Tuesday, January 29, 2008

"Well, I'm Not Going to Get a Romantic Comedy!"


Recently, The New York Times featured an article on the weirdness that is the "man date" -- two straight guys hanging out. This past Saturday, without realizing it, I stumbled into an unscheduled man date complete with dinner and a movie. When I was in my basement as a teenager, drinking generic orange soda and playing video games, I did not spend much time thinking about the implications of just hanging out with a male friend. Many years later, after having been married and divorced, spending quality time alone with a male friend (that doesn't involve copious amounts of drinking beer or watching sports) leaves me feeling strangely ill at ease, despite the fact that in this case we spent most of the time talking about his interesting dating life (read: too many women, too little time).

After hanging out at my place for a bit, we decided to get something to eat. I asked where he wanted to go: "somewhere manly and greasy," he replied. This points out an important benefit to male/male bonding. Not dining with women allows you to indulge in appalling unhealthy cuisine. I, for example, cannot imagine myself wolfing down a chili dog with a women present -- that would be the food equivalent of dropping the "f-bomb." We ended up a local burger/taco joint, and my friend, feeling he had been underserved foodwise, ordered dessert. Our very cute waitress, Molly, recommended the fried hershey bar with ice cream mega dessert, and he jumped on it. (I had another beer.) The enormous dessert arrived with two spoons, and my friend looked at me and said: "We're not sharing; that would be TOO gay." I disagreed, believing that sharing ice cream in a place that has twenty beers on tap was mildly gay; sharing tiramisu in a French bistro with one fork would have pushed us into the capital city of the kingdom of gaydom. (Am I sounding homophobic now?)

We left dinner and went to Blockbuster to get a movie. Despite the age of video-on-demand, netflix, and video i-phones, the place was packed on a Saturday night. The place was filled with college kids and a few eligible looking single women. As we browsed the videos, I noticed that every movie we picked up had a picture of a guy with a gun on it. Pointing this out, my friend responded, "well, I'm not going to get a romantic comedy!" And so, I discovered a cardinal rule of the man date: you can watch a movie with a dude as long as it's filled with rude humor or gratuitous violence. I was fully on board with that. I became very conscious of what I was looking at because of the two thirty-ish women who were browsing beside me. We did that strange back and forth shuffle where you try not to linger too long in front a particular section. I reached down to the bottom shelf for Blades of Glory and managed to bang my head on the wire rack holding the videos. (The smack on the head reminded me that I have no hair on the top of my head -- I'm sporting "the sunroof" these days, hair on the sides and back but nothing on top.) Having made a spectacle of myself, my browsing was over for the evening. We rented Bruce Willis's Live Free or Die Hard, and there were many explosions, vicious deaths and ridiculous special effects. In the end, we agreed it was a great way to spend a Saturday night even if I didn't get to share the dessert.

Monday, January 21, 2008

Keeping Your Priorities Straight


The New York Giants playoff victory over the Green Bay Packers last night was one of the most exciting games I can remember. I am a huge sucker for all the postgame hooplah -- I loved watching Michael Strahan running around the field high-fiving Giants' fans despite the frigid temperatures. The cameras are always trying to catch the human interest stories at the end of the game. I loved that Eli's Dad, Archie Manning could barely watch as the game wound down and the Giants missed several opportunities to seal the victory. I can, however, only stomach so much of the post-game commentary -- all these football "experts" who killed Eli all year are now willing to elevate him to the level of star. (He was never as bad as when the naysayers suggested he was adopted [?!] and he's not a superstar now. Heck, he didn't even throw a touchdown yesterday; does not throwing an interception qualify you for the Hall of Fame now?) Nevertheless, in the minutes immediately following the game-ending field goal, I watched Eli as the camera zoomed in on him. He was clearly scanning the stands for someone. He muttered, "No, she'd be down here," and then "she's in ... where's section 119?!!" and continued to search as the screen faded out to commercial. I then remembered at the end of the one of the previous playoff games, Eli mentioned that he was looking for his girlfriend, Abby in the stands. So minutes after the biggest victory of his life, the kid from Mississippi who'd always lived in his brother Peyton's shadow had every opportunity to be mugging for the cameras, and instead he wanted to share the moment with Abby. Moments like that make it easy to root for a kid like Eli.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

Life Isn't All (Cheap) Beer, Skittles and Laughter

I was reading a heartwarming article today on Sportsline.com about a new program instituted by the Arizona Diamondbacks. Apparently, a woman who had experienced some real tragedy in her life thanked the President of the Diamondbacks profusely for a $150 food voucher that the club had sent to season ticket holders. After that meeting, it occurred to him that the club could start a regular program to help people in extraordinary stories by offering free season tickets to those to whom life had thrown a curve, and they did so.

