It's Not Easy Being Blue

Yesterday was a tough day.
I've been through many

like it before.

You see...I cheer for a

very bad football team.
But this year was supposed

to be different.
(how many times have I

repeated that same line to start the season?)

This year they brought in a no-nonsense, hard-nosed disciplinarian for a head coach. All those clichéd adjectives that make you start to believe that things will turn around. And they hired an offensive genius (albeit a psychotic one) to turn all the potential on that side of the ball into productivity, and victories. I can't stand the guy, but if he's gonna help get my favorite team 10 wins, then he's my best friend.

The boys in Honolulu blue and silver are 0-3.

And I feel like I need a 12-step program.
My name is Gregg...and I'm a Detroit Lions fan.

It all started innocently enough, watching a speedy little running back come out of Oklahoma State and get drafted by the Lions in 1989 (the Packers passed him up by the way...for Tony Mandarich). Barry Sanders had electric feet, and tree trunks for thighs. And he could change directions in mid-air! Twice!

I was hooked, and before I knew it I had a Lions sweatshirt. Then I had three. Then I had a couple baseball caps...coffee mugs...refrigerator decals...boxer shorts...Detroit Lions shampoo...jackets...rookie cards...on and on and on. I was a fan. And 15-plus years later, I'm still a fan, and I've got the ulcers to prove it.

If it wouldn't cost so much to change wardrobes, I'd probably start wearing an Indianapolis Colts horseshoe on my chest instead of a lion. But I remain loyal.

The game that's marked the boldest on the schedule every year (seeing as how there are no nail-biting games at the end of the season to determine playoff seeding) is the Lions/Packers game at Ford Field in Detroit. One they can win. One they should win. This year...one they really shouldn't lose. And they lost.

They lost in a shootout to an aging gunslinger. Where, oh where, is my team going to end up?

The interesting part about Sunday was how different it felt to go out in public in a replica Barry Sanders jersey and Lions cap before the game...and then have to wear the same clothes to run errands after the game was over, before being able to sneak home and bury the stuff in the back of the closet.

It was...uncomfortable. I could feel all the snickers and chuckles bouncing off of me as I picked up groceries for the week ahead. And I deserved them.

With all due respect to Kermit the Frog, even if the Packers are as awful as I think they're going to be for the rest of this season, it's a hell of a lot easier being green in these parts than it is being blue.

"Fans don't boo nobodies."

—Reggie Jackson

Did Not!...Did Too!...Did Not!...Did Too! (Ohh, Shut Up.)

In an effort to create a more intellectually stimulating environment around my little corner of the blogosphere, I completely wiped clean my social calendar last Friday night, and stayed home to watch the first of a couple debates between U.S. Rep. Mark Green, and incumbent Governor Jim Doyle, the two candidates running for governor of this, The Great State of Cheese, in November.

A more accurate story would be that there was no poker game, I was too tired and lazy to go out anywhere else, and I just wanted a forum in which to use the word "gubernatorial" in some sort of context.

And it would be hard to use a term like "intellectually stimulating" in response to what I saw from the two candidates for an hour on Friday night.

Doyle talked about how he wrangled a $3.2 billion deficit when he took office, and how he's balanced every budget since he's been governor. Green claimed that's not true, overusing the phrase, "...the sad reality of it is..." at least a half dozen times in the first half hour, in response to Doyle's claims of his work as governor.

Then Doyle was forced to use his own valuable time to state that it is true, and back and forth they went. Blah blah blah.

Green stated that taxes are just too high, and that he'd work to eliminate wasteful spending and slow the growth of government. Gee, doesn't he sound like a...a...politician? Let me guess, he ended the night by shaking hands and kissing babies, right?

If I'd have had the chance to be one of the guest questioners on the panel, I think my question would have gone something like this: "Gentlemen, seeing as how the tax burden in this state is so great, and how the number of new jobs created in the last three years is somewhere between 4 and 150,000, and how we may...or may not...have improved education in recent years, could I umm...could I maybe have two new contestants to choose from in November, please?"

Near the end of the debate, Green laid the schmoooze on pretty thick, too. "In my travels during this campain, I...fell...in love...all over again...with Wisconsin. I love this state!" (be sure...and pause...after...nearly every word...for dramatic...effect.)

