificent invention, and winning awards ourselves.

I would stand up and take a bow, but it just doesn't feel right.

A couple dozen respondents took this honor in the spirit it was intended, and jokingly said they were going to put it on their résumé. (at least...I hope they were joking.)

Seeing as how TIME got 800 responses to its selection, and how I've got about 800 readers...OK, eight. (or two.)...it'd be fun to hear from all (both) of you on this topic. Do you think it was a good choice? Or a cop-out? And if not you.........then who? Who else deserved recognition in 2006?

I expect my opinion to be in the minority on this one. We'll see.

— • — • —

Side note: The actual cover of the magazine didn't have the word "You." printed on the monitor's screen, but instead had a piece of reflective Mylar in its place, so that when you looked at the magazine, you saw...you. Thing is, that Mylar stuff usually has a few wrinkles and flaws, and when I look at the cover I see what amounts to be a flesh-colored traffic cone shape with eyeglasses and a two-day scruff.

The people at TIME found a Mylar supplier in Minnesota and made them sign a confidentiality agreement before going ahead with the order, so as not to leak who the Person of the Year would be until the magazine was in the mail or on newsstands. Then they placed an order for 6,965,000 pieces of Mylar.

That's a lot of yous.

"It's been my policy to view the Internet
not as an "information highway," but as
an electronic asylum filled with
babbling loonies."
—Mike Royko

"I imagine most stuff

on the information highway

is just roadkill anyway."

—John Updike

To Whom Me It May Concern

An Open Letter

To: Mr. William Clay Ford, Sr.
Owner, Detroit Lions

From: A longtime, long-suffering "fan"



What..the..fuck.........are you thinking?

I mean, uhh...
Um.

Dear Sir:

It has come to my attention that you plan to keep Matt Millen as your president for yet another year of leading your football team deeper and deeper beneath the ground floor of the NFL's elite laughable franchises. The Lions aren't even in the basement these days, they're fast approaching the earth's inner core.

The Arizona Cardinals had two more wins than your team did this year, Mr. Ford, including a head-to-head victory. The Cleveland Browns even bested your record by one game. Does any of this make any sense to you, or don't you pay very close attention to the National Football League? You know, being a team owner and all.

The only thing that kept the Lions from having the worst record in the league this year was that season-ending, 39-point-scoring victory over the Dallas Cowboys in Big D, against Bill Parcells, a certain Hall of Famer and my favorite coach in the NFL. Congratulations, Mr. Ford. Instead of providing motivation and inspiration heading into the offseason, all that victory did was hand the very first pick in April's NFL draft over to the Oakland Raiders. Even when you win...you lose. I hope you weren't too high on Brady Quinn, because he probably won't be available when it's your team president's turn to botch his selection at No. 2. (Brady Quinn is a quarterback, by the way, Mr. Ford. For Notre Dame. In case you were too busy dreaming up new features for your Ford Focus to concern yourself with up-and-coming players that might help your football team.)

Millen has said that he won't quit.

"If it's not working, you just keep on working at it until you get the freaking thing done. And that's just what you do. You don't ever quit."

That's how he put it. Those words instill such confidence in me, I'm already quivering with anticipation for next season. Oh boy, I can't wait.

Look at him smiling over there, Mr. Ford. Do you know why he's smiling? Because you're paying him millions of dollars a year, that's why. And positive results are apparently not a condition of him keeping his job. Instead of kicking him to the curb, you're giving him contract extensions.

What does a guy have to do to get fired from a management position in one of your companies? Sell your automotive trade secrets to the people at Kia?

If you're a shrewd businessman, Mr. Ford, and are looking for a way to save a couple/few million, fire Millen and hire me. I'll work for one or two million, and while I can't promise better results, I can most assuredly promise not to do worse. Nobody...can do worse.

At least the offseason is here (you do know what an "offseason" is, don't you, Mr. Ford? it's the only season in which you can't lose any games) and I can bur...uhh, I mean...pack away my Lions gear until next year.

Sincerely,
A Colts fan

"Mr. Ford and I, we talk a bunch.
We were talking all season long.
It never even got to anything
other than just keep on
doing what we're doing."
—Matt Millen

Same-ol', Same-ol'.

So I pulled up this screen tonight, thinking I should say something memorable and profound to start the brand new year, and...

...
...

nothing.

(looks like the new year is gonna be just like the old year. sorry, folks.)

I'd rattle off my long list of New Year's resolutions here, but I kinda sorta don't have any. (kinda sorta.) Because the word "resolution" has come to mean "an objective one sets that will be abandoned in 48 hours, max." I might have a few ideas of how to make '07 better, but those will be kept, for the most part, to myself. Lest I stray from my short list, I don't want an entire avalanche of people bearing down on me. That kind of abuse is reserved for the select few.

The word "profound" up there always takes me back to a blip on a talk show, when Ashley Judd was on with...Jay Leno, I think it was. I don't even remember the context of the conversation, but she was talking about words and language, and said that someday she hoped to "utter some great profundity."

I just stared at the screen and thought to myself, "Let me get this straight. You're smokin' hot, you're a self-professed language dork and you freely toss around phrases like, 'utter some great profundity'??"

I think I even said, "Marry me." out loud in the direction of my television set.

She didn't hear me.

I've never forgotten that phrase, or where I first heard it.

So there you go. You might have stopped in for a big bloggorific welcome to the brand new year. But instead you get an Ashley Judd story. (and a great profundity uttered by Benjamin Franklin.)

Happy New Year.

"Be at war with your vices,

at peace with your neighbors,

and let every new year

find you a better man."

—Benjamin Franklin