Imagine driving through a small town where you live, then stumbling across a state-of-the-art, 60,000-seat high school stadium. That's what it's like.
==
Couldn't have said it better myself. Well, actually, I did pretty much say that, the first time I went to Lambeau. I swore to all those who would listen I've seen bigger stadiums at high schools in Texas. Except, not even the biggest high school stadiums in Texas seat 60k. Or host football games at 10 below. Greatness.
For the rest of Bill Simmons' article:
Friday, August 25, 2006
Time for beer, brats and Favre
By Bill Simmons
Page 2
When you visit a random city like Milwaukee, here's the most common question you get: "Why are you going there in August, did somebody die?"
Nope. I went to Milwaukee last weekend to see some friends, hit two baseball games, abuse my body, do some tailgating and make the holy pilgrimage to Lambeau Field. Call it an old-school male bonding weekend, the kind of thing guys did before Vegas became popular. I even kept a running mega-diary. Here's what transpired.
FRIDAY
6:00 p.m. -- My buddies Chip (Milwaukee native, serial babbler, host for the weekend), JackO (Hartford resident, Yankee fan, raconteur) and Gallo (San Fran resident, Vikings fan, Lambeau admirer) pick me up at the airport. First stop: Miller Park. As a monkey wrench, Chip is driving us with a broken right ankle suffered during a softball slide gone horribly wrong. Now we're trying to decide what we're more excited about tonight -- the sausage race, or Chip having a few beers, then spilling down an aisle on his crutches. Frankly, it's a toss-up.
6:30 -- Gentleman, start your tailgates! We're drinking outside the ballpark, which looks like a giant Space Vulva from the outside (as I described in detail back in 2002). In just 30 minutes, we're about to see ...
(Wait, let me give this a Fox baseball setup ... )
"Backe! Ohka!!! It's the Astros and the Brewers, live from Miller Park!!!"
6:45 -- Gallo toasts Chip for remembering to bring a cooler of ice-cold beer for the 40th time. The number of Brewers fans tailgating is staggering -- it feels like a football game. Can you blame them? Who doesn't love tailgating?
7:15 -- We're headed to our seats one inning late ... but not before ordering the first round of brats. Love the prices: $5 for a beer, $4 for a brat, $2.75 for a hot dog. JackO eagerly orders the "cheese fries in a [mini-Brewers] helmet," vowing, "I'm just using the helmet as my plate all weekend. Every time we eat anything, I'm eating it out of the helmet." I think he's serious.
(Note: You have to appreciate any baseball stadium that offers a "special sauce" along with mustard and ketchup. That's one of those terms where you immediately assume that it IS special, kinda like when a restaurant throws in the phrase "world famous" to describe any of their foods, even though it's impossible for some random seafood joint in Cape Cod to have "world famous" clam chowder. And yet if I see the phrase "world famous," I'm always stepping in. Needless to say, I'm knee deep in the special sauce right now. I'm that easy.)
7:24 -- Guy on third, two outs, grounder back to the mound ... and Tomo Ohka chases the runner back to third, quickly realizes how moronic this is, then whips the throw 10 feet over his first baseman's head. We're tied at one. Ladies and gentleman, Quadruple-A baseball!
7:29 -- While monitoring a certain AL game on my Mobile ESPN phone (available in stores everywhere!), JackO pumps his fist after a Johnny Damon RBI single. "He's been unbelievable for us," he says, throwing 500 pounds of salt into the wounds. "Great in the clubhouse, everyone raves about him."
That leads to a spin-off discussion: What in God's name makes Damon so great to have in the clubhouse? Does he walk around telling knock-knock jokes and handing out mix tapes to his teammates? Does he organize the bachelor parties and bring in homemade chocolate chip cookies on Sundays? When A-Rod is down in the dumps, does he crack him up with his imitation of Jame Gumb's tuck dance? And if he's that great for everyone, why doesn't he host a daytime talk show or something?