The sad reality, Mr. Green, is that you've got no chance of getting my vote in November. Not even if you promise free lollipops and beer for the length of your term.

But I'll probably tune in for the next debate on Oct. 20.


(You didn't find too many hard facts contained in this blog entry, did you? Now you know how I felt for an hour on Friday night.)

Go ahead, you know you wanna say it: gubernatorial.

"Politicians are people who,

when they see light at the end

of the tunnel, go out and buy

some more tunnel."

—John Quinton

She's An Eight, She's a Nine, She's a Ten I Know

A few days ago, one of my readers sent me a pi...

(Wait, wait, wait...hold on. I thought I could pull that off and make it sound believable. But that line sounds as if I have, like...you know...readers, or something.)

Let me start over.

A few days ago, Mark (much better) sent me a picture of a sign he spotted on the interstate just south of Chicago.


If you know anything at all about country music, you know that John Michael Montgomery had a song in the mid-90s called, "Sold (The Grundy County Auction Incident)." While I don't know a whole lot more than that about the genre, I do know that song. And a good one it is. (if you haven't heard the song, you won't understand the title block. sorry.)

Anyway, Mark sent me the picture, wondering if perhaps the Grundy County Auction was real, and not just a fictional location invented for the song. Pressed for time, he said he wasn't able to take Exit 112 and go exploring for the aforementioned auction, or any such "incidents" that may have occurred there.

But it got me to wondering...

...what other destinations made famous in songs would it be cool to run across while driving down the highway?

I'll take the easiest one out of play right away, so people aren't scrambling to their keyboards to be the first to send in Margaritaville. (where some people claim that there's a woman to blame.)

Another one I'd love to see on an interstate sign is an exit for Funkytown. (I'll take the Psuedo Echo version over the original by Lipps, Inc., thankyouverymuch.)

I haven't given this like seventy hours of thought, or scoured my CD collection for other possibilities, but those were two that popped into my head immediately. Any others out there?

China Grove, by the Doobies, perhaps? I think that one's real, though, down in Texas.

If I ever see an exit sign for "Sullivan Street," my car will probably steer itself onto the ramp. (I'm a Counting Crows freak.)

"Thanks to the interstate highway system,

it is now possible to travel across the country

from coast to coast without seeing anything."

—Charles Kuralt

Only 1,667 Words A Day

So if you've got a little spare time in

November, and you're looking for something

to do...why not write a novel in a month?

Never even considered it, you say?

Well one brave and creative soul,

along with 20 of his closest friends,

attempted it in 1999,

and six of the

21 finished.

NaNoWriMo was born.

(I've got a link to it

on my sidebar.)

The idea is to write a 50,000-word novel in a month. Art for art's sake. Participants are free to write the crappiest crappity-crap in the world and still come away with a feeling of accomplishment.

Chris Baty of Oakland is the creator of the contest. And with the help of his Web site, it's exploded year by year into a global effort to write bad prose. Last year, 59,000 people participated, and nearly 10,000 people crossed the finish line.

The quantity-over-quality mantra serves as a boost to get writers' butts in their chairs, with the notion that somewhere in the middle of the bad punctuation and run-on sentences and muck, one might find the proverbial diamond in the rough.

Some people fizzle out after a few hundred words. I've made it to several thousand a couple times before deciding there wasn't enough November left to finish. But I applaud what he started, and enjoy following its progress each year. Perhaps one day I'll hunker down and take it more seriously. (just so I can cross "hunkering" off of my list Of Things To Do In Life.)

Several WriMos have opted to write something a bit better than crap, and they were rewarded with book deals!

If you're intrigued by the idea, and your November calendar is free, go poke around the site and learn more about it. Then spend the next month and a half polishing your plot points and scheduling your December carpal tunnel surgery.

And at 12:00:01 a.m. on November 1...WRITE!

"Mine started out as an

evil-people-take-over-the-world thing...

and is now essentially

a marching band story."

—Anonymous WriMo from 2002

Image...Is Everything; And Always Wear Red On Sunday

Tiger Woods is on a roll.

The last five times he's teed it up on Thursday morning, he and a trophy and the verb "hoist" were all somehow intertwined by Sunday evening (or, Monday, as it were).

