A Day With the Daughter

I had a nice outing with my daughter over the weekend. Typically, she’s consumed with her friends as any 14-year-old would be. Somehow she carved out a day for Dear Ol’ Dad. We achieved an elegant compromise on our activities, and we only had to endure a half-dozen or so calls to her cell phone from friends atwitter with some adolescent emergency.
Any car ride with her, regardless of its duration, is an adventure for the senses. Of course, more often than not Dad does not approve of her choice of clothes. The shirts are too tight and the skirts are too short. Bless her, she’s built like her mother and is physiologically precocious. With the right hair and make-up, she could pass for eighteen with barely a glance. She’s fourteen all the way, though. That’s important to remember.
I call her a “radio terrorist,” because we can’t seem to listen to any one song all the way through. There are too many music options in my car: the vast array offered by XM, on top of the usual FM stations, plus a six CD changer and some contraption that allows one to play an I-Pod over the speakers. So, here we go from the moment we sit in the car: changing sources, changing stations, shuffling songs. Now playing: Attention Span Theater. Heaven forbid I should ask to catch a two-minute SportsCenter at :20 or :40 past the hour on ESPN Radio. Listen to an inning of an Astros’ game? As she might say, “Are you high?”
Since it was Sunday morning, our first destination was church. We were feeling rebellious, because we slept in and did not attend the church where we are members. Instead, we drove to a nearby place of worship with a Sunday service which closely approximates our own. To her dismay, I forced her to listen to our church’s activities on the radio (AM, to boot). They don’t play any Black Eyed Peas or Five for Fighting during that service. We made it through, actually finding amusement as someone made the unfortunate decision to turn on one of our priests’ microphones during a hymn. We suffered through an ear-splitting unintentional solo instead of hearing a magnificent choir.
We didn’t agree on a lunch destination. She wanted Chili’s. A kid will always default to the familiar. I suppose one must develop a sense of adventure when it comes to dining out. I had a $25 coupon for a barbecue/ steak place east of town. Of course, that appealed to me. Certainly, it did not appeal to her. So, we compromised on a new restaurant we had heard good things about. It was expensive, but the food was good and she was happy. Plus, she had an experience the rest of her family had not, and she had a chance to talk about it.
I also had free admission to the local community college’s production of “Grease,” which had received a reasonable review in the local paper. She had performed in a production of “Grease,” and I thought she would enjoy seeing it again. Plus, it was free. Of course, that didn’t appeal to her. “Dad, I’ve been in ‘Grease’ and I’ve seen it about seven times.” She wanted to go see the Robin Williams movie, “RV.” You can guess what we did.
The movie was nice. The teenager in the film thinks her dad is some kind of massive loser, only to discover he’s actually okay. So, it was a good father-daughter experience. The movie is over-the-top stupid with scatological humor and preposterous plotlines, but I laughed out loud seven or eight times. She liked hearing me laugh, since the movie was her idea.
I got caught up on all the middle school romantic drama that seems to dominate her thinking. I am privy to vital romantic secrets, such as who is planning to break up with whom and who’s afraid to make the first move. If knowledge is power, then consider me a benevolent dictator lording over the sensibilities of middle school heartbreak.
We did the kind of things that are important to young girls, like shop for make-up and purses. Over and over again, I was asked if I needed help. I would simply point to her and say, “I’m just the driver.” That is, of course, until I became the Provider of the Credit Card.
It was, over all, an exceedingly pleasant day. She’s a well-spoken, obviously exceptionally bright kid. Her grandparents are often dumbstruck at the sight of her, because they assert that she looks exactly like her mother did at fourteen. Day after day, she is told how she looks almost eerily identical to her mother. Naturally, I think she’s beautiful.
When the adventure was finished, she had had enough of me. We got home and she went directly to her room, where she permanently affixed a telephone to her ear. That was enough of Dad. She had to know who had broken up with whom in the last four hours.

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No Tiara for This TV Garbage

I turned on the television Saturday, and my TiVo was capturing a “TiVo Suggestion.” It was tuned to MTV, something that doesn’t happen very often in my part of the house. The show being recorded was set somewhere in Louisiana, which was unfortunate for the entire state. This humiliation in the form of cable programming was called “Tiara Girls.”
I hope for your sake that you have never seen this show. This particular episode embarrassed me for my home state and for the families involved. This is a reality show which features some weekly pseudo-documentary chronicling of young women involved in beauty pageants.
I know some beauty pageant people. In my younger days, I knew some of them rather well. The good ones are great. They’re smart, beautiful and successful. The bad ones are just pathetic.
The Louisiana girls featured in this particular episode appear to be lovely young women. I fear the people who produced and edited this show did so in such a way that they (and we) come across like a bunch of bumpkins. I felt so strongly about this that I actually spent some time researching the topic and I found an episode synopsis on-line:

Nancy describes herself as obsessed with pageants and calls the stage her red carpet. With four crowns under her belt already, she is ready to win more--starting with the Louisiana Hope Pageant. There's just one problem: her biggest competition in the pageant will be her best friend Justine. To improve her chances, Nancy hires pageant coach Brandy, Miss LSUA 2005. Nancy and Justine decide to go to the gym for the first time in preparation for the big event. When Justine outdoes her in every exercise Nancy gets discourage, saying that Justine's naturally dark, tall and thin looks make her "genetically more beautiful." With 38 days left before showtime, the girls go out to purchase dresses. Nancy finds the perfect blue dress, but tensions arise when Justine tries on the same dress and says that's her favorite dress too. Justine storms out of the store and threatens to drop out of the competition because everyone seems to be supporting Nancy. On the day of the competition Nancy admits to telling the judges a little lie. She explains that she doesn't know why it happened but it just came out. In the end, Nancy is awarded 2nd Alternate, and her sad expression says it all. Off stage she cries to her father, saying she feels bad for letting him down. He reassures her that he is still proud of her. When everything is said and done with the girls make up, telling each other that having good friends is more important than winning the crown. Besides, there are plenty more pageants to come.

The pageant was held, interestingly, in my father’s hometown of Marksville, Louisiana. There’s a large casino complex there, which provided a nice setting for this new competition, which is set up to benefit the American Cancer Society. The motives of the organizers obviously are pure: benefit a great organization, give the young women something to build confidence, and no doubt make a little cash. Watching the show, though, made my skin crawl.
The girls came across as self-aggrandizing, empty-headed and mean-spirited. The parents didn’t fare much better, although certainly I sympathize with their drive to support their daughters’ activities.
I know it was TV, and the producers want to emphasize the prurient and the low-brow allure of such seemingly superficial pursuits. I’m guessing Nancy’s family regrets allowing MTV’s cameras to follow them around. The Louisiana Queen of Hope Pageant can’t be happy with the way it came across. There’s more bad news. As the show synopsis points out, there are plenty more pageants to come.

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Law & Order: Special Juvy Unit

The end is near for the felon in training who lives in my house. Hopefully, my son’s brush with law enforcement has taught him a valuable life lesson. My daughter asserts that she has learned a little something, saying “I had no idea you would have to go through so much crap for a speeding ticket.” It appears some good may come from this escapade.
My invincible 16-year-old son had a rough weekend earlier this year. He got in some trouble at church camp, enough so that he had to have a face-to-face meeting with the bishop. That turned out well. On his way home from his misadventure, he was stopped by the police because he was driving 88 miles per hour.
A trip to juvenile court was a little more imposing than any of us had anticipated. The recently-renovated courthouse features a courtroom fit for any TV drama. There’s an elevated bench, a witness stand, jury seating, gallery seating and bailiffs with guns strapped to their sides.
The judge entered to the command of “all rise,” which we did. He was in no mood to fool around. With a scowl befitting the best caricature of a curmudgeon, he expressed his displeasure in seeing familiar faces among those who would face his wrath this day. Speedy teen after speedy teen stood before him and learned their fates. The more he talked, the harder my son started to breathe.
The lovely select soccer player who drew the judge’s initial attention and ultimately his ire was harshly rebuked. She obviously had seen him recently in a similar context, and she was compelled to hand over her license. She was fined, sentenced to community service and had her driving privileges suspended for ninety days. We were next.
My wife and I flanked our son as we slowly were enshrouded by the cloud of judgment. The judge asked, “Son, were you really going 88 miles an hour?” He said the only smart thing, “Yes, sir.” The next question seemed irrelevant, but it was asked anyway: “Where do you go to school?” When the judge was informed that my son attends Magnet High, he said, “Magnet High. They only let the best and the brightest in there. You’re too smart to do something so stupid. Do you know that? You have a lot going for you, son. You shouldn’t behave this way.”
His Honor then asked, “Whose car were you driving?” The answer was “My car.” More questions: “Did you pay for it?” “Do you buy the gas?” “Do you pay for the insurance?” The answer to all questions was “no.” So, then the judge advised the appropriately humbled teen facing him that the car is not his, at all. It is, in fact, his parents’ car and they’re just letting him use it. Then, he asked “Do you have a job?” The answer, of course, was “no.”
I have to hand it to this judge. He’s obviously done this before. He said he didn’t want the parents, who had already given the kid so much, to cough up any more cash. He asked if the kid could find enough odd jobs to pay a fine. We assured him we could make that happen.
Here’s the bottom line: for 88 in a 70 on the interstate, the fine was sixty dollars. Plus, he has to attend a class called “Arrive Alive,” which costs forty bucks. The judge gave him two weeks to come up with the 100 dollars, or he would double the community service, which was 16 hours. Finally, the judge said, “Son, you’re going have to get used to double-dating, because you’re not going to be out joy riding with your buddies for a while. Your driving is restricted to business only until July First.”
I had to go back into the courtroom after we arranged for our community service, just to get a clarification of “business” for a 16-year-old kid with no job. For the record, it means he can drive to school or church and can run errands assigned by his parents. That’s it. This may have been the most brilliant stroke by our black-robed, crafty curmudgeon.
As for that community service: Try eight hours on a Saturday, wearing an orange vest, picking up trash long a major highway. Not coincidentally, the highway runs right in front of the juvenile justice complex. Also, every day after school this week, he has reported to a local homeless shelter to “volunteer.” He’s been accepting donations and organizing the linen closet. It’s not exactly the chain gang, but it sends a message.
The end is near. He has been on severe restriction, anyway, for the church camp trouble. Now, the judge has restricted his freedom of movement on top of that. We told him once he pays his fine and finishes his community service, his lockdown days are over. This weekend, he may be allowed to see his friends again. Until July 1, though, somebody else is driving.
I agree with his little sister, that’s a lot of crap to put up with for a speeding ticket. I’ve got a secret, though. I had a chance to talk to the judge after our court appearance. I thanked him and told him I liked his style. He said, “Thanks, good to see you.” I’m guessing my son doesn’t share the sentiment.