Miller Park
What makes the Miller Park sausage race even better? A brat in your hand and money on the Italian.
7:44 -- We're so titillated thinking about the Sausage Race (still three innings away), we decide to wager on it. I claim the Italian first, followed by Geoff picking the Polish, JackO the brat and Chipper the hot dog. Five bucks apiece, $20 to the winner. Although we're all winners, really.
7:48 -- Not to sound like legendary Hollywood producer Bob Ryan, but what if I told you that Gabe Gross uses a Christian song for his at-bat music that includes lyrics like "help me Jesus!" and "Hallelujah!" Is that something you'd be interested in?
8:03 -- Just noticed Dale Sveum is coaching third for the Brewers. I will now try to suffocate myself with a helmet of cheese fries.
8:09 -- Milwaukee's Billy Hall ties the game with a homer, followed by Bernie Brewer sliding down his slide in right field and landing, feet first, on a catwalk. Wait, why didn't he land in the mug of beer? Chip informs us that they jettisoned the mug a few years ago for PC reasons. You know, because Bernie Brewer landing in a mug of beer was causing the teen drinking rate in Wisconsin to skyrocket. I'm beginning to hate living in this country.
8:12 -- Biggest disappointment of the weekend: Brewers rookie Corey Hart not using "Sunglasses at Night" as his at-bat entrance music. That hurts. He ends up crushing a ball toward the wall that brings the crowd to life -- as well as JackO, who starts screaming, "Never surrender! Never surrender!" -- before it dies at the warning track as the crowd groans. On the bright side, that leads to five minutes of, "Now batting, the shortstop, Colin Hay" jokes.
8:16 -- A spirited discussion: How many guys in this game could have started for the Yanks and Red Sox? Definitely Lance Berkman and ... yeah. That's the list.
ESPN Travel:
Power Weekend
Just like the Sports Guy, you can visit Lambeau Field (if you can come up with tickets!). ESPN Travel has the details on a "Power Weekend" dream road trip:
Friday, Sept. 15: Wrigley Field, Reds at Cubs
Saturday, Sept. 16: Michigan at Notre Dame
Sunday, Sept. 17: Lambeau Field, Saints vs. Packers
8:20 -- Just ran up to get another brat. John Hollinger has me on pace for 19 brats per 48 minutes right now. Hey, you know those T-shirt jerseys that every team sells? Only three are available at the concession stand behind Section 119: J.J. Hardy (out for the year), Derrick Turnbow (lost his closer's job two months ago) and Carlos Lee (traded to Texas three weeks ago). They don't kid around with this "small market team" stuff, folks.
8:25 -- Chip points out the gigantic Pepsi sign in center field that Sammy Sosa struck during the 2002 Home Run Derby. It's about 600 feet away. We were both there that night. I kinda miss the days when someone could belt a 600-foot homer and nobody in the park would think it seems fishy at all. Simpler times, you know?
8:45 -- Time for the Sausage Race! You can feel the electricity -- it's like those last few moments before the Kentucky Derby gun. The Italian quickly breaks out to a big lead, scurries away from the pack and wins by five lengths as I'm screaming like Jeff Bridges at the end of "Seabiscuit." Twenty bucks, baby! That's the Italian's 22nd win of the season, nine more than the second highest sausage. JackO quickly wonders if they need to start drug-testing the special sauce.
8:48 -- Gallo is convinced that I had inside info for the sausage race. He's actually sulking. Come on, like I have time to Google something like that. Um ...
8:54 -- Did I mention that the 7-8-9 batters for Houston tonight are Adam Everett (hitting .239), Eric Munson (.207) and Brandon Backe (.139)? Let's just legalize performance-enhancing drugs in the National League. It's time.