Well, you might think that I would be warming up to expound on the virtues of this magnanimous gesture -- a example of generosity in the cesspool of greed that is professional sports ... but no, that's not where I'm going. At the bottom of the page, a reader ("Bake1"), commenting on this extraordinarily uplifting story, had this to add: "This is a good story but I wish they would lower the price of beer at Chase Stadium. I bought 3 beers last year and with tax and tip, it was almost $40." The story detailed heart-wrenching stories of personal tragedy and this was Bake1's brilliant contribution. Makes one proud to be an American.

Perhaps the world would be a better place with more cheap beer. Many years ago, I spent a very interesting night in Yankee Stadium. We had pretty good seats down the left field line, and we were ready to settle in for a night enjoying America's pastime. It was not long before we realized that we had come to the stadium on Fireman night. New York's bravest were in fine form that night, and for the first time I realized why the concession stands had to stop selling beer after the 7th inning. The irony of the firefighter's flammable breath was not lost on me. I can only imagine what that night would have been like with less expensive beer. With cheaper beer perhaps we could enjoy more scenes at the stadiums such as the hilarity of spectators running onto the field, the kid who did a swan dive out of the upper deck at Yankee Stadium, or maybe we'd have just have more stadiums equipped with jails for unruly fans. I can only imagine cheap beer would only improve the manners and ingenuity of the men at Giants Stadium in New Jersey who demanded women flash them at the infamous gate D. The first time I was forced to drink beer out of a plastic bottle, I toasted all the chowderhead sports fans who had ever thrown a glass bottle (the way God intended you to drink beer) onto the field during a sporting event.

I encourage all sports fans who demand cheap beer to snuggle up in front of their TV with an eighteen pack of their favorite domestic brew, stow the car keys and enjoy the game in the security of their lazyboy. But if Bake1 really wants to enjoy some cheap beer, I highly recommend the $1 beer night (which I attended last summer) at Las Vegas's Cashman Field, the home of the LA Dodgers' AAA affiliate, where the beertender warned me emphatically: "No beer sold after the 7th inning, so PLAN ACCORDINGLY!"

Friday, January 11, 2008

Everyone at the Funeral Said He was in the Best Shape of His Life


It’s that time of the year again, when people carry out their New Year’s resolutions to exercise and get healthy in the New Year. This is time of year when people shell out money for costly gym memberships, dreaming about having abs of steel or buns of iron or maybe just less of a gut. This is the season for brushing the cheeto dust off your chest, reaching for the telephone and finally ordering that piece of exercise equipment sold on late-night TV. When I called, the operator sounded confused when I asked if they could ship my bowflex machine directly to the yard sale in which it will inevitably end up.

I have always been intimidated by gyms. I remember the first time I tried to do some weight lifting in college in a gym. Feeling insecure about my arms, often compared favorably to wire coat hangers, I went right for the bicep curl bar. With no guidance from a friend or a trained professional, the first time I strode in the gym, I did a couple thousand bicep curls. It is amazing how difficult it is to look cool and buff when you can’t unbend your arms for a week. Leaving the gym one day, I ran into a friend on the baseball team, surprised to see that I was in the gym:

“What are you doing here, man?” he asked.

“Oh, I’m just getting in shape, I guess,” I replied sheepishly.

Pausing, he replied, “For What?”

Perhaps that was a good question. I was never athletic or vain enough to become an avid weight lifter. I guess I was on a quest to lose the coat hanger arms or something. But somehow, I never felt comfortable in a gym. The first commercial gym I joined was in New Jersey and I was constantly ill at ease. There were a lot of men with tight perms and tiger print weight lifting pants walking around. Taking my initial required orientation with a personal trainer, my physique seemed to be a curiosity to this muscle bound, sort of square looking guy. Adjusting the Nautilus equipment for a “chest fly,” he said, “I’ve just rarely seen anyone as, uh, flexible as you.” Not burdened by muscle on my shoulders, back or arms, I could almost touch my shoulder blades together.

Foregoing a life as a circus freak, I mostly stayed away from the scary free weights and always tried to get some aerobic exercise in. Keeping a low profile on the treadmill is a breeze for most people. A simple distraction, however, such as an attempt to change the radio station on my walkman or the presence of a pretty girl, would inevitably lead to my foot striking the outside of the treadmill sending me into a George Jetson pratfall. I never really understood the art of meeting members of the opposite sex in the gym. Many of us are not looking our best in mid-workout, and no one really wants to hear “aren’t you the guy who just fell off the treadmill?”

