For all you Rutgers Fans

Rutgers plays Navy this weekend. I thought I'd share a story I just heard. It speaks to the academic rigors of our student athletes.

The year was 1976, and a Rutgers freshman from Staten Island was doing pregame stretching on the grass of Navy-Marine Corps Stadium in Annapolis, Md.

Dino Mangiero, a tackle, began to scan the upper deck and the flags that decorated the stadium.

He began to mutter to himself, "Wake Island, Guadalcanal, Eastern Solomons, Georgia Campaign, Iwo Jima, Normandy."

Standing, he confidently announced to teammates, "Hey, these guys don't play anybody!"

Go Navy

News Bulletin
This Just in…

President Bush was forced to cut short his visit to the Caribbean Island of St. John in anticipation of the imminent arrival of Hurricane Myagkeey Znahk. The president was visiting the island at the invitation of Exelon and General Motors who jointly sponsored the third annual Global Freezing Conference.

According to conference materials, the best way to combat the Jesus-created global warning phenomena is to turn up the air conditioner and buy Papal-Blessed Hummers. Stuart Smythe, founder of the conference, said the program was created to offset the Liberal, pro-terrorism, academic elite who like to confuse hardworking Americans with their empirical data, detailed climatologic charts, and scientifically-based projections of how changes in weather patterns will negatively affect towns, cities, and counties around the world.

“I get all my answers right here,” said Smythe while holding up a Gideon’s Bible. “Worried about flooding? Build an ark!”

Hurricane Myagkeey Znahk is the 374th hurricane of the season. Named after the 30th letter of the Russian Alphabet, Myagkeey Znahk is presently a category 5 hurricane and is expected to literally annihilate the island. Hurricanes are named by the World Meteorological Organization which follows a formula of phonetically naming storms using proper names alternating between male and female names. If all 26 pre-accepted English names are exhausted (once in the last 60 years), Greek letters are used, then French, then Chinese, then German, then Sanskrit, then Hmong, then Creole, then Portuguese, and finally Russian.

The Anti-Schadenfreuder

This post serves as fair warning that I am about to reveal my wussy-sissy ways. That's right, ol' Artie is not afraid to admit that Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is one of his favorite shows. True, I usually watch no more than the reveal; after all, it doesn't take an hour to figure out that the beneficiary cares for unwanted AIDS babies and that building a house in a week is difficult. But those fifteen minutes I do watch can stir a week’s worth of emotion.

It's fulfilling to see good things happen to good people, and that all of life’s riches are not reserved for Lindsay Lohan and D-list celebrities. For those not familiar, EMHE producers find America’s unsung heroes—the soldier who lost his legs in battle, the foster mother to hundreds of children, the little girl with cancer who started a foundation to help others—and sends them away on a vacation while a team of builders, designers and community volunteers spend a frenzied week constructing a dream house.

In almost every instance, the deserving person/people have made sacrifices in their own lives so that others may benefit. For me, the stories of selflessness are engaging enough—the homes, I imagine, are rewards but not nearly as rewarding as the act of helping others.

I vividly remember my wedding rehearsal dinner winding down and the few stragglers remaining standing around a kitchen island talking about nothing too important. I’m not sure what provoked this remark, but the Amazing Blonde One expressed and confessed that she had one true love, and she bellowed it in a voice that let everyone within a five-mile radius aware of her feelings.

“I love Downs Syndrome!” she giddily shouted. “Downs is the best,” she later sighed obviously coming down from her euphoric state.

Now, I kid. I do know what brought forth this proclamation. It was her commitment to care for kids with special needs (including her husband)--along with her downing two quarts of cheap white wine. But perhaps her obvious inebriation, slurred sentences, and frequent groping of the groom-to-be lessened the impact of what is otherwise a very important message.

We get what we give. Big rewards await those willing to make even a small gesture of kindness. And we are in need of the opportunities to do something great.

A former boss of mine would repeatedly tell the story of the rabbit. In short form, it is a story in which a young man in search of God who travels into the dessert to speak with a monk who has lived a reverential life in solitude in the dessert.

Upon meeting the monk, the man asks how he is able to feel so close to God. Seemingly ignoring the question, the monk talks about a beautiful September day where he and his dog lay outside basking in the sun. His dogs keen senses spot a rabbit nearby, and after seeing the rabbit, the dogs takes-off after the furry creature, chasing him and barking all along. Other dogs, hearing the commotion join in the hunt and now several dogs are chasing the rabbit. As the chase continues and the terrain gets more difficult the other dogs drop-off, and eventually all that is left is the monk’s dog and the rabbit still running.

After sharing the story, the Monk leans back and smiles telling the young man that he has answered the question.

Perplexed the young man counters, “I don’t understand. What does your dog’s chase have to do with your closeness to God.”