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What Can You Drink for $3,000?

I have tasted wine that costs three grand per bottle. It happened for me last weekend. This is a life experience I did not anticipate. I have absolutely no idea why any bottle of wine would cost three thousand dollars, but this one did, and I got two glasses out of it.
This was after sharing two bottles of French wine that were on the wine list at 500 bucks a pop. Again, this is something I never aspired to do, but it’s one of those things; if the opportunity presents itself, you live the moment.
I’ll leave out some of the details for the sake of propriety, but let’s just say all of this happened far from any traditional cultural or culinary Mecca. I had occasion to visit an ordinary mid-sized U.S. city on a routine matter. I anticipated staying in a non-descript hotel for one night, possibly two. I fully expected to spend somewhere around twenty bucks for dinner, then to wake up and have “continental breakfast” at the hotel using plastic utensils and Styrofoam cups.
Somewhere on the road, my traveling companion’s phone rang and a dinner invitation followed in short order. I was dozing or something and missed this piece of news. When we arrived in AnyCity USA, I was told we would be meeting a couple of Fellow Traveler’s friends. Before I knew what hit me, I was whisked into a restaurant which one of the friends owns.
The menu was high-end. Chef and the boys quickly gathered ‘round the boss and started fawning. The Boss, obviously hoping to impress his visitors, had a bottle of Burgundy brought forth. It had French words on the label with hyphens and accent marks. Suddenly, it was open and one of the guys was swirling some of the wine about in his glass and sniffing it like that guy in the movie “Sideways.” The wine was deemed acceptable. A discreet glance at the price list revealed all those hyphens and accent marks add up to $500.00. The wine was excellent, and I would have said that if I hadn’t known the price. It was also gone rather quickly, and another bottle just like it magically appeared and opened just as suddenly. Soon, all of that wine was gone and we hadn’t even gotten to the salads yet.
So, there I sat with one acquaintance and two strangers. Despite this circumstance which ordinarily I would find quite uncomfortable, I was having a fabulous time. More wine, this time from California, made its way to our table. I personally had consumed what I estimate to be about 750 dollars worth of fine wine before I ever got near my pasta and shrimp appetizer. This may be the only time in my life I will be able to truthfully construct that sentence.
The Boss and his high-rolling buddy obviously know this restaurant well. Chef and the Boys were told just to “bring us whatever you think is good tonight.” They did, and it was. Clearly, a significant amount of high-end intoxicants had been consumed, and The Boss was feeling convivial. He invited the dinner party of four to his house for after-dinner (you guessed it) wine.
The Fabulous Manor of The Boss, of course, has a wine cellar. Traveling Companion, Boss and Boss’s Buddy apparently are wine connoisseurs. They regaled one another about their vineyard conquests and one-upped one another with knowledge. It was all very entertaining, to be honest. Finally, The Boss lovingly cradled a bottle of white wine which he asserts was purchased for three thousand dollars. The Other Two nodded their assent, and I hung in there. Again suddenly, there was opening afoot. I have to tell you, there’s pressure in consuming a glass of wine poured from a bottle that purportedly costs three grand. You certainly don’t want to break the glass. You don’t want to spill a drop. You don’t want to shotgun it, do you? Sipping appropriately while staying in touch with my own manliness, I enjoyed the experience.
How do you thank someone who provided you about 1500 bucks’ worth of beverages in one night? Carefully and graciously, that’s how. I think I did okay. The four of us got back together again the next day, so something must have gone right. That time, I just had soup and salad at a restaurant that looked something like a Bennigan’s or a Friday’s, and the bill was about fifteen bucks.
Everything was back to normal, or so it seemed. The food was above average at best and the ice tea was a little weak, a meal you would expect in an ordinary mid-sized U.S. city you’re visiting on a routine matter.

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The Irony of Policing

This is hardly original thought, but it occurred to me this morning that there is irony in policemen pulling people over for speeding. In order for the officer to catch up to the offender, he must exceed the speed limit himself. In fact, the immutable laws of speed and acceleration tell us the officer must, in fact, drive faster than the person he’s trying to catch.
Does the law allow this? It must. Certainly no officer would knowingly violate the law he is sworn to uphold. The city police are determined these days to crack down on inpatient scofflaws on the north-south interstate highway in our city. They’re out there in sedans and on motorcycles pointing their little radar guns at everyone who drives by. Frankly, I’m happy about it. This is I-49, not the Autobahn. Since my son drives that road every day, I see the guys in the mirror sunglasses keeping him honest and safe. He’s noticed them out there, and so he’s driving more slowly, I can only presume.
This brings us to his recent brush with the law. He was on the same highway, except about an hour south, when he was caught speeding. The officer wrote him a ticket for driving 88 miles per hour in a 70 mph zone. I wonder how fast the guy had to drive to catch up to him, 95, 100? Again, there’s the irony.
The justice system has a way of lulling you into a false sense of security. Just when we thought he might have fallen through the cracks, a summons arrived in the mail. He and his Great 88 escapade have to go to juvenile court.
Frankly, I’m hoping the judge makes him work or take a class or something. Any fine doesn’t punish the kid, it punishes the parents. We’ll pay the fine and the increased insurance premiums. He doesn’t have any money. He doesn’t have a job.
I am confident that His Honor has done this before. The summons says a parent has to appear. Maybe we will get a chance to speak. We’re both going, and I’m thinking of dragging two or three grandparents and maybe a parish priest along for good measure. I’m not trying to demonstrate that we’re praying for him (we are, but that’s beside the point), I’d just like everyone to know the kid is being held accountable by several levels of Higher Order.
Upon reflection, though, that seems like overkill. We’ll stand before the judge and accept whatever fate jurisprudence hands us.
As long as we’re contemplating irony, I feel compelled to point out that on the same weekend he got the ticket he got in significant trouble at church camp. He was, in fact, driving home from a diocesan youth event. This is a kid who is seriously contemplating the priesthood as a lifetime commitment, so much so that’s he has met with the bishop about what direction to take. The bishop caught wind of his “lost weekend” and sat him down in a closed-door meeting last week to let him know what he thought about it all.
I know my son was worried about that meeting, but it was a warm, fuzzy positive thing. I’m not so sure that’s how it will go with the juvy judge.

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The Adventures of Stat Girl

I hired a new per diem person to help with my Arena Football play-by-play gig. I think she’ll keep the job. Here’s the good news: she’s accepting payment in services instead of cash. I’ll allow you to use your own imagination on services rendered in exchange for spotter-statistician duties.
It became obvious from the outset that “Stat Girl” wasn’t clear on the position she was accepting, but took the opportunity on faith. I explained that her job would be really simple. Watch the game. When somebody caught the ball or made a tackle, she should just point to his number on this simple yet effective grid I prepared. Following the play, she should write down whether it was a run, a pass or a kick and keep track of the number of plays and the result of each possession. This is straightforward stuff. I had great confidence in stat Girl. I happen to know she has an advanced degree and she comes across as highly intelligent.
One of the first perks of the job was wardrobe. She got an official team tee shirt. It’s all black with the team’s logo in silver and white. I almost lost her though, because of a comment I made. Stat Girl is in her forties, and she steadfastly refuses to artificially color her hair. So, looking at her shirt, I said, “Hey, your hair matches the team colors.” She almost resigned on the spot. However, the promise of services to be rendered overcame a moment of inappropriate humor. Still, a Stat Girl of her stature felt somewhat conspicuous in a football team’s tee shirt. When she arrived at the arena, resplendent in 100% cotton, she discovered that she was something of a sartorial conformist. Pretty much everyone else who was “working the game” was wearing some version of silver and black. I said, “You feel a lot better now that you see everyone is dressed like you, don’t you?” She turned a little red and said “Yes.” Keep in mind; I was wearing a black-with-silver-trim coach’s shirt, so I fit right in, too.
I have to hand it to Stat Girl; she jumped right into the process. Like a media veteran, one of her first inquiries was about the pre-game meal. We found quickly that the media room was catered, and so we were ready. Proudly wearing her team colors now, she took her place beside me in the press box and helped with the set-up of the radio gear. I asked for her assessment of the visiting team’s colors, gave her a headset and did a microphone check. The game producer at the radio station like what he heard and asked for a phone number. Stat Girl let the request pass without comment. That’s so like her.
The pace of the game and commensurately that of the broadcast caught her little off-guard. Arena football moves quickly. But, as I anticipated, she was up to the challenge. There was a little unpleasantness between a couple of other media members about seating arrangements. Stat Girl just sat back and watched wide-eyed as these guys wallowed in little pools of testosterone. She let the incident pass without comment. That’s so like her. Ultimately, she proved more valuable as a spotter than a statistician, but that part will come around.
After almost four hours of live radio describing a game which featured 90 points scored, a drop-kick, a kicker attempting two passes, an ejection and a season-ending injury, Stat Girl was legitimately tired. I think watching the play-by-play man suffer through his team’s 20-point loss had a little to do with it, but nonetheless she came away with a new appreciation for the preparation and execution of a football broadcast. She will watch and-or listen to games with a new perspective now.
Plus, she promised to come back for the rest of the season. You have to like that, especially since the pay scale is quite favorable. She’s certainly not doing it for the clothes. When I closed the post-game show, I thanked the listeners, the studio producer, and of course, “Claire Rebouche, our stat girl and spotter here at the arena.” At that moment, the guy back at the station retracted his request for a phone number. Stat Girl helped me pack up the equipment, and we left, eager with anticipation for the next opportunity to work together.
The good news is, she was so tired by the time the game was over she requested no services. Although, I suspect she’s running a tab.

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More Daddy D in the News!