Five consecutive victories is pretty impressive, and that includes two majors in that stretch. Thing is, it's nowhere near the all-time record of eleven straight set by Byron Nelson in 1945, and it's even one off the pace of Tiger's personal best of six in 1999-00.

Nonetheless, a streak like that brings to the forefront once again the question of Tiger's place in the ranks of golf history.

Is Tiger Woods the best ever?

It's been argued many times that the measure of greatness is the number of major championships a golfer has won. Tiger's won 12. Jack Nicklaus has 18. I think I learned somewhere in high school (probably in Heuer's trig class junior year) that 18 is greater than 12. So, no...Tiger's not the best ever.

And Jack has also finished second in majors a ridiculous 19 times. As you hear so often in golf interviews, it's certainly about the wins, but there's a lot to be said about being in contention on Sunday.

By the time Tiger's 40 years old, however, there will be a new "ever," and Tiger will be the best of it, probably by three or four majors.

I know that's a tall order, winning 10 of the next 40 majors in which he plays. But just hearing how motivated he is to get to Jack's record, I don't think he'll be satisfied with a one-tourney advantage. My magic number for him before he's finished is 22.

And I'm not even his biggest fan. Rick Reilly of Sports Illustrated wrote a column a while back, stating that if you pay attention to golf at all, you're either a Tiger Fan, or a Phil Fan. There's no question as to who I'd cheer for if they're both coming down the stretch on Sunday with a chance to win. (Phil.) But it's amazing to watch what Tiger does, and see just how good he is when he brings his "A" game. It's impossible to not respect what he does and how he handles himself.

When the pros came to Whistling Straits Golf Course near Kohler in 2004 for the PGA Championship, I bought a week pass and spent more hours and walked more miles among the greatest names in golf than I could have imagined.

During Saturday's tournament round, we watched as Tiger teed it up on a dogleg left and tried to air-mail the corner with a booming drive. Well, he came up short and ended up in the rough on the spectators' side of a mound, so as we scurried up to see where his ball landed, I found myself only one row deep and about 10 feet away from where Tiger would hit his next shot. He came over to his ball and surveyed the situation, and was talking strategy with his caddie in a voice so hushed that literally no one else had any clue as to what he was saying.

But there I was. Ten feet away from the greatest sports figure on the planet, watching him hit a regulation shot in major tournament play. I don't know if I was the only one in that crowd that felt this way, but I wanted to shout, "Holy shit, You're. TIGER. Woods!!" just to confirm that it was, in fact, real.

I believe that goes against all golf spectator decorum, however, and his caddie would have probably broken my jaw. So instead I just soaked in the moment, waited for someone else to give the obligatory "you da maannn!" after he hit his ball, and continued on my way.

Tiger Woods: The greatest golfer of the next "ever."

— • — • —

In other news involving a ball that's slightly bigger and fuzzier, Andre Agassi walked off of his last competitive tennis court last weekend, ousted in the third round of the U.S. Open.

It would be hard to argue that he's the best ever in his sport, because there are others that have won more Grand Slams than he has. But a strong case can be made that he was the game's greatest ambassador, and one of its most wildly popular players.

He burst onto the scene as a brash teenager with long hair and too much neon for the prim and proper game of tennis. He got an endorsement deal with Canon where he uttered the phrase, "Image Is Everything," and won Wimbledon in 1992 to validate himself as more than a fashion plate. He would get seven more Slams.

And people took notice, not only of his tennis, but also of his style. Tennis attire started to become more gawdy, more colorful, more neon...and it was accepted.

He brought flair to a list of all-too-stoic personalities: Lendl, Sampras, Courier, Chang, every Swedish player that ever picked up a racquet.

Just when Agassi had them all marching to the beat of his drummer, he showed up at Wimbledon one year wearing all white. Somewhere along the way he lost his locks and shaved his head. And he outgrew his "image is everything" cockiness.

He played for the fans, and the fans willed him to keep playing. At age 36, after a 21-year career, his back told him no more. So he walks away as one of the game's greatest.

But the greatest "ever" is yet to be written in that sport, too. And his name is Roger Federer.

"The best things in life are free.

And the cheesiest things in life

are free with a paid subscription

to Sports Illustrated."