Expecting that very answer the monk assuredly smiles, “ah, but you ask the wrong question. What you should have asked was why did my dog continue the chase while the other dogs gave up. The answer to that question, my boy, is that my dog saw the rabbit while the others were merely following the noise.

“Once you see the rabbit, you will never give up the chase, no matter how difficult the terrain gets. If you see the rabbit, you will never give up.”

I suppose that helps explains my love affair with Extreme Makeover: Home Edition; the Amazing Blonde One’s affection for kids with Down’s Syndrome; and countless blogs written by miserable people who are desperate to change jobs, change homes, and change their lives. It seems like those folks still haven’t found their rabbit.

Happy hunting.

Free form

Who knew managing a blog would be so much pressure? The Gods of Time, Topic, and...well, Time just don't seem to be coming together. So, like the great Larry King, I will write my scategorical statements for all to read. My apologies for not being more prepared.

Universal Signs.

My plan to create a universal sign for “you have something on your face” doesn’t seem to be catching on. You know how pretending to write on one’s palm is the universal sign for “check please,” and hands around the throat means you are choking? Well, being the entrepreneur that I am, I saw a need for a new signal. Nowadays, people try to pinpoint the offending spot on another’s face by pointing on their own, and we, the offenders, are left to guess if it is a mirror image or if we should go to the opposite side. Moreover, we helplessly play a game of “you are getting hotter” as we carefully move up and down, left and right, with full attention on the other person, whose sole job is to lead us to the promised land, a smear of veggie cream cheese on our chin. My thought was to be more general with our signaling. Instead of attempting to laser-in on the exact spot of slop, I proposed a phalanx strategy in which we sweep the entire face and remove all unwanted matter. The key is to start at the hairline, pinkies touching, thumbs extended just above the ears. With one sweeping motion, the hands slide down the face towards the chin. No piece of real estate goes untouched and the pesky particle will have most certainly been cleared. I thought this would really work. I’m not satisfied with identifying a problem; I want to offer a solution. And the “Face Sweep,” as a universal sign, is surely better than the present method. That said, perhaps I am ahead of my time.


Green and Yellow

Yes it is true. For the past 28 years I have eaten only yellow and green M&Ms. The genesis of this trait goes back to the 1977 Notre Dame Fighting Irish Football Team and my strategy sessions in which green and yellow would be Notre Dame and brown, light brown, and orange would be USC. I would set up formations and run plays for Vegas Ferguson or Joe Montana. Notre Dame would always win. In the end, I could never in good conscience eat the opposition, even if it does provide a good metaphor. I’d usually give them away or throw them in the trash.

Now, to answer the questions I am sure you are asking yourself. Even though M&Ms introduced Blue (a Notre Dame team color), I do not eat them. It’s really about the streak now; the original reasoning seems a little silly at 36. I like peanut more than I like plain. I don’t eat the pastels or Christmas colors. People have tried to force me to eat other colors. I once had a girlfriend try to trick me into eating another color. I dumped her because of it.

Running

I would like to start running again. I am fat and out of shape, and I am growing impatient with my poor lifestyle choices. That said, what I need most now is patience. I am known to push too hard, too soon which usually leads to injury or burn out. I am stating this in my blog so you can all hold me accountable.


A bad idea

The great Steakbellie has taken notice of my historical posts and suggests I write the history of porn. This is a bad idea. Though I have the breadth of knowledge to do so, my depth of knowledge is sorely lacking. In fact I’ve never seen past the first 10 minutes of any x-rated movie. Go figure.

If there must be nation building, then let there be Walker

On a weekly basis or so, I will share stories of historical figures who tickle my fancy. These essays will be painstakingly devoid of accuracy and fact checking, but will, nonetheless, allow me to share with you the story that has evolved (devolved?) in my mind. History is a wonderful field of study. I believe there is an aesthetic to the human story; an intrigue that can only be enjoyed with the knowledge that the story told is both unique and true.

William Walker is one of those historical figures whose story reads almost like the tall tales of Paul Bunyon and Pecos Bill. A man with a real hunger for adventure, Walker lived in the early 19th century staking his claims in San Francisco and eventually becoming a mercenary for hire. Nicaraguan revolutionaries hired him and his band of soldiers to help overthrow the existing conservative government. His insurgency encountered success when he captured Granada thus ending the fighting. Rather than taking his booty and moving on to new fights and skirmishes, Walker had a brilliant idea. He petitioned the United States to recognize the new government with the idea of annexing the small country. He made himself its president. He couldn’t have been much older than 30 at the time.