My name keeps showing up deep in newspaper stories. Check out the last paragraph:

Local recyclers doing their part, but seek others' participation

By Mary Jimenezmaryjimenez@gannett.com

For the McCullough family, the nagging feeling of being wasteful is much stronger than the inconvenience of taking a drive to the Browning-Ferris Industries Regional Recycling Center on St. Vincent Avenue in Shreveport."If we're going to throw it in the trash anyway, why not put it in a box and take it to the recycling center once a week or once a month?" said Kevin McCullough, who along with his wife, Kate, has been recycling for about seven years. "We're going to have to do it for the future of our kids, bottom line."
Shreveport's landfill on Woolworth Road, which receives trash not just from Shreveport and Caddo Parish, but east Texas, Bossier City and Bossier Parish, received about 364,972 tons of trash in 2004, with only 5,900 tons of trash recycled in the same year, according to Shreveport Green, which coordinates the city's recycling program, and the Office of Public Works, which manages solid waste.Those are pretty good figures for a drop-off recycling program, says Mike Strong, director of Shreveport's Department of Operational Services.For those wondering why there isn't a curb-side program, it's because Shreveport's trash falls squarely on the shoulders of the city."We don't charge for garbage collection and never have," Strong said. "It was felt that the increase in cost of the curb-side program would not be outweighed by the space saved in the landfill."The Woolworth Landfill may be the biggest factor in the city's attitude toward recycling.According to Fred Williams, superintendent of solid waste for the Office of Public Works, the life span of the Woolworth Landfill takes it to 2025. "That's with added height modifications," Williams said. "But we're looking at two parcels of land which would take us well beyond 3000."Six hundred acres on the north side of the landfill and 400 acres on the south side of the landfill are being considered for the expansion.But others feel now is the time to think about long-term solutions.Bill Robertson served for eight years as the recycling coordinator for the city before Shreveport Green took over in 1999. Now the executive assistant to Public Service Commission Foster Campbell, Robertson is an observer like anyone else."We have a landfill, and we don't have to worry about garbage disposal and that's good," said Bill Robertson. "But what worries me is how long that landfill will last. It's not going to last forever, and I haven't seen any progress in that direction."One element to the recycling issue that has been a disappointment is the loss of the yard waste program, which failed in 2003 after 10 years."We lost a big chunk when we stopped doing green waste composting," said Donna Curtis, executive director of Shreveport Green. "Now all that green waste goes into the landfill."The Environmental Protection Agency estimates yard trimmings and food scraps that can be composted make up as much as 25 percent of the waste in U.S. households.But a 2002 study of Shreveport's volunteer composting program showed green waste only accounted for about 5,000 tons a year, or 1.5 percent, of the landfill. City officials predicted the additional green waste would not significantly shorten the useful life of the Woolworth Road Landfill. In addition, the program, which included a contract to have separate trucks pick up yard waste, was costing the city an estimated $700,000.Lack of participation was also seen as one of the downfalls."Certainly if people had used it more, it would have been more feasible," Strong said.Some would be open to other options.Shreveporter Darrell Rebouche would be all for a garbage fee, especially if it meant a recycling program that would encourage more people to participate."I just can't bring myself to throw away something that can be reused," said Rebouche, whose family of four has avidly recycled for about nine years. "I see the volume of trash my family can generate, and in my mind, I can extrapolate that to the amount of waste a city our size produces. We are filling landfills and cluttering the earth when we can reuse."

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Redefining Broadcast Excellence

I experienced a strange, familiar feeling Saturday night. I walked into my house late at night following a problem-plagued, deadline-intensive sports broadcast.
This is something I did quite routinely for twenty-five years. The nature of putting together a nightly sportscast at an under-equipped local television station is stressful. Combine a perfectionist personality and things can get intense pretty quickly. The late nights, the stress, the unreliable equipment all were factors in my decision three years ago to walk away from something I had done for a quarter-century.
I jumped back in with both feet Saturday, except in radio. It was fun in its own way, but I’m glad this is a part-time, seasonal pursuit. The Arena football team with which I’ve become affiliated opened its season, and the game didn’t go the way we had hoped; neither did the broadcast. Our team surrendered two scores for every one it made and lost, 63-34. If there had been more time, the other team would have actually doubled our score. Our guys demonstrated an utter inability to stop them. That’s important, but it didn’t affect me as directly as the broadcast of the game did.
I wasn’t intimidated by the idea of doing play-by-play for arena football. After all, all you really have to do is describe what you’re seeing. In this game, things happen quickly. All it takes is to remember a few key names, marry them in your mind with jersey numbers and then just say what you see. A broadcast isn’t a broadcast, however, unless you actually broadcast.
I had never worked with this equipment I was assigned to use. Certainly, I’m not a technical person. I’ve been on-air or management for decades. I’ve “run the board” at a radio station or two. I know the business end of a TV camera, to be sure. I know how to press the right buttons, flip the proper switches, and turn a knob here and there; but if something goes wrong, I absolutely am not your man. I was assured that this equipment was simple to work and easy to hook up. It certainly appeared that way.
At 6:00, with a pre-game show set for 6:40, I began the process of connecting my equipment to the equipment back at the “flagship station.” It should have taken two or three minutes, and I would have the rest of the time to organize my important papers, my thoughts, my pregame and half time shows. It didn’t happen. 6:40 came and went. Then, we passed by 6:45, 6:50 and 6:55 without even noticing. At 7:00, with kick-off less than five minutes away, they still couldn’t hear me back at the station.
With the game about to start, I made an executive decision. I was trouble-shooting this problem (quite unsuccessfully) by talking on the phone with the man running the show at the radio station. As the players took the field, I just said, “Carl this is it. Just put the phone on the air.” You’ve figured it out by now: I literally phoned it in!
I was holding a phone to my ear for almost four hours. I had no headset. I only had one hand to use. I couldn’t take notes or keep stats. I lost almost an hour of pre-game prep time. Other than that, things went well. The average listener apparently didn’t know anything was wrong. That means we did something right.
I came home about 10:30, just like old times. My wife was complimentary of what I had done, just like old times. I was obsessing about how much better it could have been if technical issues outside my control hadn’t interfered, just like old times. I had a great time. I’m looking forward to doing it again, only better, next time.
It was a little bit like going to mom’s house for dinner. It felt good, you’re glad you did it, but you’re also glad you moved away when you did.

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Daddy D in the News!

In the Sunday edition of the Shreveport Times, there is a story about the NFL banning local TV cameras from the sidelines (first called to your attention on Daddy D's storytime). You will see quotes from me, Daddy D:

NFL limits local television coverage
New league policy bans TV stations from sidelines April 9, 2006
By Brian Vernellis bvernellis@gannett.com

A recent decision by the NFL has local television sports directors and national journalism associations questioning the league's motives and, in the end, may cost local NFL fans coverage of their favorite teams.NFL team owners voted unanimously at their spring meetings on March 31 to ban local television crews from videotaping from the sidelines and rely on the NFL and its broadcast partners for game footage. Local publication photographers are still allowed on the sidelines however.
The terms of the policy have not been finalized, but the NFL is expected to explore its options in more depth on Monday.NFL spokesman Greg Aiello said the policy was passed so the league can protect broadcast rights and alleviate congestion along the sidelines."We need to limit the sources of video of our game action that is quite often used illegally on Web sites and otherwise," Aiello told The Times."We have to protect our intellectual property rights and be consistent with what other major sports organizations do when it comes to their major events."The ban includes preseason games which are broadcast nationally, like the Aug. 21 New Orleans Saints-Dallas Cowboys game at Independence Stadium that will be broadcast on ESPN.Under the new resolution, local stations KTBS, KTAL and KSLA may tape pregame and postgame events, including postgame locker room interviews, but will not be allowed on the Independence Stadium sidelines to shoot the Saints and Cowboys.Instead, the only game footage the three local crews will be allowed is from ESPN, which will televise the game for a national audience."Here's something that we've been counting on and looking forward to and it's a great thing for the city, and we're not going to have any way to historically document it five, 10 years down the road," said Tim Fletcher, KTBS sports director.The NFL isn't sympathetic."It doesn't impact the fan in any significant way because the game highlights are all fully available as they always have been," Aiello said. "Local stations can use highlights from the game telecasts which is the highest quality you can get, including multiple replays of key plays."But it isn't always about the highlights.The league's decision makes local stations' job in covering local athletes in the NFL all the more difficult with no game footage of the athlete. Instead they would have to rely on postgame interviews and any game footage shot by a national network, if there was any.For example, if KTBS, KTAL or KSLA wanted to do a story on Philadelphia Eagles running back Ryan Moats, a former Louisiana Tech star, it could not include game footage it videotaped, only national footage -- if there was any."In a way it makes the job easier because shooting games is hard work, but we can't do our job anymore," KTBS sportscaster Clif Cotton said. "We're limited to whatever FOX decides to give us."What I don't think (the NFL) understands is it affects people in markets like ours more than the guys in New Orleans and Dallas. We may go to a game in New Orleans and we might shoot four stories and that's all the airtime that they would be getting because we do a feature on someone that would air on Tuesday when we might not even talk about the Saints on Tuesday otherwise."The Society of Professional Journalists and Radio-Television News Directors Association have requested the NFL and the 32 team owners to reconsider its actions and reverse the policy."The NFL proposal is not in the public interest," said SPJ national president David Carlson. "It is bad for the public, bad for the news media and bad for the NFL."The NFL isn't the only professional league to ban local television crews from the sidelines. The NHL, Major League Baseball and the Masters golf tournament already have policies in place that limit local coverage.The NCAA also doesn't allow local stations to tape the NCAA men's and women's basketball tournaments."It's not uncommon (to ban local TV stations), but it's normally done for something that's perceived as a special event, not a run-of-the-mill regular season game," said former KTAL sports director Darrell Rebouche."I don't think the local stations have much strength. The NFL is so big and popular that the local stations have to cover it even on (the NFL's) terms to be successful, particularly in NFL markets. During the fall, that's the lifeblood of those sports departments."Local television stations hope this action isn't the start of sweeping changes in the future."Where does it stop?" asked David Schwartz, KTAL sports director. "Now we can't go on the sidelines, are we eventually not going to be able to go into the locker room?"Are we only going to get pool seats at a press conference because we're cluttering up the press room and the players are complaining? Are we not going to be able to go into practice? It's going to keep going."