—Johnny Carson

Gluttons Wolf(e) Down Contest Requirements

I should probably stay away from this topic, seeing as how this is such a refined, high-brow blog. *ahem* But I'm pretty sure there are some people who wanted to see this posted, and one of them even lobbied to get a mention in the title block...so I did what I could.

It's not exactly 58 brats in 10 minutes. But for amateurs, it's not an unimpressive feat, either.

A few years ago, a buddy sent out an e-mail with a unique contest that he'd seen attempted at Wrigley Field, I believe. And he thought it would be a fun way for a bunch of guys to spend a few hours around a television set or a radio. Or...in person at the game, if you happened to have an extra hundred bucks to throw away on food and beverages.

The contest is called The 999.

Nine hot dogs.
Nine buns.
Nine 16-oz. beers.

In nine innings of baseball. From first pitch to final out.

The first year, no one in a group of about 10 people who attempted it made it to the end. Last year, one lone Champ(!) did it in about seven innings, topping a couple of his dogs with chili just for extra added oohs and ahhs.

And this year, three out of a group of seven crossed the finish line late in the eighth inning or early in the ninth. I may or may not have been one of those three. I admit to nothing.

Fine. It was me. I'm a Nine-Nine-Niner.

The key to finishing is knowing which method of attack will best suit your digestive system. The neat-and-orderly method of one hot dog, one bun, one beer, one inning may work well for some. But we've modified the rules a bit to allow for 12 12-oz. beers instead of nine 16-oz. beers, so as to bypass the plastic bottles. Same amount of beer, though.

One participant in the inaugural contest opted to eat all of his hot dogs in the first three or four outs of the game. That's just hot dogs...no buns. But the bread got to him before he got to the finish line.

This year, one of the winners drank all of his beers (or perhaps it was 11 of them) before going to the grill for a dog. I had three or four beers and then told myself, "I'm hungry," and went to put a couple notches in the dog-and-bun column.

It becomes a grind near the end, and the one main rule of NO digestive system reversal can be difficult to avoid. That's how we lost two of our participants this year, although one of them gave it the old college try to remain a contestant. I'll spare you the disgusting, but valiant, details.

Oh, and what did we do to celebrate our 999 victory? Drank beer and played cards for much of the rest of the night, of course.

I went grocery shopping on Monday night after getting back from my weekend. Hot dogs were not on my list.

Can't wait to see which one of the seven deadly sins they create a contest for next.

"Lust, Pride, Sloth and Gluttony, or as we call them these days,

"getting in touch with your sexuality," "raising your self-esteem,"

"relaxation therapy," and "being a recovered bulimic."

—P.J. O'Rourke

Beat The Odds

I saw this road sign as I was driving home from my weekend, and had to double back and take a picture.

Looks to me like they don't have a lot of faith in the truckers out there. Are they saying that if you're in a big semi and you risk driving down the upcoming hill, that you've only got a five percent chance of navigating it successfully?

I didn't find a big crumpled mess of tractor trailers and axles and freight when I got to the bottom of the hill, so either all the truckers on the road that day were exceptionally alert, or that sign is way off.

(At least give 'em a 50/50 chance, won't you?)

"I sez Pig-Pen, this here's the Rubber Duck,

we just ain't a gonna pay no toll.

So we crashed the gate, doin' ninety-eight,

I sez, let them truckers roll, 10-4."

—C.W. McCall, "Convoy"

We Had Joy, We Had Fun, We Had Seasons In The Sun

(I don't know who sings that song, and I'm too lazy to google it, but that's the first thing that popped into my head when I came to the title bar of this post.)

(OK, I lied. I'm not too lazy, cuz it would have bothered me for a while. It's Terry Jacks. I thought maybe I had it on one of my "Super Hits of the '70s" discs, of which I have nine or ten. But it's not on any of those. I do, however, have "Kung Fu Fighting" on one of them. Aren't you jealous?)

The entry title struck me, because tomorrow is the lead-in to the three-day event that is summer's last gasp. As I wrote in my column for next week, it's time to put away the bikinis and board shorts, and pick up the backpacks and chinstraps.

A new school year, and more importantly...a new football season! I don't know why I get so excited about football season every year. I mean, c'mon...where are the Lions gonna go, anyway? Just exactly what does third place in the NFC North get you? A front-row seat on the couch for the playoffs, that's what. Truth be told, I'm just slightly more optimistic than in past years, but I've gotten so used to whining, I couldn't stop myself before all that negativity spilled out.