9:03 -- Starting a "What would you use as your at-bat music?" discussion, JackO picks U2's "Unforgettable Fire." Chip goes with "Take Me Out" by Franz Ferdinand -- the second part of the song, not the first part. Gallo picks the instrumental song from "Halloween" when Laurie walks across the street near the end of the movie right before she finds out that Michael Myers killed her friends. As for me, The Who's "Eminence Front" has always been enticing, but that's more of a closer's song ... so I'm going with "Hate It or Love It" by The Game. I'd want to be the first white baseball player who crosses the at-bat music racial barrier. Like the Reverse Jackie Robinson.
9:05 -- Reason No. 792 to love Milwaukee: During the seventh-inning stretch, cheerleaders dance to polka songs on top of the Brewers dugout. They're like the Bizarro Laker Girls.
9:20 -- I'm downing another brat. Why? Well ... why not? I'm still one of the 10 skinniest people in Miller Park right now. By the way, we've already had two gift shop purchases: A blue hat with the current "M" logo for Gallo, as well as a throwback yellow-and-blue Brewers hat for JackO. Did you know that the baseball glove on the old Brewers hat was really an "m" resting on top of a lower-case "b"? Everyone's incredulous that I didn't know that. Come on, I'm the same person who was shocked when George Michael came out.
9:24 -- JackO takes some sports bigamy heat for purchasing the Brewers hat. "There's no sports bigamy potential," he argues. "When will the Brewers and Yankees play in a World Series? Come on. That's never happening!" Almost on cue, the dude in front of us wearing the Yount throwback jersey turns around and nods glumly.
(Brewers baseball ... feel the excitement!)
9:45 -- This seems like a good time to mention that (A) this place is almost sold out tonight, (B) it's the bottom of the ninth, (C) nobody has left yet and (D) Brewers fans are like over-supportive Little League parents. It's an old-school baseball crowd, like those super-supportive WWF crowds from the '70s. Anyway, bases loaded, one out, potential franchise player Prince Fielder at the plate ... and he comes through with a single as the park explodes! Brewers win! They're four games out of the wild-card. Fielder gets mobbed by teammates at first base as JackO jokes, "I can't wait to watch him playing for the Yanks in five years." Actually, that wasn't a joke.
10:15 -- More tailgating as we wait out the postgame traffic. Did we ever figure out who came up with the idea to tailgate at sporting events? Seriously, there had to have been one guy in the '40s or '50s who said to his buddies, "Hey, what if we show up early for the game, park the car, bring an Igloo of beer, and we'll just hang out in the parking lot, listen to music and make fun of each other until the game starts?" And everyone else was, like, "Wait, that's a great idea! That might work!" Shouldn't this person be identified and properly deified? He's the Jonas Salk of drinking in public, right?
11:15 -- We head downtown for beers at Mo's Pub. Unfortunately, they're showing baseball highlights and ... well ... even I'm willing to concede that Derek Jeter might be the MVP this season. He's the undisputed leader of the Yankees, A-Rod's on-field shrink, the guy every Yanks fan wants up there in a big spot, and if that's not enough, he's hitting .341 and gets to tell Nick Lachey, "sloppy seconds." Impressive résumé.
11:16 -- Scratch that, I'm just buzzed. Don't listen to me.
11:45 -- You know, going to Milwaukee is almost like climbing in a time machine. It's OK to eat bad food and drink heavy beer. It's OK to smoke inside bars and restaurants. It's OK to make small talk and smile at complete strangers. All we're missing is an NBA star causing an HIV scare and it would be 1992 all over again. Screw it, let's play Soundgarden on the jukebox and turn off the condom machine. Nobody's getting laid tonight, folks. Nobody!
12:45 a.m. -- We make the obligatory five-minute ride to Potawatomi, the local casino in town. That's right, casino. You heard me. Casino. Cah-see-no. And you had the gall to question me on this Milwaukee thing?