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My Wife Cried on Easter Sunday

My wife spent part of her evening on Easter Sunday 2004 in tears. I should have seen it coming, because all the ingredients were in place for a show of emotion. She’s a “steady as she goes” type, with a personality complementary and antithetical to my own. The daughter of a minister, Easter weekend always has been meaningful to her on many levels. She maintains a steadfast acceptance of her lifelong Christian learning about the day’s historical and spiritual significance. Our children have outgrown the idea of the Easter Bunny, but she can’t resist grouping fuzzy toys and brightly packaged chocolate together in baskets for them. She likes the azaleas in her yard and wants her family together in the dining room after church. She’s happy on Easter. Sure and steady as she is, this is something we can count on.
2004 was a little different. The weekend went well. The kids were happy and got along with one another. We had planned a low-key day. Relatives who live out of town did not come to visit and the in-town folks had plans of their own. We were content, just the four of us to stay together and enjoy the day. Everything went according to plan. Church was nice. The kids were acolytes and they looked positively angelic dressed all in white. The music was fine that morning, with a brass quartet accompanying the organist and the choir. We sang “alleluia” songs and said good-bye to the somber Lenten liturgy we had endured for more than a month. Lunch was well prepared, and we all enjoyed one another’s company.
It was the Easter we anticipated. Then, along came Phil. Somewhere along the way, while living the life of a sportscaster’s wife, Claire developed a fondness for watching golf on television on Sunday afternoons. As a by-product of this she became, like so many others, a long-suffering Phil Mickelson fan. I have watched her sit, literally on the edge of her seat, imploring Mickelson not to lose his confidence on the final holes of a major tournament. She has suffered through chili-dips and yips. She has grown hopeful watching his free-wheeling style. She’s never played a round of golf but, thanks to Phil, she can make a pretty accurate assessment of a “good lie.”
When David Toms defeated Phil by a stroke at the PGA Championship, she was the textbook definition of ambivalence. She knew Toms was the Shreveport-Bossier guy on the brink of a professional breakthrough. Like the rest of our community, she wanted him to win. But, she absolutely did not want to watch Mickelson suffer yet another agonizing near-miss.
When she learned that Mickelson was tied for the lead going into the final round of the Masters, she said “I don’t want to think about it.” Yet, when the last alleluia was sung and the last dish was put away, she locked in on Lefty at Augusta. For a while, it looked like another Mickelson moment. Ernie Els took the lead away with a lot of skill, a little luck and a couple of successful eagle putts. But Phil stayed steady. As he walked up to the green on the 72nd hole of the Masters while tied for the lead with a chance to win with one putt, my wife pulled the covers up over her eyes like an adolescent girl as a slumber party watching a horror movie. She couldn’t bear to watch and yet she couldn’t turn away. What that putt dropped into the cup, she screamed so loudly that our daughter came running into the room in wide-eyed amazement.
Mickelson grabbed his own little daughter and said, “Daddy won! Can you believe it?” It was over. Mickelson, labeled for so long as the best golfer never to win a major, shed his torment. My wife shed tears. She’s a Phil fan. I guess now I am, too. What makes my wife happy makes me happy. Thanks to Mickelson, she was happy on that Easter. That’s something we can count on.

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The Responsibility of Being "Part of the Team"

I’ve never been a “team announcer” before. All the years I spent in broadcasting, I was ethically bound to make a stab at objectivity. That’s because a news organization always was my primary source of income, and that’s what news professionals are expected to do. Sure, I got off the straight and narrow path with some regularity as I did a talk show on the side. Even in that context, though, I knew there were limits.
I’ve discovered in the months since I left journalism that people in general are less guarded around me. It’s amazing how much information you can get out of people when getting information isn’t your job. When people know that you won’t take what they say and pass it along in a publication or on radio, television, or the internet, they’re just more forthcoming.
I’m telling you right now, I know some things that several reporters would fall all over themselves to know. One of the most eye-opening realizations for me, once I left the news business, was how much closely-guarded information I was missing. I realized all along, of course, that anyone who speaks to the media has an agenda. Still, my own naiveté, realized in retrospect, surprises me.
All that being said; I’m astonished at the level of access to certain knowledge that comes with being “part of the team.” As I prepared for my first game at the Bossier-Shreveport BattleWings’ play-by-play man, I knew about roster moves before almost anyone. In my background, coaches speak to you only at pre-appointed times and hand out information in tiny, discerning pieces. To have the playbook, the chalk talk, and the personnel moves enthusiastically revealed to me has been quite a change.
When I left the media, I was a little worried that I would miss being “in the know.” Obviously, my apprehension was ill-placed. In fact, quite the opposite has happened. In matters that are of interest to me, I actually know a lot more now than I did before.
I think now my limited endeavors in the media are more fulfilling than when I pursued broadcasting full-time. I get just enough opportunity on the radio to soothe my broadcasting soul, and it comes without the preposterous level of responsibility that was attached to what I had been doing. In other words, I’m just doing the fun stuff now. What’s wrong with that? Plus, people trust me and tell me things.
A little pressure is starting to build, though. I’m making last minute preparations for my first Arena Football play-by-play performance, and I want to be good. I know it’s not the NFL and a good Texas high school team will have a larger listening audience. Even though I’m not a full-time broadcaster anymore, I feel a responsibility to the team that showed enough faith in me to give me a chance.
After all, being part of the team has its perks. I hope I earn them.

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My Brother Got Hit By a Car

Life continues to take its twists. The son is back from his flirtation with TV stardom, and the daughter arrived home safely from The Big Apple. These kids are close, 22 months apart, and amazingly they don’t fight. I hear stories from friends and acquaintances about how their kids are engaging in constant warfare. It doesn’t happen in our house.
I believe they actually missed one another while she became the world traveler. They’re out of school this week, and today they’ve been driving around town together. They’re just running errands. It’s kind of sweet, really.
Just when you think everything has smoothed out, don’t let down your guard. I was sitting at work, minding my own business, when my phone rang. My brother was in the Emergency Room (thankfully, at a facility which generates my paycheck, as well as my wife’s). Dude was not working today and decided to ride a bicycle to a nearby store. He got hit by a car. When you’re middle-aged with an older brother, you don’t expect to get this phone call: “I’m in the emergency room. I was riding my bike and got hit by a car.” Two or three years ago, a phone call like that in reference to one of my kids would have been alarming but not necessarily surprising. But, there it is: an ordinary Wednesday and your brother gets hit by a car. He’s okay, with some bruises, contusions and a few stitches, but doggone.
I’m telling you, life is interesting. What’s next, my wife falls off the monkey bars on the playground? My father’s skateboard hits a crack in the sidewalk and he takes a header?
I’m ready to predict what’s next. Our health system has acquired the latest in cardiac imaging, a 64-slice CT scanner. I have volunteered to let them try the thing out on me. I fully expect them to take one look at my heart and the surrounding arteries and scream, “Stent! Stat!” Or, “Crack him open, we’re doing a quintuple bypass!” I like my bacon and my butter and my cheese, and I’m thinking my arteries are slamming shut on me.
Who knows, the way things are going, they might just find Chicken Pox or Measles.
I have to take a drug to slow down my heart rate and another one to dilate my vascular system. But the hardest part might be avoiding caffeine for 12 hours before the test. Either that, or the IV they plan to use to inject dye into my body. Sounds like a pleasant experience, doesn’t it?
I’m happy to do it, though. As I’ve mentioned, my diet leaves something to be desired. Who needs a heart attack? Isn’t it strange, though? You take the opportunity to subject yourself to a state of the art diagnostic process with a notion of warding off a potential life-threatening issue, and suddenly you’re hit in the face with reality. It might not matter, anyway. You could just be minding your own business, getting a little exercise. Then, without warning, you get blasted by a Toyota Tercel. It could happen. Just ask my brother.

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NFL Owners Deny Local Stations

Local television sports departments across the country are quivering right now. Their very existences are being threatened. This is not hyperbole. The National Football League is reportedly taking a step that will go a long way toward rendering local sports departments essentially superfluous.

I’ve stepped away from the media for the most part. I say “for the most part,” because it’s proven to be impossible for me to divorce myself emotionally from a lifestyle I embraced (endured?) for 27 years. I reacted with some emotion when I read that NFL owners had voted unanimously to ban local television cameras from the sidelines of all of their games. They can do it. Apparently, they have done it. But, we don’t have to like it.

The Radio & Television News Directors Association (RTNDA), of which I was a member until the end of 2005, has reacted strongly. Here’s part of a letter the RTNDA sent to the NFL:

RTNDA members include the news directors at local stations in every city with an NFL franchise. These stations cover the activities of their local NFL teams, providing news and information of great interest to the local community. RTNDA members began contacting our Washington headquarters yesterday as they learned about this discriminatory and unprecedented policy. They are deeply concerned that NFL team owners have taken such action without announcement, consultation or consideration of the broader impact on public interest. RTNDA’s members are hard-pressed to understand the rationale behind your decision, which effectively prohibits coverage of NFL games by television reporters. Even private entities should not be allowed to engage in behavior that impedes the media’s right to gather and disseminate public information such as information about sporting events. Certainly, severely restricting the rights of the electronic media to gather news in publicly funded stadiums raises significant First Amendment questions. When electronic journalists are denied the ability to report on a news event with their own microphones, cameras and production crews, it allows newsmakers to determine the content of the news, a result that is inconsistent with our society’s democratic values. This week’s decision gives no weight to the public’s interest in the free flow of information and access to events that define our national culture. As a vital and highly respected American institution, the National Football League should not be in a position of subverting the American tradition of a free press. Because your policy distinguishes between still photography and video cameras, it discriminates against television journalists, and interferes with the public’s ability to get information from a wide variety of sources. By banning local television coverage, this policy harms the local stations’ ability to serve the public and has the potential to damage the bonds between the NFL franchise and the community. For all of these reasons, we strongly urge you to reconsider your policy, and continue permitting television journalists to use the tools of their trade to independently and accurately bring information to the public about NFL games.

I couldn’t have said it better myself. In fact, I wish I had written it. Rarely do I run across anything that crystallizes my thoughts exactly, but this does it.

I got an e-mail from a TV photographer I know who works in Atlanta. He said a “local boycott” of the NFL by Atlanta televisions stations is being discussed seriously. I sincerely doubt that will work out. The NBC and FOX stations, in particular, will be under great economic pressure to support their networks’ investment into the NFL product. It’s virtually impossible to get competitors to work together on anything, anyway…even if it serves their mutual interests.

The fact remains; the NFL has all the leverage here. Even without local stations, the league certainly will not operate in anything close to a vacuum. Sadly, the local stations need the NFL and its teams significantly more than the NFL needs the local media. The league has the national media. In fact, two broadcast networks and a cable network have paid hundreds of millions of dollars to the NFL for the right to show their games. Nobody’s boycotting anything.