For the record—and I'd like very much to delete the record—after much thought and painstaking research, and a couple coin flips...I came up with Denver beating Dallas as my prediction for Super Bowl XLI.

However you're planning to spend the weekend of summer's farewell, enjoy. I believe mine will include a lake, a pontoon boat, and a beverage. (make that...multiple beverages.)

— • — • —

You're humming "Seasons In The Sun" to yourself right now, aren't you? And you want to know the rest of the lyrics, I bet. What if I told you I found a page that has not only the lyrics, but some lame-ass, elevator-musicky kinda xylophone rendition that starts playing whether you want it to or not. You probably couldn't stop yourself from clicking here to hear it for yourself.

"France has neither winter nor summer

nor morals. Apart from these drawbacks

it is a fine country."

—Mark Twain

Colbert, or Stewart?

Is it just me...
(...and, most of the time when someone starts a question that way, isn't the answer usually, "it's just you!")

...or were the Emmys unusually funny this year?

Conan O'Brien—who I rarely find funny on his own show and I think is something of a mistake to replace Leno in a few years or whenever Leno said he's going to retire—did a remarkably good job in his monologue and throughout the show, and his little song-and-dance number at the beginning was pretty entertaining.

Tony Shalhoub, who I haven't seen in "Monk," reasserted why he's probably the right man to win for lead actor in a comedy series when he showed his dry, subtle, perfectly timed comedic talents in his acceptance speech as he picked up his second consecutive trophy and third in four years. I should attempt to catch that show at least once, so I can say I've seen it.

— • — • —

Quick side note: CBS's "Two and a Half Men" was nominated for all the big categories, including comedy series, lead actor and supporting actor. And it came away empty. That's not surprising, seeing the company it kept in each of those categories. But I might have jumped up off my couch and done a handstand if it would've won any or all of them. That show is so well written and so well acted.

— • — • —

"The Daily Show with Jon Stewart" won for variety, music or comedy series, and in his acceptance speech, Stewart admitted, "...this year I think you've all really made a mistake," hinting that perhaps one of the other nominees, "The Colbert Report," was more deserving.

It was great comedy to see Stewart and Stephen Colbert come on to present an award later. Colbert spent much of his time throwing a fit that he'd lost an Emmy earlier in the night, "to frickin' Barry Manilow!! I lost to Barry Manilow!!" (individual performance in a variety or music program.) And Stewart spent a good part of his on-stage time cowering and letting him rant.

— • — • —

Which brings me to my entry title, and the question(s) of the night. If you'd have a vote for best variety, music or comedy series and could choose between "The Daily Show" or "The Colbert Report," which would it be?

And who do you think is a better deliverer of fake news...Stewart or Colbert?

While I don't watch either of them on an all-too-regular basis, I've seen enough of both of them to be qualified to cast a ballot in each category, and I'm gonna look like something of a fence sitter here, but...I think Colbert might be the funnier of the two individuals (close race), but "The Daily Show" probably gets the nod for best substance. (how can you argue with a show that has a "moment of Zen" at the end of every episode?)

Let me know which way you sway.

"You can't make up anything anymore.

The world itself is a satire.

All you're doing is recording it."

—Art Buchwald

Is He...Subliminably Brilliant?

In a recent story on MSNBC's "Scarborough Country," Joe Scarborough was kicking around the idea of whether or not our president is an idiot.

I don't usually spend too much of my TV time tuned to MSNBC, because it's hard to give any credibility to a "news" network that gives a show to the likes of Rita Cosby. (although I'm having a more difficult time defending CNN after seeing Nancy Grace's show once or twice. maybe the two of them should form their own network that nobody will watch.)

But I digress.

The banner across the bottom of the screen as I channel-surfed past it said "Ronstadt: Bush Is An Idiot." What a concept. An actor or a musician bashing Bush? Never been done before!

However, Linda Ronstadt apparently called our president a name, and Scarborough decided to run with it, to see where the debate would lead. And for that, he was chastised by some for publicly asking the question of whether or not the president of the United States is dumb.

Let's face it...it's not the first time that someone has suggested that Dubya is two peas short of a casserole. And it won't be the last. Scarborough was merely questioning how important it is for the president to be super-smart, if he or she (practicing my political correctness early, just in case) surrounds himself with the right people.