His tenure was short lived--even by Latin American standards of the time—but his actions in office are worth noting: he re-instituted slavery and made English the official language of Nicaragua (though I’m not sure how effectively it was implemented). A faction of neighboring countries who were threatened by Walker’s belligerence defeated him and drove him out of the country. Cornelius Vanderbilt, whose economic interests in the area were enormous, interestingly enough funded both Walker’s rise to power and his demise. And we though Halliburton was dangerous!

Walker is probably better known in Nicaragua where he is vilified and held up as the poster boy for American imperialism. In the US, nary a word is written of him in our history books. Sometimes the truth can be a bitter pill to swallow.

Wilson's Revenge

There once was an aide his name Libby.
To a grand jury he told a fibby.
But the Times lass won't lie;
And his job goes bye-bye.
Gay sex at prison he will be.

Killing two birds with one burning cross

I’m always looking for ways to bring people together. I don’t do the matchmaker thing very well as far as love is concerned; but, when it comes to finding areas of mutual self-interest, I must claim an uncanny power. You know, he cooks fries for a living; she drives a Volvo that runs on vegetable oil…presto! A match made in heaven!

Which brings me to my plan to bring our troops home and defeat Islamic-based terrorism (the rest of the terrorists will have to wait, while I think of my next plan). Simply put, send all US-born skinheads, Nazis and Klan members to Iraq. I figure they hate, among others, Arabs. Now, I am loathe sharing my plan with the Pentagon just yet since I fear these hate-mongering groups may kill indiscriminately and not focus on the terrorists. But as Dr. Phil might sarcastically ask of our present plan, “how’s that workin’ for you?”
Innocent Iraqis and soldiers are dying at the hands of terrorists, insurgents, and US-led forces everyday. Meanwhile, Nazi’s are living large, hating big-time, and planning demonstrations in Toledo, Ohio.

Let’s send these folks to Iraq. Transport them via the old slave ships and let them do the fighting. My guess is, in the end, the Klan, et al will lose, but in their deaths won’t we all win? And perhaps, we will get lucky and they will pick-off a few of the truly nasty folks in the process.

Can my plan work? What needs to be done? I can’t do this alone. In need your help.
Operation Burning Cross has begun!

My intentions are not what you think.

Following the Colls Girls Field Hockey Team and eargerly waiting for Thursday's Star Ledger to see the Girls Cross Country rankings does not mean I am perverted or full of lacivious thoughts.

It is just that, right now, girls sports are more interesting.

Field Hockey is not something I knew much about until recently, and I still know very little. But I do know that Amy is awesome, that Katie rocks, and that Kristen is the best! Amy came over my house to hang with my babysitter this summer. She has white, white hair, and when I saw her in my house I was giddy. "That's Amy!" I shouted inside my head. Keeping my emotions inside seem like a good idea because high school girls don't usuaully have 36 year old groupies who don't also have a prime billing on Meagan's List.

The thing with this field hockey team is this: I come from a small town, and their success has a Hoosier-esque quality, nothing more. My wife points out that I took off from work once to go to her pre-natal medical exams; I left work early 5 times to see the Lady Panthers play. My wife's pregancy, I shamefully admit, was considered at-risk, to boot.

Now, girls Cross-Country has also tickeled my fancy as of late, mainly due to the introduction of Briana Jackucewicz. She was a phenom before she could spell it. I think she beat Joan Benoit Samuleson, 1984 Olympic Gold Medalist, at the age of 11. She holds the national junior record for 5000 meters at 16:43. Shedid that at age 13. The Junior classification includes kids up to 18. In other words she still has 5 years to better her record.

Anyway, I ran into her training at Brookdale CC and spoke to her dad for about an hour. He is a nut and is either training the next great runner or will destroy her body and soul by the age of 17. Thus, I follow her as I would a soap opera. But I am rooting for her to succeed. it would be neat to say I knew her when...

Go Briana and Go Collingswood! Girls Rule and Boys Drool!

Inaugural post, hooray! I suppose I should use this space to salute my favorite inauguratee, President William Henry Harrison. For those not in the know, ole WHH is probably best known for his campaign's slogan: "Tippecanoe and Tyler, Too!" That refers to a battle in Tippecanoe, Indiana, where he defeated a fragmented group of Indians and took their land so that we could build McDonalds, porn theatres, and Purdue University. Tyler refers to his Vice Presidential candidate. I guess they received the same respect then as they do today.

Less known about William Henry Harrison is that he was president at all. His inauguration speech was the nation's longest (1 hour and 45 minutes) and his term in office, the shortest (30 days). The day of his swearing in was a miserable day (not just for the Democrats and Federalists, but weather-wise, as well). Ol' Tippecanoe stood in the snow, sleet and cold weather for hours after his speech to greet well wishers, and he did so without a hat or coat. He caught pneumonia and died one month into office.

I'm not even sure he had time to bang an intern or come under indictment.

Let's hope this blog has more promise than our ninth president of the United States.