Did I say this move is a step toward rendering local sports departments superfluous? Don’t dismiss this notion as preposterous.
Not long ago, I was at an RTNDA sponsored seminar in Washington, DC. The other local television executives there had no idea I had a decades-long background as a sports director. We were sitting around at dinner one night and every single one of those news directors and managing editors was complaining about their sports departments. One, in fact, was absolutely reveling in the fact that he had shut down his sports department. He was bragging that he had locked the door to the sports office, moved the editing system into general use and had let the main sports anchor go while transitioning the weekend guy into the general assignments reporter pool.
An assistant news director from an NFL market was complaining about his sports department’s use of manpower, saying “We shoot all this ground-level video, and then I watch our newscast and see highlights cut from the network feed. What are we paying these guys to do?” There is a growing sentiment among local TV management and ownership that the local sports departments are not worth the salaries and operating expenses associated with them.

An exception to that may have been most NFL markets, where the team captures the fascination of a large percentage of viewers. The local stations can do local features and special programming to cater to those fans. Removing local cameras from the sidelines will make that pursuit significantly more challenging. It might also be more expensive if the NFL starts charging for the right to uses its video.

Make no mistake about it: this is an unsettling, frustrating and possibly frightening time for local TV sportscasters. I hope for their sakes that the RTNDA wins this fight for them.

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Life's Like That

This is how my life has changed: My daughter is flying home from New York and my son spent the day on a movie set.
For those of you with young children, this is hard to imagine. I have two living, breathing teenagers and it’s still hard to wrap by brain around it. Imagine the confluence of events that led to my daughter being in Manhattan and my son reporting to make-up and wardrobe at 6:00am.
I can say in all honesty that I never anticipated writing the sentence “My daughter is flying home from New York and my son spent the day on a movie set.” The first part isn’t all that mid-boggling. School trips at spring break are commonplace, and aside from some beach, NYC is a desirable destination. Still, it’s a little unnerving to call my baby girl (Well, not a baby anymore!) on her cell phone on a Saturday night and ask, “Where are you, honey?” and hear, “Times Square.” It happened last Saturday. She’s been sending photos home. My daughter on the observation deck at the Empire State Building, Ground Zero, Ellis Island, Wall Street, Little Italy, ChinaTown, Harlem, Broadway! I’m amazed and envious at the same time.
To understand the improbability of the second circumstance, you have to know my son. When he played youth sports (he’s staunchly retired for years now), he absolutely hated to be the object of attention. We were not allowed to cheer while using his name. We were restricted to a subtle “thumbs-up.” That’s how I really knew he’d never be a sports star. But, a movie star?
We’re a long way from that, too. Believe it or not, Shreveport has become some kind of a film hub. Sandra Bullock, Demi Moore, Ashton Kutcher, Kevin Costner and many other household names are cruising around town making movies. There are TV shows in production here, too. There’s a new show on FX called “Thief,” which debuted last Tuesday. The pilot was shot mostly in New Orleans. But, after Hurricane Katrina, the whole operation was moved here. In the previews, Shreveport sites were easily detectable to the familiar eye.
Mr. Teen Angst was sitting at home with no specific spring break plans when his phone rang. Somebody who knows somebody who knows him is working with a casting agency in town (Yeah, a casting agency in Shreveport). A Lifetime made-for-cable movie is in production, and they needed teenage extras. So, he rolled out of the rack at 5:15am for a 6:00 cast call, and there you have it.
I don’t think he’s been bitten by the film bug, though. He said there’s a lot of sitting around followed by doing the same thing over and over. Of course, any film veteran knows that. He may be complaining, but it’s easy money. He played a skater-boy. Maybe it wasn’t so easy, after all.
I’ll just be glad when everybody gets home and life returns to normal. Although, I suspect as they get older and life presents itself to them in a broader fashion, we will constantly be redefining “normal.”

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Who's Your Best Friend?

Not long ago, my daughter asked me, “Dad, who is your best friend?” A young girl likely would expect a short, simple answer, most likely a name. If she were to be asked the same question, the answer probably would change month to month. It would depend upon with whom she has been spending the most time recently or who was mean to her at school that day. For a middle-aged man, the answer is significantly more complex.
The short answer, at least for me, would be “your mother.” Certainly my wife is the person I count on the most and the one I see every day. I enjoy her company immensely. I don’t think that’s what my daughter was looking for, though. Mom is a given.
So, how does one define “best friend?” The concept seems kind of juvenile. Why must someone be labeled as such? Am I looking for the person with whom I’ve been friends the longest? If so, the answer is easy. The guy I shared a desk with in first grade, who was best man in my wedding and is godfather to my children earns that distinction with ease. However, he lives five hours away. We talk often, but we only see one another once a year or so. We do have a lifetime of shared memories to fall back on, and spending time with him is effortless. For more than forty years he has been the one constant in my life. It’s not as if I can meet him after work for dinner or just drop by and hang out with his family, though.
Is your best friend the person you like the most, the one you’re always happy to see? If that’s the case, there’s another strong candidate. There are people for whom I have strong affection, and yet I’m not all that social with them. Maybe the spouses don’t get along or we’ve drifted apart over the years. I ran into one such person recently. Feeling particularly open, I said “I know we don’t see one another very often, but I hope you know I count you among my friends. Love is love.” The response was gratifying: “I feel exactly the same way.” It was a risk, but the reward was terrific.
AS I was struggling with a response to my daughter’s question, I thought of someone else. I told her that there is a person who I’m always happy to see and whose company I consistently enjoy. Does that define my best friend? I know that person has other friends who are closer. So, this begs another question. Does best friendship have to be mutual? I don’t have the answers. This is just something to think about.
We get so busy with work and kids and our myriad activities that sometimes we don’t do friendship maintenance. I’m suggesting we all take the time to thank our friends. There’s a line in the song “What a Wonderful World” that points out how uncomfortable many of us are about expressing our affection: “I see friends shaking hands, saying ‘how do you do?’ They’re really saying ‘I love you.’” It’s true.
Try reaching out to the people who are important to you. Don’t take for granted that they realize it. Express your friendship. I called my old first-grade deskmate just to say hello. I wrote an e-mail to someone else to thank him for his friendship.
Coincidentally, I got a card from someone thanking me for “putting up with” him. Giving and receiving these expressions of friendship is uplifting. Don’t be surprised if some people are uncomfortable with it. Given the state of things, that’s to be expected. It’ emotionally risky, but the rewards can be fantastic.
Who knows? You might found out who your best friend is.

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Attempting to Celebrate

Life can really distract you sometimes. As a Louisiana resident and a sports fan, I should be celebrating right now. Two basketball teams from LSU have made it to the Final Four, the promised land of college basketball. While the women were expected to make it this far, the men were not. The Tigers have needed great defense and a lot of luck to advance to the game’s ultimate destination for the first time in 20 years. The state is awash in glee and anticipation over what has happened, as well as what is yet to come.
I’ve enjoyed it. I have watched every second of every men’s game in the NCAA tournament. There’s been tension and some celebration, but no emotional high. The sports fan, more specifically the LSU fan, in me is tempered by life.
It doesn’t seem so long ago that the accomplishments and shortcomings of LSU, Louisiana Tech and the Dallas Cowboys would set the tone for my day, week or month. Now, I can enjoy their successes but the disappointments matter little. That’s a wonderful thing.
Middle age has done it to me. I have an aging parent, a chronically ill sibling and two teenagers. Thank God my wife is wonderful and normal and well. She has been and continues to be an inspiring partner in dealing with life’s little travails. She’s also a great sports partner. She sat with me and suffered through the final moments of LSU’s overtime win over Texas, despite daunting personal distractions.
When you’re worried about your father and you feel powerless to help your brother and your son does the kind of self-destructive things that teenage boys do while your daughter lives and dies depending upon the attention paid to her by her friends, life gets a little confusing. Somehow, the number of commas in a basketball coach’s salary just doesn’t seem to matter. It’s a magnificent distraction. The success of LSU in particular and the riveting entertainment value of the NCAA tournament in general are welcome relief. I just wish I could be more exultant. It’s not to be, though. Exultation is something that occurs and cannot be faked or forced.
The weight of life and the responsibilities commensurate with existing as a forty-something husband/father/son/brother can lead you down a path of despondency. You must choose to turn away, however, and celebrate the things that are good.
I remember one time, as a little kid, attempting to make a deal with God about the fortunes of the Dallas Cowboys. I told God that if the Cowboys won the Super Bowl, I would go to church every Sunday for the rest of my life. When I was a child, I spoke as a child; I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. St. Paul wrote that long ago. Now, I know what he means. I’m not interested in making any deals with the lord Almighty about the Cowboys or LSU. I just pray I make it through this phase of my life as a good son, a responsible husband, a wise father and a kind brother.
If LSU wins a national championship in basketball while I’m doing all that, it will be fun to watch.
Geaux Tigers.

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Its Raining. Run for Your LIves!

Okay, I’m still on a weather kick. Here in North Louisiana, we had an eventful weather weekend. There were big storms, impressive amounts of rain, a little hail and some alarming thunder. This is the kind of weekend where TV weathermen are worth their keep. Interestingly, the guy doing the weather report on the “Today Show” mentioned Shreveport this morning. So, it’s all good for the local weather people, who got it right.
Today, I’m on the viewers. Or, at least I’m on the public, many of whom likely are not actually viewers.
The wife and I were at a fancy dinner party Sunday night, the kind with printed place cards on the table. We were seated with people we had not met before. They were nice people. The men were well dressed and successful professionals. Their wives were lovely and comfortable conversationalists. That is, until the topic became the weather.
In March, you can count on a couple of things to carry polite small talk: the NCAA basketball tournament and the coming of Spring. Because two teams from the state are in the tournament, there was plenty for the guys to talk about. One woman at the table (my wife, of course God bless her) was able to carry on a reasonably intelligent dialogue about the Tigers and the Demons. Politeness to the clueless at our table dictated a change in topic, however. There was the inevitable talk of kids and schools. A reasonably engaging moment or two about the differences between Episcopalians and Roman Catholics livened things up a bit. Then, since it had been raining, talk turned to the weather.
For at least forty years, TV weather reporters have been explaining the concept of a watch versus a warning. It seems pretty simple, a common sense thing. A warning means you are being WARNED, for God’s sake. Doesn’t the word WARNING, even without the capital letters, connote a certain urgency? A watch, on the other hand, implies something more benign. “Let’s watch.” Somebody else is doing something interesting. We’ll watch. As opposed to: You’ve been warned! Get it? A watch means conditions are favorable for something to happen in and close to the watch area. A warning means it’s happening right now! Why don’t people get that?
So, we’re sitting behind our place cards making polite conversation about how much it’s rained when someone says it’s supposed to rain some more. I said I didn’t realize that (After all, I’m not a big fan of the TV weather report. See previous posts). Then, one of the lovely ladies at our table breaks out this little gem: “Yes, we’re under a tornado warning.” What?! Christ almighty, run for your lives! Seek shelter. Put down that pilaf and head for a small room near the center of the structure!
Not so fast. Her ever-alert husband, no doubt accustomed to his bride’s alert status, quickly said, “I think it’s a thunderstorm watch.” Huh? What? Oh, Where’s Emily Latella when you need her? You remember the Gilda Radner character from Saturday Night Live, don’t you? She’s get something all wrong. Someone would explain it to her and she would say, “Oh, that’s completely different. Never mind.” The thing is, this poor woman didn’t realize what she had said. She just said, “Oh”
I know this is an intelligent person. She offered cogent observations about matters of life. But, with the weather thing, she was way off the mark. The TV consultants tell us that the weather is one thing that all viewers have in common, so the weather report is the most important and consistently compelling component of a newscast. I’ll concede that. Now, all they need is viewers who pay attention long enough to know when to come in out of the rain.