2:00 -- After some moderate losing in craps, someone throws out the "Is anyone hungry?" bait. Within five minutes, we're sitting down at the casino's sports bar, watching USA-Japan and ordering drinks and food. Our waitress (not svelte) can't vouch for the quality of the chowder because, "I've had just about everything on the menu, but I've never tried that," which is loosely translated in restaurant-speak to mean, "By all means, don't order the clam chowder, you will be crapping for the rest of the weekend." Somehow, this leads to us ordering four bowls, as well as four pulled pork sandwiches. We're on a collective death wish at this point. Nothing can stop us.
2:35 -- Should we get colonics tomorrow morning? Nahhhh.
3:15 -- We're all treading water at a $15 blackjack table. If the dealers in Vegas are like Mariano Rivera, then our current dealer is more like Vicente Padilla -- hot-headed, erratic, not that effective, not a closer, but you definitely don't want to lean in against her. She might be the least friendly person in Milwaukee. By a landslide. At least she's busting occasionally.
3:45 -- We touch up Vicente for a few winning hands before making the "We need to leave now or we're compromising the pilgrimage tomorrow" call. Time to go. Lambeau beckons.
SATURDAY
5:22 -- Pee.
6:52 -- Pee.
8:29 -- Pee.
9:30 -- Ugh.
9:45 -- My God.
10:45 -- Slowly starting to feel human again, although I might need a C-section.
11:45 -- Somehow we're showered and ready to roll. Chip picks us up in his minivan. And why? Because that's how we roll, beyotch. JackO and I are delighted by something that happened in the Hyatt elevator: We were headed to the lobby with a guy in his 20s, as well as the guy's parents, when the guy's cell phone rang. He quickly answered it in a heavy Wisconsin accent ("Hah-low?"), had a brief conversation with someone and hung up. And that led to one of those monotone exchanges that can only happen in Milwaukee.
Dad (even heavier Wisconsin accent): "Who was that?"
Son (barely conscious): "Brian Logan, he's meeting us later."
Dad (after a beat, practically flat-lining): "Great."
Now we're trying to figure out who's less excited: Everyone in the elevator, or Brian Logan driving to meet everyone in the elevator. Probably a toss-up.
12:00 p.m. -- During a stop for coffee, I order one of those pre-made yogurt/granola cups to incorporate a healthy moment into the weekend. "Why even bother?" Gallo wonders. Good point. I order a sourdough coffee cake muffin as well. Who am I kidding?
12:30 -- Chip gives us a brief driving tour of Milwaukee and the surrounding villages, babbling the entire way as we take turns busting his chops and making fun of the fact that only 9-10 people were running along Lake Michigan on a sunny summer afternoon. Remember the scene in "Airplane" when Ted Striker is telling various passengers about World War II, and they would come back from the flashback and they'd either be hanging or pouring gasoline on themselves? That's how Chip gets when Milwaukee's involved. Sadly, I'm forced to plug in my iPod to his car radio and crank Bloc Party at 70 decibels to fend him off.
12:40 -- We're on the road! Two hours until we hit Green Bay. Vegas just listed the over/under for farts on this ride is "139.5." Take the over.
1:00 -- The running Brian Logan joke has evolved to the point that we're now pretending that (A) he's meeting us at Lambeau, and (B) it will be the first time we've seen him since the funeral for his father, Brian Logan Sr. Who imagined that a Hyatt elevator could bring four guys so much joy?
1:15 -- Just a beautiful drive: No hills, farmland on both sides, sun shining up above.
Lambeau Field
The Lambeau atmostphere makes it official -- the person who invented tailgating should go straight to Sweden to pick up their Nobel Prize.
Feels like being in one of the cars at the end of "Field of Dreams." It's legitimately a pilgrimage. There's no other word that fits. "This is great," Gallo keeps saying. He's beaming from ear to ear. If the NFC Central was Scientology, he'd be Tom Cruise.