After six weeks of holiday overeating, I finally made it back to the gym last night. I saw a guy in the mirror who’s pushing 40 hard and looked like he needs some exercise. I also saw a guy who was slightly embarrassed because he was looking at himself in the mirror as he used the stairclimber. How lame is that? These days the elliptical machine has passed the stairclimber as the stationary machine of choice among young women. I remember when the stairclimber ruled, leading a lecturer I once heard to say, in a perfect North Carolina drawl, “Why a woman would want a butt like a 12 year old boy, I will never know.”

My attempts to maintain a modicum of dignity in the gym continue, but it is an ongoing struggle. Perhaps I should follow the best advice I ever heard about what the perfect exercise equipment is: try a good pair of sneakers and a couple of barbells. [Originally posted 1/10/2008]

Feeling "Linked-In" and Throwing Sheep

“You have to get onto ‘Linkedin,’” my friend, Sparky, urged.

“Why? What is it?” I asked.

“It’s like MySpace, but for professional networking.” That meant nothing to me.

Professional networking for me up to that point had involved chatting with live human beings. This all brought me back to a conversation I had with a friend in college. I told him I needed to buy a CD player (when such things were just coming into vogue). “Why?” he responded incredulously. “Do you have any CD’s?” And no, I didn’t have any CDs. This was the CD player all over again. Why on earth did I need to be on linkedin.com?

Social networking sites appear to be all the rage these days. I even noticed that Facebook sponsored the recent presidential debates. I eventually did sign up for linkedin.com, but have done little or nothing with it since then. The next wave of enthusiasm was for Facebook.

“You have to join Facebook so I can friend you,” Sparky said enthusiastically. LinkedIn apparently was an afterthought now. (And ‘friend’ is now a verb?)

“No, you have to see my Facebook page!”

I watched as Sparky pointed and clicked through a page with her list of friends, some identifying material and her list of friends. Apparently, the number of friends you have on Facebook was a status symbol of some kind. Facebook had originally been designed for college students; only recently had it expanded to highschool kids and beyond. Somewhat reluctantly, out of boredom really, I joined Facebook several weeks ago. Wading into Facebook world was strange to say the least. The software scans your address books to find friends and family on Facebook. I was soon connected with nieces and nephews, old roommates and even an ex-girlfriend.

“You see, you can throw a sheep at one of your friends!” said Sparky excitedly. “Wait, Mary has ‘chest-bumped’ me – I’m not even sure what that is.”

I suddenly found people sending me quizzes and throwing virtual snowballs at me. I took a quiz entitled “What Drink are You?” The response I got was “water.” Not the answer I was looking for. Then a colleague at work “friended” me unexpectedly. Facetiously, Sparky suggested that she rethink her decision. I was faced with the possible indignity of being “unfriended,” and I felt concerned, frankly. What were the implications of being virtually excised from a social network? I shuddered at the thought.

In the subsequent days and weeks, I have found myself visiting facebook from time to time. I still get a virtual drink sent to me occasionally, see some new photos posted, and I am even “friended” occasionally. That being said, I don’t really get it. At a New Year’s Eve party when a friend exclaimed she “hates” Facebook, I felt affirmed. Facebook is all about being connected in various professional, educational and social networks. I can see some value in that. But do I really need to know that my friends are playing “Scrabulous” or “Oregon Trail” or that someone has become a pretend ninja? If I stayed off Facebook would I become socially irrelevant? What does it even mean to develop an online persona?

Did I need to join Facebook? Am I on a slippery slope headed towards MySpace? Maybe something to think about -- but right now I have to throw a sheep at someone, even if I’m not quite sure what that even means…. I did buy a CD player, by the way. Still not sure I needed it. [Originally posted 1/7/2008]

This Miracle Brought to You By ... Tyson Foods


I recently noticed that Tyson foods won an award for most effective product placement on ABC's Extreme Makeover Home Edition. On a episode centering around a destitute family in Camden, New Jersey, Tyson swooped in a filled their (shiny new Kenmore) refrigerator with an enormous supply of Tyson chicken. This led me to have a mini-throwup -- you know when the bile creeps up the back of your throat? My reaction can be explained partially because I remember the stench of the chicken farms when I lived in rural Virginia. But mostly I react that way because I find the Extreme Makeover show to be quite perplexing, and slightly disturbing.