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Heavenly Demons Will Live On

Jermaine Wallace is immortal. His improbable three-point basket, which swished the net with five-tenths of a second showing on the clock at the Palace at Auburn Hills, the home of the Detroit Pistons, has assured that.
Wallace plays basketball for Northwestern State University, the little school in Natchitoches. The Demons were matched with Big Ten Tournament champion Iowa in the first round of the 2006 NCAA tournament. For most of the game, things followed the anticipated trajectory. With eight and a half minutes left in the game, Iowa led by seventeen points. Northwestern coach Mike McConathy, in his excellent understated workmanlike way, kept his guys focused. Iowa apparently let down a little, and the Demons just kept coming.
Clifton Lee made four 3-pointers and a long jumper to pull NSU to within three points twice, then Jermaine Spencer scored in the lane to make it 60-59 Iowa with about a minute left. The Hawkeyes got a free throw to set the stage for Wallace’s improbable heroics. Demon Kerwin Forges missed a 3-pointer with about six seconds left and Wallace prevented the bouncing ball from going out of bounds, pivoted and sank the game-winning shot.
The place went nuts. Wallace ripped off his jersey. Of course, he was mobbed. One of the tournament’s all-time great upsets (a 14 seed over a 3) happened on one of its most memorable shots. Wallace’s heroics will be played thousands of times for years to come. The shot and the ensuing madness are instantly legendary.
This could not happen for a more deserving institution or a nicer man than demons coach Mike McConathy. He’s the kind of guy you pull for. He’s the kind of guy you want to see succeed. Even if his coaching career leads him no farther than Natchitoches, he will always have this moment. He will always have this team. He will always have Jermaine Wallace.

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Sopranos, Christine & Delinda: More TV Confessions

I guess I’m just a sucker for Julia Louis-Dreyfuss. Her career-defining role as the fetching Elaine Benes on “Seinfeld” elevated her to superstar status. However, I first noticed her during her stint on “Saturday Night Live.” I may have been the only viewer in America who watched the TV series “Day by Day,” in which she played the uptight, Type-A neighbor of the family central to the sitcom’s plot. Her name was Eileen Swift, and she would pop in on the couple which had given up their careers to open an in-home daycare center.
Her first post-Seinfeld series, “Watching Ellie” didn’t catch on; but the first two episodes of “The New Adventures of Old Christine” are promising. My wife saw the first episode, and I saw the pilot. We had them on TiVo, so we sat and watched them together. Both of us laughed out loud several times. I think Julia may have found her comedic stride again. If you watch her work, you can see just enough of Elaine in Christine to help viewers feel familiar. The character, however, is completely different and there are circumstances that allow men and women alike to enjoy the show’s premise. I think CBS has a hit on its hands.
This means Monday is big for the Big Eye. “Two and a Half Men” and “How I Met Your Mother” are legitimate successes and are laugh-out-loud funny, as well. I never watch them together, though. These are shows I save on TiVo. When I need thirty minutes of down time, they’re good company.
Has anybody figured out the sushi storyline on the season premiere of “The Sopranos?” I know all the talk is about suicide and shooting, but I just don’t get the sushi thing. I think the episode was over hyped a little, but it was still awfully good.
I saw in a magazine that one of the top ten DVD sales in America is season one of “Grey’s Anatomy.” I believe it. It’s the show everybody seems to be talking about. My family didn’t start watching it until this year. Is it because it’s on Sunday now? Where was it before? Anyway, it would be nice to know a lot of the back stories. I have to admit, I’m tempted to buy that DVD set, myself. The only thing that’s stopping me is a lack of time to sit down and watch them.
I just can’t believe that “Battlestar Galactica” is gone until October. I know Sopranos fans waited longer than that between seasons, and the anticipation continued to build. Maybe the long layoff will do BG fans some good. I hear fans complaining about the one-year time leap in the season finale, but it worked for me. I’m very pleased with the show overall, and I’ll miss it over the next several months. October. That’s ridiculous.
American idol remains a mystery to me. I guess Melissa was punished for forgetting her lyrics, but it seemed to me the judges tried to save her. Kevin needs to go. This is ridiculous. Don’t you wish that, maybe once, the producers would ask America to vote someone off instead of voting for the singer you’d like to keep? I’d vote Kevin off in a heartbeat, and Bucky would be next. I’m big on Lisa, but I don’t think she’ll win. Paris can sing, but she annoys me. Katherine is the cream of the female crop. Kellie has that “little minx” thing going that will help her stick around for a while. Chris and Taylor stand out for me among the guys. I think Ace has been exposed as a pretty boy.
I tried again with “The Office” at the urging of the Daddy D masses, but it just doesn’t work for me. I’ve thought about this. The humor has a mean-spirited tone. I didn’t enjoy “Everybody Loves Raymond” for the same reason. I’m still TiVoing it, though. I’m not ready to give up on it yet.
The race for my affection between Vanessa Marcil and Molly Sims has taken a surprising turn. They are Sam and Delinda on “Las Vegas.” I always liked my Sam. In fact, it wasn’t even close for me. However, after seeing Molly Sims in Sports Illustrated’s swimsuit issue, there’s a new front runner. By the way, does that show have a storyline? Does anybody care? It fits better on Friday night.
Finally, what can I say about Boston Legal? It never disappoints. It’s clever, sometimes hysterical, controversial and consistently entertaining. As an added bonus, at this moment I still think (with a nod to Molly Sims) that Julie Bowen is the best looking woman on television.

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The Great Eighty-Eight

There are plenty of things to frighten a parent. Chicken Pox, mean kids, kidnappers and bad babysitters are some of the things that come to mind. Handing your teenager the keys to a car and letting him drive out there in the world by himself has to be right up there.
This happened to us exactly one month ago. Already, we have a speeding ticket to show for it. 88 in a 70. Eighty-Eight! Miles per Hour. On the interstate (thank God).
“I wasn’t paying attention. I was following another car, passing on the left going down a hill.” That’s what we got. That’s the best he could do. This is so alarming; I can’t even be clever about it. He had other people’s children in the car with him. He was so unaware of his surroundings that when I asked him what agency issued the ticket, he had no clue. “What do you mean?” was his clever question. I asked, “Was it a state trooper, a sheriff’s deputy or a city policeman?” He had no idea. He said the guy’s uniform was blue. That’s the best he could do?
Since nobody’s dead or injured, this may be the best thing that could have happened to him. The officer of ambiguous origin gave him an appropriate scare. He’s going to be forced into manual labor to pay off the fine, which I’m sure will be hefty. Plus, he will be forced to attend some kind of speed deterrent classes.
I guess you just have to learn. He drove with a permit for a year, and we were constantly on him about his speed. I said to him, after the Great Eighty-Eight, “I know you think you’re invincible, but you’re not.” He really was convinced that police don’t enforce speed restrictions on the interstate. He found out the hard way that he was wrong. Thankfully, he was not dead wrong. He didn’t pay attention to his parents, but apparently he is paying attention to the guy in his rear-view mirror with the flashing lights.
His teenage indiscretions have been mild, and we’re thankful for that. Most of them have been somewhere on the line between annoying and amusing; but none have been legitimately frightening so far.
This one, I can’t get out of my mind. He was much closer to 100 mph than he was to the speed limit of 70.
I used to make fun of my mother, because she said that every time she heard an emergency siren, she thought for a second that something might have happened to my brother. Now, I feel as if I owe her an apology. This 88 thing has emotionally scarred me. I was naïve. I trusted the kid in his car. I didn’t worry when he was out there. Now, I’ve gone to the opposite extreme. It’s constantly on my mind.
The only other time I’ve been this worried about this kid, he was still in diapers. He and I were alone in the house. I went to the bathroom for a couple of minutes. When I came out, I couldn’t find him anywhere. I called him, looked everywhere and got a little panicky when I saw the front door was open. He had toddled into the yard, across the street and three houses down to play in Audrey Lewis’ garden. He was just sitting there, watching this little bird feeder spin around in the breeze. While I was relieved to see him, my mind was whirring with the awful possibilities this circumstance presented.
When I think about 88 Miles per hour, I feel almost exactly the same way.