1:30 -- We've passed at least 10 signs for cheese-related stores or foods so far. You have to hand it to Wisconsin: The people here have listened to every health-related study from the past 25 years -- watch out for fried foods, butter and cheese, beware of heavy beer, make sure you eat enough vegetables and fruit, try to exercise as much as possible -- and basically said, "You know what? If it ain't broke, don't fix it." I love Wisconsin.
1:45 -- Highlight of the trip so far: A car of beefy females wearing Packer jerseys passes us on the left, followed by a beat, then JackO announcing, "I call shotgun on Reggie White."
2:10 -- We were a little worried about rain today, but we just passed a herd of cows, all of whom were standing. According to Chip, if cows are lying down, that means rain is coming. If they're standing, you're OK. These are the things you learn in Wisconsin. Twenty-five miles to go.
2:35 -- After working the iPod (plugged into the car radio) like a champ for close to two hours, I finally make a mistake: Playing a rap song right as we pass one of those "NOW ENTERING GREEN BAY" signs. That's just wrong. Three miles to go.
2:40 -- Now we're giddy. Just got off at Exit 32 (Oneida Street) and we're working our way through downtown Green Bay. During our '93 pilgrimage (just Gallo, Chip and I that time), we got lost near Lambeau and asked for directions, followed by a local telling us, "See that K-Mart over there? Drive up to that, take a right and you'll see the stadium." He wasn't kidding, either. I loved that moment. Unfortunately, they've since built up the area with the usual suspects (Best Buy, Barnes and Noble, Target, etc.) and more restaurants (including an I-Hop, which Gallo calls it "the Whole Foods of Green Bay"). But the stadium still stands out on first glimpse. Imagine driving through a small town where you live, then stumbling across a state-of-the-art, 60,000-seat high school stadium. That's what it's like.
America's Drunkest Cities
According to Forbes.com, Milwaukee has been crowned the "Drunkest" U.S. city.
Great work, everyone. Truly a team effort.
Here are the rest of the Top 10.
9. Providence, R.I.
9. Philadelphia
8. Pittsburgh
7. Cleveland
6. Chicago
5. Austin, Texas
4. Boston
3. Columbus, Ohio
2. Minneapolis-St. Paul
1. Milwaukee
Since we're early, we land a prime spot in the main parking lot ($30), open the trunk, pull out lawn chairs, set up the grill, crack open the Igloo of beers and get to work ... um, sitting and drinking. Chip pulls out an impressive array of brats, brats and brats, as well as some vegetables that look far too healthy. Then he starts cutting up red peppers and potatoes while we look on in disbelief. It's like he turned into Rachael Ray. What a host!
3:15 -- Did I mention Chip brought a boom box that gets XM Radio? And they have live baseball broadcasts? In fact, we were listening to a certain AL game before I told Chip, "Change to a music station before I smash that boom box over JackO's head." Now we're listening to "Fascination Street" on the XMU station. This has to be the first time that the Cure has ever been played in Lambeau's parking lot. "Did you know this is a song about fellatio?" JackO asks. He's serious. I love tailgates.
3:43 -- Strolling around the parking lot to peruse various tailgating setups with JackO, we're staggered by the number of Favre jerseys. Six out of every seven jerseys has a No. 4 on the back. "What's gonna happen when he retires?" JackO wonders. We decide it's going to be like when Kurtz gets beheaded at the end of "Apocalypse Now." Just complete chaos and anarchy.
3:49 -- Our favorite tailgate: An SUV covered in Packers flags and logos, with a "TIX 61" license plate and a banner that reads, "OEDENHOVEN'S OASIS: SEASON TICKET HOLDERS SINCE 1961." Intrigued, I walk over to meet the guy running the tailgate, leading to this exchange:
--Me: "1961, huh? You go to the Ice Bowl?"
--Guy (thick accent): "Oh, yahh."
--Me: "How was it?"
--Guy: "Cold."
Well, then.