Scarborough blogged about it, if you're interested.

It's a tough question to ask, isn't it? Is Bush really dumb? Or are we, umm...misunderestimating him?

(oh my, the selection of quotes I had to choose from

for this post could have kept me typing until the '08 election!)

"There needs to be debates, like we're going through.

There needs to be town-hall meetings.

There needs to be travel. This is a huge country."

—George W. Bush

"I want the folks to see me sitting in the same

kind of seat they sit in, eating the same popcorn,

peeing in the same urinal."

—George W. Bush

Everybody Wang Chung Tonight

I think I've discovered where some of the has-been musical groups disappear to.

While some one- or two-hit wonders legitimately fade away after their 15 minutes of fame are over, recent research suggests that other singers or bands might in fact run into legal troubles that are the cause of their musical careers being cut short.

Case in point: Wang Chung

Before the biggest hit of their career, "Everybody Have Fun Tonight," in 1986, the group had a minor hit with "Dance Hall Days," in 1984. It was while listening to this song on the radio recently that I came to the conclusion that the group probably had to disband due to incarceration.

Look at how the duo described their recollection of a good night at the dance hall:

Take your baby by the hand
And make her do a high handstand
And take your baby by the heel
And do the next thing that you feel

And after an upbeat chorus, they come back with more of the same:

Take your baby by the hair
And pull her close and there, there, there
And take your baby by the ears
And play upon her darkest fears

Not content with hair-pulling and psychological torture, they continue:

Take your baby by the wrist
And in her mouth an amethyst
And in her eyes two sapphires blue
And you need her and she needs you

Correct me if I'm wrong here, but that's not really dancing, is it? Isn't that...

...assault?

If they could have kept it simple with a little innocent bump and grind, or maybe some freak dancing, who knows how many albums Wang Chung could have turned out? But nooo...they thought since they were rock stars that they could cross the line and resort to ear-grabbing.

No wonder some '80s bands disappeared. Do you think maybe Dexy's Midnight Runners are in the cell next to Wang Chung?

"Either heaven or hell will have
continuous background music.
Which one you think it will be
tells a lot about you."
—Bill Vaughan

The 'Wurst' Display Of All

Our little corner of the world became a bit more famous recently, during Sheboygan's annual Brat Days, which brought all the biggest names from the International Federation of Competitive Eating (it's true!) to Kiwanis Park to see who could stuff the most bratwurst in their faces in 10 minutes.

This display of gluttony attracted nearly 4,000 spectators, who stood on a hill and watched these superhuman eaters gorge themselves on what's probably a summer staple on most grills in our area, but is virtually an unknown menu item only a couple states away.

While a simple eating contest alone might not have drawn a whole lot of attention, the initials E, S, P, and N, and the best eater ever to stand in line at a buffet gave this year's event a little extra street cred. Yes, ESPN's cameras and reporters were on hand for the event, to cover Takeru Kobayashi, the IFOCE's top-ranked eater. Those two names brought the likes of eight more of the world's top 12 eaters to have a little lunch on the Lakeshore.

Yahh, hey!! Sheboygan's gonna be famous, en so??

While I should never admit here that I have so little couth that you'd find me smack dab in the middle of the cheering crowd at such a disgusting display of piggishness, I will say that the photos in this entry come from my very own camera, and not from the IFOCE's Web site. Hey...it was ESPN! And bratwurst. I wasn't gonna pass it up for anything.

The world's top three eaters appear to be a study in concentration as they start the competition. Joey Chestnut (from left) is ranked second, and Sonya Thomas is third. Takeru Kobayashi is the world's most famous eater, and the record holder at Nathan's Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest held every Fourth of July in New York. Earlier this year he ate 53 3/4 hot dogs (AND buns) in 12 minutes to hold off Chestnut, who ate 52.

The brat-eating contest was sans buns, and last year's record was 35, set by Thomas. With Kobayashi in the mix this year, though, no one really knew where the record would end up. My guess was somewhere in the 40-41-42 range, but as you can see below, he rather obliterated that modest total. He wolfed down 58 brats in 10 minutes, leaving Chestnut in a trail of brat grease in second place with 45.