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Okay, Forget the Pilots. Go Demons

.So, the NAIA basketball tournament is underway. LSU-Shreveport, ranked #1 in the nation less than a month ago, lost in the first round to Southern Polytechnic. That tells you pretty much everything you need to know about the NAIA rankings system. Hey, an upset's an upset, and I'm upset that the Pilots lost.
Now, we can concentrate on LSU Baton Rouge in the NCAA. The Tigers will try to avoid an upset of their own again Iona.
Not to be confusing, but another Louisiana college team will play Iowa. There's just one letter's difference between Iona and Iowa, but there's a world of difference in the quality of play.
The Northwestern State Demons are in the NCAA Tournament for the ssecond time under affable coach Mike McConathy. Mike, who spent 13 seasons toiling in almost absolute obscurity at Bossier Parish Community College, is one of the most underappreciated coaches in the country. I've never met Steve Alford, the Iowa Coach (and probably the next coach at Indiana), but I'll take "Coach Mike" any day of the week and twice on Sunday.
That the Northwestern State Demons are in the NCAA Tournament isn’t a surprise. They were everybody’s pick to win the Southland Conference’s automatic berth, and their performance in the regular season showed why.
Now they’re back in a role they’ve thrived in this season: as an underdog against a tradition rich program from a power conference.
The Demons had five of those matchups this year. They won three, and arguably, four of them -- winning at Mississippi State, Oklahoma State, beating Oregon State in Hawaii, and falling short on the scoreboard in the Phantom Point” double OT loss to Iowa State at Hawaii’s Rainbow Classic. They also led at Missouri for 35 minutes but a 36-9 free throw disparity took a toll at game’s end.
But none of those teams have anything approaching the 2005-06 credentials posted by the Iowa Hawkeyes.
The Big Ten Conference Tournament champs have 25 wins, one of the best RPIs in college hoops, a veteran lineup, an acclaimed head coach and staff and a
well-deserved No. 3 seeding in the Atlanta Region of the NCAA Tournament.
The SLC Tournament champ Demons also have 25 wins, a veteran lineup, and a remarkable head coach. McConathy has a simple mantra for his teams: “C’mon guys, let’s go to work.” To emphasize the point during last week’s Conference tournament, before the semifinals he put a hard hat for his pregame talk to the Demons, and he did so again in the championship game pregame speech.
The players autographed the hat before the finals. It's hokey, but it's quintessentially Mike, and it worked.
This is a guy who doesn't allow cursing, or "talking ugly" as he calls it, in his presence. He sets a standard for behavior and a standard for winning. I'm pulling for him. I've picked the Demons as an upset winner in my bracket. This is Mike's big chance. He has seven seniors. Next year, he starts rebuilding a bit.
His team just might be able to string together a couple of "Big Dance" wins before he runs into the Texas Longhorns. If it happens (and I'm admitting it's unlikely), then don't be surprised if McConathy gets some attention from a program that's a long, long way from BPCC.

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Something to Celebrate on Greenwood Road

Hey! How about those Indians! The Fair Park High School basketball team won a state championship Saturday night by beating Wossman. It's the first state title for Fair Park since 1963. I'm not a fan. I certainly did not attend a Fair Park game this year, or for the last five years or so. Still, this is a tremendous accomplishment for the school particularly because it's an inner city campus. For the community the school serves, and for the city as a whole, this should provide a real morale boost.
There was a time when there were just two high schools in town: Fair Park and Byrd. While Byrd maintains a tremendous cross-generational sense of community and school pride, Fair Park is quite the opposite. Over the last 30 years or so, Fiar Park has become overwhelmingly African-American. That's simply an observation. Sadly, a lot of alumni simply aren't involved and just don't care anymore. Byrd boasts general reunions and is widely known as "The City of Byrd." Fair Park is just kind of the school across from the fairgrounds now.
This state championship will be deeply meaningful for Fair Park. The Indians' veteran coach, Ronald Preston, is a nice man and obviously an excellent coach. He has been close to achieving this dream several times. By all accounts, he has had teams which were much more talented. Coming down a couple of notches in classification may have helped, but that fact in no way diminishes this accomplishment. There's something to celebrate on Greenwood Road, and that has to be good for the whole city of Shreveport, with the possible exception of the City of Byrd.

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Tigers Frustrate Again

It doesn't matter in the short run, but didn't you just know LSU would lose in the SEC tournament?
Winning the conference title is a wonderful thing, an outstanding accomplishment. The post-season accolades received by Glen Davis and John Brady and the rest are all something worth celebrating. But, doggone it, don't you just wish they'd finish what they started just once?

The Tigers allowed five Florida Gators to score in double-figures Saturday and LSU lost 81-65. They got trounced. It was as if they didn't care. Maybe they didn't. They're virtually assured of at least a #3 seed in the NCAA tournament. Wouldn't a #2 have been better? I'm betting Florida will be seeded higher, and they should be.
LSU hasn't won an SEC tournament title since 1980 and hasn't played in the championship game since 1993. I know Tyrus Thomas is hurt and the NCAA's are more important. Still, LSU won 23 games this year. They had a seven-game winning streak. Imagine if they had taken a nine-game streak and 25 wins into the NCAA's. Wouldn't that have been imposing to a 15th-seed opponent?

LSU led Florida 41-38 at halftime but opened the second half by hitting only three of its first 13 shots. The Gators had them where they wanted them. It's just frustrating.

Glen Davis,who looked like the best player in college basketball against Vanderbilt Friday night while scoring 28 points, struggled Satuday. He had only two points in the first half against Florida and finished with 12.

Darrell Mitchell finished with a game-high 21 points for LSU. Tasmin Mitchell scored 20 for the second game in a row, and Darrell Lazare had 10 starting in place of Thomas.

Let's just hope Thomas feels better and D-Mitch can be more consistent. What will satisfy LSU fans? Final Four, of course. That's a pipe dream. I say two trips get them off John Brady's back. Win the two first round games and get to the Sweet 16, maybe win their way into the Elite 8, and Bengal Barney starts to concentrate on Smoke Laval's future at Alex Box Stadium. A first or second round loss and "for sale" signs will show up in Brady's yard. You watch and see. They should have won the doggone tournament. They really should have.
Doggone it.

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A Shot at Redemption

May I introduce you to the Bossier-Shreveport BattleWings? They’ve been around for a while now, but it seems you hardly know them. This team plays arena football, an exciting spring and summer sports alternative, but the team hasn’t really been embraced by the community. Maybe this is the year things change. 2006 could be the Wings’ breakout season.
For five seasons, various versions of this team have trotted out onto the CenturyTel Center turf, longing for your attention. At first, an emphasis was placed on featuring local and regional players. It seemed like a good idea. The team’s original owner, Michael Plaman, turned to a local former NFL player, Pat Tilley, to coach the team. The local fan base, no doubt spoiled by the consistent on-ice success of the hockey team which shares the building, expected a winner. Success on the field, or in the stands, has yet to come. Tilley stuck around for two seasons. His teams won sixteen games and lost 16 games. The 203 season was a disaster. The team had three head coaches, alarming player turnover and just three wins. Plaman bailed out, leaving the team’s reputation in shambles. The games were just no fun to watch.
The outlook is changed with the team’s present owner. Local businessman Dan Newman has turned to a coach with a track record of winning in arena football. John Fourcade, a great college quarterback at Ole Miss, won an Arena Football League championship as quarterback of the Denver Dynamite in 1987. He went on to quarterback the New Orleans Saints, and led them to the playoffs in the late 80’s. He is now a veteran arena football head coach. In 2002, the led the Florida Firecats to the Arena Cup, the AF2’s championship game. After two imminently forgettable seasons under head coach Keith Barefield, the Battle Wings suddenly have a high level of credibility.
Newman has patience, but he wants to win right away. He has suffered a little watching his team struggle for two years. He has traveled around the AFL and AF2 and has seen his share of raucous arenas filled with fervent fans. He imagines such a scene at CenturyTel. This arena football team is an amusing sidelight for Newman, who has built a multi-million dollar business in southeast Shreveport. Don’t think for a moment, though, that he doesn’t care. Newman loves football. He has traveled far and wide, not only with the Wings, but also as part of the Louisiana Tech football broadcast team. He has a lot of experience with sports enterprises teetering tantalizingly on the cusp of something special. By bringing Fourcade to town, he hopes to demonstrate that he’s serious about building a winner.
The early indications are positive. Open tryouts attracted players from across the country. That says a lot, considering these roster spots are part-time and seasonal and pay just a couple of hundred bucks a week. It means there’s hope. The players hope the coach can replicate his earlier success with this game. They hope they can contribute to a winning atmosphere, which will get them noticed at a higher level of football.
The BattleWings will soon begin their sixth season. No football team has lasted that long in our cities. Newman hopes you realize he’s sticking around, and so is his team. He also hopes you’ll get to know them a little better. Maybe you’ll like them better this time.

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Give Me the Forecast, Save the Advice

I’ve met most of the TV weather reporters in this market. I use that generic term, because not all of them are meteorologists. Every one of them is a nice human, and they’re good on the air. Since I haven’t charted their forecasts, I can’t make a fair assessment of their accuracy.
They all seem to have similar toys: radar, cameras placed around town for live looks outside and wiz-bang graphic packages to dress up their presentations. Since TV managers seem to think the weather report is the most important part of a newscast, I guess it just comes down to who you like best to watch.
The old sportscaster in me still gets confused sometimes about why the weather report gets so much attention and so much money thrown at it. It seems to me that you can say what needs to be said in thirty seconds or less: Today, it was hot. Tomorrow, it won’t be quite as hot, but the sun will be out most of the day. So, don’t expect rain. The weather people really earn their paychecks when the conditions are severe: extreme heat, extreme cold, thunderstorms, ice, that kind of thing. That’s why they’re there. I don’t begrudge them that, at all. Their presentations are absolutely essential to the success of local newscasts. I just wish there was more flexibility there. Give them the keys to the newscast when they’re necessary. When it’s a normal, routine day, let them get out of the way and let’s show some highlights or give two or three reporters another 45 second apiece to tell more of their stories.
I know that’s a fight I can’t win. So, I will endure superfluous information about some upper level trough or the jet stream and just live with it. That’s the way things are, and there are better fights out there.
There is one thing, though, I just have to vent about. Go ahead, tell me if it’s going to rain, then tell me why it’s going to rain, then repeat later that it’s going to rain, then come back at the end of the newscast to tell me yet again it’s going to rain. Once you’ve done that, though, be done with it. You’re a weatherman. You’re not my daddy. Give me the information and let me decide how to dress my kids or dress myself or whether or not to turn the air conditioner on. Jiminy Christmas, these guys saying, “You better grab the umbrella today,” Or, “be sure to dress the kids warm for the bus stop…” That’s just intrusive. It’s really insulting, like we the simple-minded viewers can’t think for ourselves and the weatherman has to instruct us.
Please, really…guys, just draw your isobars and talk to me about equal lines of pressure and how the ridge of high pressure is locking in over the area creating clear skies and cool temperatures and let me decide if I want to wear a sweater.
Good night and good luck.