4:00 -- We're transfixed by the cover photo of new Packers coach Mike McCarthy on their 2006 media guide. Why isn't he looking at the camera? Where's he looking? It's like a high school yearbook photo gone horribly wrong. "I'm into it," Gallo decides. "He's staring off and thinking about the history." Whatever.
4:05 -- The lot's filling up. JackO glances around and wonders, "Which business would close faster in Wisconsin -- a vegetarian restaurant or a gym?" Everyone laughs. Meanwhile, we're about to start throwing down brats like Kobayashi. Somehow this all makes sense.
4:20 -- I'm holding an overcooked brat and mangling an impersonation of a Wisconsin accent right now. Everyone decides I sound like Bono for some reason, leading me to scream, "We're sittin' here drinkin' beer and eatin' brats, meanwhile, people are dyin' in Africa!" Thank you, thank you, I'll be here all week.
4:45 -- Discussion topics over the last 30 minutes: Best song that's really about masturbation (either "She Bop" or "Turning Japanese"). ... What would happen if Nicole Richie moved to Green Bay for 12 months? (It would be like when they crossed the streams in "Ghostbusters.") ... Why a black free agent would ever sign with the Packers? (We narrow it down to money, money or money.) ... Which guy in the parking lot looks most like what Brian Logan probably looks like? (We decide it's the 250-pound guy in the Donald Driver jersey.) ... How would you explain to a foreigner why Green Bay has an NFL team and Los Angeles doesn't? (Probably impossible).
4:50 -- Chip gets voted MVP of the weekend for his grilling performance, although there's still time for him to screw it up by getting us kicked out of Lambeau or something. It's like when Bruce Hurst was named the '86 World Series MVP headed into the 10th at Shea. You never know.
5:00 -- Three great things about the parking lot right now. First, just about everyone's too heavy to play catch, so you never have to worry about getting inadvertently struck by an errant football. Second, a polka band is walking around and playing requests for tips. (Sadly, they didn't know "Closer" by Nine Inch Nails.) Third, three Miller Lite girls are walking around giving taste tests ... and they're about three tailgates away from us.
(By the way, remember how I described the phrase "press box hot," how there are so few females that cover sports that the ones who do become disproportionately hot to everyone else sitting in the press box? And how this happens on a much more distorted degree at any NESCAC school? Well, wait until you drink in the parking lot at Lambeau for two hours. These three Miller Lite girls look like Jessica Alba, Vanessa Minillo and Scarlett Johanssen right now.)
5:10 -- My first port-o-potty trip. Don't look down. ... Don't look down. ...
5:20 -- Here come the Miller Lite girls! We have to drink blind samples of Bud Light and Miller Lite and decide which one is better. The girls swear that the Miller Lite sample will be better. On a personal note, two decades of drinking experience is on the line for me -- I've always been a devout fan of Miller Lite and Coke and refused to drink Bud Light and Pepsi unless there were no other options. I just feel like you have to make choices in life and these are two of them.
5:23 -- So which sample did I like more? Naturally ... the Bud Light. I want to kill myself. How is this possible? I feel like my whole life has been a lie. Gallo liked the Bud Light more as well. The girls seem testy. I had drunken hookups in college that ended better than this.
5:25 -- Still shaken about the Bud Light revelation. Does this mean I should start drinking it? I mean, I LOVED Miller Lite. Even when I had the fling with Sam Adams Lite a few years ago, I never stopped loving Miller Lite and even was the guy who always interjected, "Can you switch mine to a Miller Lite?" after any buddy ordered a round of Bud Lights. I was always that guy, ever since college. Now? My whole world has been turned upside down. It's like the drinking version of "Brokeback Mountain." Should I come out as a Bud Light lover to my other friends? Was it a one-time thing? Were my taste buds burned off by the hot brats? Or is it time to divorce Miller Lite?
Can you tell I'm rattled?
5:45 -- Final round of applause for Chip's grilling performance. A tour de force, really. Let's forget this Miller Lite thing. It's time to enter ... (deep voice) ... LAMMMM-BOWWWWW FIELD.