When Kobayashi signed up to participate in this event a couple months ago, he'd never heard of a bratwurst before, but in his post-gorge interview, he said through his interpreter that he liked them and wanted to take some home with him. And that he also plans to come back next year to try for 60 or more.

I won't deny that I had a great time seeing the spectacle of it all, and while I don't understand how they can shove all that food in and where it all goes, I can't say that it turned me off of food for very long.

I found my way over to the food tent not too much later and got myself a double brat.

If you'd like to see some of the IFOCE's other records, check out this page. But be sure to do it on an empty stomach, because the baked beans and the hard-boiled eggs and the oysters and the cheesecake might cause a slight rumble.

"One of the most wonderful things about life

is that we must regularly stop what we are doing

and devote our attention to eating."

—Unattributed

Pigs Fly...Hell Freezes Over

Driving home the other night, I had my XM Radio tuned to the "Hitlist" station, and heard a song come on that sounded like a spot-on match for Gwen Stefani.

Reaching to change the station, as I'm relatively indifferent to the career of the former No Doubt lead singer, something caused me to push the button, which brings up artist and title information for the current track, rather than turn the button, which would have spared me a revelation for which I was completely unprepared.

While I would have placed a small wager that the voice I was hearing was that of Gwen Stefani, I would have lost, because the name that appeared on my radio display was...

...Paris Hilton.

Note, I didn't say that the voice I heard was Paris Hilton's, because if that's Paris Hilton, then I'm her next boy toy.

Whoever was working the sound-mixing board in the studio the day that "Stars Are Blind" was recorded deserves a big BIG raise. I bet Paris didn't even have to be in the building for that song to be made. She probably just attached her name to the project and voila...a music career was born.

Should you care enough to let your voice be heard.

(I didn't care enough to vote, but I did take the time out of my life to search for and provide you with the link. Shame on me.)

"Singers come and go, but if you're

a good actor, you can last a long time."

—Elvis Presley

Big Brother Is Tracking You

A news item was recently published by the Wisconsin Public Radio news service, stating that Ohio has just become the fourth state to introduce a bill that would ban the mandatory implantation of microchips into someone's body to track their movements.

While you take a few seconds to let that sink in, let me tell you in this paragraph that Wisconsin was the first state to pass such a law. A $10,000 fine would be imposed on any employer or government agency that forces a worker to be implanted with a radio frequency identification chip.

Is this actually how time is being spent in our state legislatures? On the crafting of laws to determine how best to avoid having microchips installed into humans?

The chip makers state that they'd be best used for storing medical information, and would be well-suited for use in military personnel. But opponents of the technology argue that employers could use them to track employees during their off hours. (They'd find that I visit my local Wal-Mart on a far too frequent basis, and who wants that to be public knowledge, hmm?)

The head of the Florida-based Verichip, however, claims that the chip doesn't send out a signal itself, that it must be read by a scanner.

All I can envision if this technology reaches the mainstream is a conversation like this at work someday...

Micro-Managing, Power-Tripping Bossman: "Smith, why don't you turn your attention today to the Johnson account, and get a handle on that. Oh, and don't forget, Thursday at 10 am you've got your microchip implantation surgery. Don't be late."

Bewildered Yes-Man of an Employee: "Yes, sir! Yes, sir! And would you like to date my wife and have your own copy made of the key to my house as well? Right away, sir!"

Freak.

Anybody that requires me to "implant" anything in myself in order to work for them certainly won't get the professionally accepted two-weeks notice before I head for the door.

"There are some ideas so wrong

that only a very intelligent person

could believe in them."

—George Orwell

The Greatest Doctor

I work for a small-town newspaper and printing company, and each year we print the local high school's graduation program.

Being something of a quote whore, I always look forward to reading what the grad class's motto is...what words the student body has chosen to represent itself as it achieves one of life's great milestones.

One of these years I'd love to see a class with the cajonés to print "Kegger tonight at Brandon's!" or "My sophomore science teacher stole my neutrons." on the front of the grad program. But that might not make it past the advisers, huh?

Most classes are usually quite restrained, and offer words of wisdom by Hemingway or Honest Abe, making reference to the great big world out there and all there is to conquer.