On one level, ABC (along with Sears, Lumber Liquidators, Kohler, CVS, Ford and god know how many other contributors) swoop into the life of a carefully selected deserving family and build them a great house in 7 days. The recipients are often victims of disease or disability, personal misfortune, natural disaster, or garden variety poverty. At times, I have actually looked at these people and thought, "jeez, this week's family isn't half as bad off as last week." Then I catch myself and feel embarrassed. I can safely say all of those people are deserving of the help they get. So what's the problem? Everyone wins, right? But why do I remain vaguely uncomfortable with this show then?

Commercialism is, of course, everywhere in our society, but this show has raised it to a new level. Try to watch Extreme Makeover for more than a few minutes without a jarring closeup of a product label or a delivery truck with a company emblem emblazoned on the side. The magic elixir for all that ails you seems to be available at your local Sears store in the form of a giant plasma TV or perhaps a jacuzzi tub, not to mention the trips to Disney World they send the families on. The culmination of each show is the unveiling of the amazing house that is built in 7 days. The camera zooms in as the bus pulls away to reveal the new (often monstrous) house and the family swoons. (By the way, how'd you like to be the guy in the inner city somewhere who just had a McMansion plopped down next to you?) Not all the family swoons with delight every time, of course. I remember a blind man and an autistic child who didn't actually swoon, but who's counting? The message they try to force feed us is that this show is about communities coming together to help people who give back to their neighbors despite their enormous problems. The message I get is: life is perfect if you can just get ABC to build you a house and fill it with stuff -- perhaps hundreds of pounds of Tyson chicken? Makes me uneasy, but I tune in anyway. Me and thirteen million other people. [Originally posted 1/2/2008]

Thoughts from the Airport at Holiday Time


I flew out of Atlanta airport on Sunday for Christmas. I am one of those people who insists on arriving at the airport ridiculously early, so I spend alot of time waiting. I try to avoid watching the ubiquitous CNN Airport Network, but it always seems to suck me in. I see a pretty woman and try to see if she has a wedding ring on her hand; yes, she does. Since good seats by the gate are at premium, especially on a get-away day, I resisted the urge to give up my seat to go urinate. Soon I began to become irritated. Despite the use of headphones, the tinny music blared from the MP3 player of the man next to me. My initial thought was to inflict upon him the disapproving glare my father had shot at me so many times as a child. When I turned, however, I saw a young African American sailor in full uniform. I felt a twinge of shame.

An hour earlier, as I stood in line to check my luggage, a young soldier stood in front me. In front of him stood a tall man with glasses. After the man had checked his bags, he turned around,shook hands with the soldier, and said, sincerely and resolutely, "Thank you for your service. Please have a happy holiday." The soldier quietly thanked him, and they went about their business. Rather than thinking about the sacrifices that the men and women in the military are making these days, my thoughts a minute earlier had been consumed with why the presents for my Massachusetts family were sitting in a UPS warehouse in Doraville, Georgia.

So, having just had that experience, the last thing I was going to do was tell this young man to turn down his music. Without turning his music off, he then made some cell phone calls of which I was vaguely aware. "What train do I take to your mother's house. the six? The five, OK." Then another call. After some initial discussion, he said in a controlled monotone, "why do you say that?" Again. "Why do you say that?" "Are you there? Can you hear me?" And then again without changing his tone of voice, "why do you say that?" I felt uncomfortable being within earshot of such a seemingly intimate conversation. I stared down at the floor. I saw his perfectly shined black leather shoes. I wondered what his life was like.

Eventually, the great horde and I boarded the plane. It always takes a little longer at holiday time with the infrequent fliers and the families with children. I slept, huddled up against my window seat in a position that would surely have made a chiropractor cringe. I woke with a severely stiff neck, and began to plot my airport exit strategy. We landed at Laguardia on time, hitting the runway hard and fast. The crowd that had been shoehorned into the plane, would take sometime to extract itself. Finally, as I wandered out of the plane, I wondered if checking all my luggage, including all my Christmas presents was such a good idea. "You are a thrill-seeker, Paul," I said to myself.

I went downstairs to the baggage claim and I take a spot at the carousel. I was amused by the men jockeying for position immediately in front of the baggage shoot. They had created an advantage for themselves; they would get their luggage without the needless delays (of moments and moments!) the rest of us would face. Then I saw the young sailor. He was smiling, talking with a teenager -- brother? cousin? friend? I noticed he had exchanged his shiny uniform shoes for a pair of green converse sneakers. In his hands was a skateboard that the boy had given him. For a minute, he looked ten years younger; no, he looked his age. He admired the skateboard, handed it back to the boy and then slipped back into his black shoes. I hope he had sometime to wear those green sneakers this holiday, and maybe even ride the skateboard. Apparently, he is a thrill-seeker. [Originally Posted 12-27-2007]