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The Burnt Orange Bandwagon

I have a buddy who attended the University of Texas. He went to the Rose Bowl this year, and obviously had a spectacular time as he watched his football team win the national championship. An amazing thing happened for him, too. The day after the Longhorns won, a photo was published in the Dallas Morning News of this guy high-fiving a Texas player. He was in the stands, leaning over as the players made their way into the tunnel. It’s clearly and unmistakably him. He ordered a giant enlargement of the photo from the newspaper, and has it matted and framed with his tickets. This one-of-a-kind piece of memorabilia is now prominently hanging in home, as you would expect. His office is preposterously decorated in an assault of orange. He’s still celebrating and most people acknowledge that, while it might be verging on innocuously obnoxious, he can pull it off for a while longer.
Conversely, a member of my family who has no ties to the University of Texas is wearing Longhorns gear and decorating his car with window stickers. I’ll say this for him: he was doing this before the National Championship. Considering the fact that he went to SMU, this fascination with the Steers and his proclivity for wearing burnt orange scream “bandwagon!” I’ve stayed silent about this until now, but circumstances force me to weigh in.
I admit that I’ve worn some LSU National Championship gear around town. Seeing this guy in his Texas regalia has given me pause. After all, I didn’t attend LSU in Baton Rouge. My diploma says “Louisiana State University” on it, but there’s a little “Shreveport” under there, too. However, I have attended plenty of LSU games over the years. I’ve been to a half-dozen or so LSU bowl games. Yes, I was at the Sugar Bowl when they won the national title. I think I can legitimately sport a little purple and gold and hold my head up high. This guy I’m talking about, I’m pretty sure he’s never actually been to a Texas game.
I’m really glad he has something to cheer about. He chose a team and he’s sticking by them. A member of his immediate family lives in Austin and he spends a significant amount of time there. So, it makes a little sense. Still, let’s remember he went to SMU. Whatever happened to “be true to your school?” If you’re not a big fan, that’s okay, but why adopt another school in your state? This would be easier to understand if he paraded around Austin in his burnt orange hoodie. Why would he slip it on in north Louisiana? He would never admit it, but he’s being an agitator.
This reminds me of two young women I know who were roommates when LSU beat Oklahoma for the BCS championship. One was an LSU graduate. The other graduated from Texas. It was fun to drive by their house and see the Tiger and Longhorn flags flying side-by-side. They both have moved to other states but remain close friends. They are happy for one another as they celebrate national championships just two years apart. These are people who can wear their colors without reservation.
I have a cap from the 2006 Rose Bowl which celebrates Texas’ national title. My buddy from the Dallas Morning News photo bought it for me in Pasadena. I feel funny about wearing it, though, because I’m much more closely aligned with LSU. I thought for a minute about passing it on to my family’s new Mister Texas, but I don’t want to contribute to his distressing behavior pattern. I’m more inclined to snap a photo and send it to the SMU Alumni Association.

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Saying Good-Bye Isn't Easy

Someone I liked and admired passed away this week. I attended his funeral, which was a moving experience on several levels. I started thinking about funerals, celebrations of life, and how they are approached.
I’ve been to a lot of funerals. My father was the youngest of fourteen children and he’s the last man standing. So, I’ve said “so long” to aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and my mother. My friends and my cousins have lost parents. Think about this: since my father, who will turn 80 this year, is the last of his generation still with us, he has become quite a father figure for his nieces and nephews. I am grateful that I still have a parent, because so many people my age do not.
A buddy of mine was called upon to do the eulogy at the service I attended most recently. This man is an accomplished and deeply experienced public speaker, but he was noticeably apprehensive as he approached the microphone for this speaking engagement. He did the deceased proud, though. When he sat down, he exhaled audibly, a sigh of relief mixed with grief. To be asked to eulogize someone is an honor difficult to pass up but nonetheless challenging to confront.
My first eulogy was for my mother. I had so much to say to those assembled. To be honest, I was angry and my first inclination was to express that. She died of lung cancer and never knew her grandchildren. I pleaded, cajoled, manipulated, threw tantrums and anything else I could think of for as long as I could remember to try to convince her to stop smoking. You know when she finally did? When the doctor carved her open and cut out one of her lungs. It didn’t do much good. Many of the people in the room for her funeral were around us as I was growing up. I was often criticized, rebuked and belittled because of my relentless anti-smoking efforts in my house. I was angry at all of them for sitting around the table and encouraging her habit. I wanted to tell them exactly that as they sat politely to say good-bye to her.
Ultimately, I decided that was a bad idea. The notion was inappropriate and the action certainly would have been over the top. So, I wrote some kind of pseudo-allegorical essay that I delivered through my grief and resentment. Some people liked it. I’m sure most people were confused by it. Fortunately for me and for them, that was the last most of us saw of one another. My motives for doing that eulogy were selfish. It was a cathartic experience, though, and I learned from it.
Since that time, I’ve become an old hand at paying tribute to the departed. My oldest friend, along with his brothers and sisters, asked me to eulogize both of his parents. I must have done an okay job with their father, because saying good-bye to their mother was quite an order. Those requests are among the greatest honors and most cherished memories I have. Those folks were the most positive influences in my life as I grew up, and I will always love that family. I also spoke at my wife’s grandfather’s funeral. I loved that old man as if I had known him all my life, and my own family honored me by bestowing that privilege upon me.
People don’t know how to react to the funeral speaker sometimes. My dear, sweet sainted Aunt died a few years ago (she was the last of my father’s siblings to pass away). My cousin and my uncle asked me to “say a few words” at the service. It was really the only time I’ve felt kind of intimidated in that setting. I had dozens of critical cousin eyes on me during that funeral. Being the youngest child of the youngest child, there’s a strange, strong family dynamic working there. In their eyes, sometimes I’m still a little kid, I think. I thought I did a nice job, and I got lots of pats on the back and compliments.
I was quite comfortable in my aunt’s home, as you might imagine. I spent a lot of time there growing up. In the absence of my mother, she in large measure played the role of grandmother to my children. To this day, there are cousins, older ones, I still haven’t met. Thirteen aunts and uncles produce a lot of relatives across a broad age range. I met one of my cousins for the first time at my aunt’s house that day. After the funeral, I was making myself at home. As I recall, I was standing in the kitchen, staring out the window and drinking a Coke. Suddenly, I noticed a person standing uncomfortably close to me. She was lovely, about fifteen years older. She said, “Excuse me. Who are you?” I introduced myself. Upon investigation, I discovered this woman is, in fact, my first cousin. She had no idea I even existed. She didn’t know my father, her uncle, even had a son. I was in my forties at the time, so I said, “Well, he’s had a son for more than forty years. I’m sorry you missed the news.” Cousins with whom I am actually acquainted told me later that this woman basically considers herself the matriarch of our generation. So, she was distressed that this person she did not know seemed to be the center of attention. Like I said, funerals are weird.
These occasions seem less somber than they used to be. Maybe I’ve just grown accustomed to the process. The man my buddy eulogized knew he was about to die. He recorded a message on video that was played back at the funeral. That was a new one for me. He said when he got word that his cancer was terminal; he accepted the news in the same manner in which he would have if he had been told he was cured. He had that much faith. He thanked his friends, his family and his church for their love, support and prayers. He asked everyone not to forget about his wife now that he isn’t around. It was just remarkable.
I haven’t thought much about how I would like my funeral to go when I die. I see it this way: I’m gone. The service is for those left behind. I’ve told my wife that, if I should die, she should marry for money next time. She married for love once and it’s worked out pretty well so far. So, it’s up to her and the kids what happens. Maybe I should make a videotape or a DVD now in case something happens suddenly. Probably not, although I would be the center of attention one last time. It would be my funeral, and I’ve had lots of practice.

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The Sick Weekend

There’s something to be said for having a routine illness in your house. Nobody’s hoping for anything serious, but the occasional “I don’t feel so good” has its advantages. Late last week, my daughter alerted us that she wasn’t feeling well. I’ll spare you the details, but there were frequent trips to the restroom involved. You can’t be too careful, so we made an appointment with the pediatrician. The bottom line: the actual, honest-to-goodness flu, Influenza. Not this bird stuff, but more serious than a bout of allergy, sinus, or a common cold. She was a sick little human.
I felt sorry for her. This hit her on Thursday, and on Friday she was invited to two simultaneous parties. It was going to work out well for her. The parties were three houses apart, and both included roadies for group dinners. Amazingly, both dinners were at the same restaurant. She was in a classic “worlds collide” circumstance. Two friends, who are not necessarily friends with one another, were having parties which involved dual locations. And yet, she would be able to fully participate in both events! What more could a girl want? What she did not count on was The Flu.
We were sitting around the house Friday night, feeling sorry for one another when we heard screaming from outside. It was good screaming, celebratory and squealy in nature. Without thinking, I looked at my flu-stricken friend and said, “party.” One of the girls had rented a limousine to transport everybody to dinner, and the screamfest roared right past our house. My daughter looked out the window, and must have felt like Johnny Cash in Folsum Prison. She had the blues. That limo was rollin’ round the bend, and she hadn’t seen the sunshine since she didn’t know when. She was stuck in Folsum prison, and time kept draggin’ on. That limo kept a-movin’. Not to San Antone, but to Shogun Japanese steakhouse. Of course, from my daughter’s point of view, they were just about the same. She was going neither place.
A couple of hours later, when we had recovered from the emotional blow, we heard more screaming. It was different screaming, but still the silly, fun kind. You guessed it: party number two. That group had returned from the Japanese steak house and was now running around the neighborhood. Some kind of outdoor game developed and the outside of our house became a staging area. There was fun and food on two fronts, and my poor teenager was in quarantine. She was emotionally tortured.
We watched a movie together that night, but I don’t really remember what it was. All I remember is the sad, sick eyes of a pitiful teenager longing to scream free. The good news is we were together.
A couple of days later, #1 son began making frequent trips to the restroom, himself. Double trouble. His illness has been a little less dramatic, but no less noteworthy. This is a 16-year-old boy with a driver’s license and his own car. He did not leave the house on Saturday. The magnitude of that can’t be overstated. How sick was he? He sat through a screening, without moving, of “Must Love Dogs.” If you haven’t seen this movie, trust me: There is absolutely nothing in it for a teenage boy. From a middle-aged man’s point of view, there is one redeeming aspect. Diane lane is on camera a lot. She’s the star of the movie, and that’s what got my attention. The film itself was pretty stupid, but hey, we were all together.
That’s the silver lining of this whole weekend of sickness. The four of us, plus the dog and the cat, spent hours together in the same room. That doesn’t happen very often. We compromised on movies and meals. The sick were cared for and kept one another company. The weekend was low-key despite all the screaming. It turned into a nice family event. So, don’t let a little sickness bring you down. It might just bring you together.

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