One class a few years ago stepped just slightly outside the box, and I thank them for that, because this quote has been with me since the first time I read the words:

"Be who you are, and say

what you feel, because those

who mind don't matter, and

those who matter don't mind."

—Dr. Seuss

Words to live by, don't you think?

My Barbaric Yawp

I've spent a lot of time considering whether or not to start a blog...what to call it, what I'd put in it to draw readers in, and whether or not I'd have the discipline to stick with it and put up some posts on a consistent basis. (that one we won't know the answer to until a few months from now. but so far I've got one in a row! I'm on a roll.)

I stumbled upon what I thought was a great blog title several weeks ago, but found myself deflated when I did a little research and learned that a couple others in the blogosphere had already tripped over the same idea.

The great American poet Walt Whitman wrote perhaps his most widely recognized work, "Song of Myself," a 50-page autobiographical introspective that covered topics ranging from social to political to personal.

Probably the most famous reference to Whitman's poem was in the movie, "Dead Poet's Society," when Robin Williams' character, John Keating, used a quote from "Song of Myself" to motivate students in his English class, telling them they needed to follow in the footsteps of Whitman, who wrote, "...I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world."

That crept into my brain a while back, and I thought, "That's it! Now I can start my blog...and I'll call it 'My Barbaric Yawp'." Guess what? Other people read Whitman, too. And other people have seen "Dead Poet's Society." Who knew?

Unoriginality — 1
Gregg — 0

I didn't want to be like everybody else. In fact, I didn't even want to be like two or three or five somebody elses. (yeah, like having a blog is the most original idea in the world to begin with, isn't it? how many are out there? 30 million??) So I reached again for my thinking cap.

I've always been a bit of a Zen enthusiast, and Buddhist ideas intrigue me. The brief tale of the Zen archer who learns mindfulness and becomes present in every moment, effortlessly sending arrow after arrow to the center of the bullseye, is one that I've read several times, several different ways. And I'm a dart shooter (English darts...gives me something to do between the time I put my beer down and the time I reach to pick it back up again), so I understand the part about shooting for a bullseye.

In the dart game of 301, the object is to shoot at numbers on the board and score exactly 301 points before your opponent does. Sounds simple enough, right? And it is. But a perfect game of 301 is five bullseyes and a triple-17, shot in two rounds of three darts each...called a six-dart-out. And that's not quite as easy. I've been in the position to feel the "effortlessness" of hitting the bullseye, as on some occasions the circle in the middle looks and feels about as big as a pancake.

I've also been in the position with five bulls behind me, and that last dart in my hand, staring down the triple-17. And it's surprising how much less "Zen" the feeling becomes when you're aiming for the triple ring and a chance at perfection, than when you were willing the darts into the center circle to get to this critical juncture in the game.

I've run the gamut of results with that final dart: sticking it in the triple about 20-ish times in my dart "career"; missing by a hole more than 20 times and getting a pat on the back for a good effort; and forgetting completely about dart release and follow-through, and dropping it three or four inches below the triple on the board, and wanting only to erase the memory of that effort with perhaps a shot of Southern Comfort. (It's a good thing darts is a game played in a bar, and not among church groups.)

What all of this blabbering leads me to is the title of my blog. In darts a round of 100 or more points is called a ton. A hat trick is three bullseyes, or 150 points. A ton-fifty, if you will. What I'm searching for is the key to unlocking the secret of consistently mastering the 151-point round that follows it...the ton-fifty-ONE.

The bullseyes I've got down, but...can I get a little help with the trip-17, please?

(Whew! Aren't you glad you read this far, so you're not staring up at the top of the page and asking yourself, "What the heck does that mean?" Let me guess...you stopped reading 42 paragraphs ago, didn't you? Sorry.)

So in tribute to Whitman, I'll still fill these entries with my share of yawps, and as he wrote "Song of Myself" at 37 years of age (coincidentally, guess how old I am?), I'll do my best to give this "Blog of Myself" a good go-round, and see what I come up with.

Ton-Fifty-ONE. Open for business.

Expect more tasty goodness blathering idiocy to follow.


Or not.

I am of old and young, of the foolish as much as the wise,

Regardless of others, ever regardful of others,

Maternal as well as paternal, a child as well as a man,

Stuff'd with the stuff that is coarse

and stuff'd with the stuff that is fine.

—Walt Whitman, Song of Myself