5:55 -- We're walking in. I have goose bumps on my goose bumps. We spent the last 20 years ripping down nearly every stadium or arena that ever meant something -- Boston Garden, Montreal Forum, Mile High Stadium, Chicago Stadium, etc. -- and a hallowed few remain. This is one of them.
Six ways to know that you're entering a transcendent stadium: (1) It's more simple than you expected -- shockingly so; (2) You feel the history everywhere you turn -- retired numbers, statues, signs that look like they've been kicking around for 60 years; (3) The ushers and vendors are positively ancient; (4) When you find your section and see the field/court/ice for the first time, you get a major rush; (5) You can't help but think, "wow, [fill in the game of a famous athlete] played here"; and (6) One unique quirk pushes everything over the top.
Number six is the biggie. At Fenway, it's the Monster. At Wrigley, it's the ivy. At the Rose Bowl, it's the staggering size. At Yankee Stadium, it's the symmetry of the upper decks and how they tower over the field. And at Lambeau, the clouds hug the top of the stadium, the sky always seems to be four different colors, you can't see anything else for miles ... it's the real-life "Field of Dreams." It really is. And unlike every other professional football stadium, the first three-fourths of the stadium is filled with metal rows (the seats) and the top fourth holds the luxury boxes. So all the real fans are in the good seats. I can't think of a single negative about Lambeau. Not one.
6:05 -- Did I mention we have pre-game field passes? And we're standing ON Lambeau Field? Right behind the visiting uprights? All of us are walking around looking like Cruise and Bacon after Col. Jessup admits to the Code Red. I don't know what to say. I'm speechless. I'm not a good enough writer to describe this. Metal rows, green jerseys, green grass and a blue-red sky. What else do you need in life?
6:07 -- I grab a handful of end-zone grass and stick it in my wallet. Wow. The not-so-frozen tundra sharing space with my driver's license and my kid's picture. "I'm picking some up for Brian Logan," JackO decides, following suit.
6:09 -- Gallo looks like more overwhelmed than A.C. Green on his wedding night right now. T.J. Duckett is stretching his 57-inch calf muscles just 5 feet away from him. "I can't function," Gallo finally says. In his defense, Duckett doesn't look human. None of them do. We belong to the same species as these guys?
Lambeau Field
Only in Green Bay would the rich people get the crappy seats.
6:12 -- I notice only five Green Bay numbers are retired -- Don Hutson (14), Tony Canadeo (5), Bart Starr (15), Ray Nitschke (66) and Reggie White (92). Sadly, no Don Majikowski. Those numbers run underneath the bigger scoreboard. Wrapping around the stadium is the Packers Ring of Honor, which has about 20-25 more names. Everything is displayed in the least ostentatious way possible. "It's still a pretty pure stadium," Chip says, right as a Chevy Impala ad comes on the Jumbotron. Oh, well.
6:19 -- We're starting to loosen up and feel human again. One of us even forced out some gas, just to say he farted on Lammmmmm-bowwwwwwww Field. I won't say who. Now we're studying the logistics of the Lambeau Leap, which seems treacherous because the field dips after the end zone and again at the wall. Plus, it's an 8-foot jump. I'm predicting a horrific, Slamball-like knee injury for a Lambeau Leaper in the next 20 years.
6:25 -- Watching Favre warm up at midfield from about 20 yards away ... strangely captivating. Say what you want about Favre, but one quality separates him from just about everyone else: It always feels like a bigger game when he's standing there. And yes, I know I just sounded like John Madden. This is what it's all about, right here.
6:35 -- The setting sun drapes a massive shadow over half the field. Just when we thought this couldn't be cooler. Meanwhile, Gallo is becoming a legitimate threat to pull a Terence Mann and walk onto the field toward the Packers bench, then keep glancing back and smiling at us before he disappears into thin air underneath the stands.
6:45 -- Regretfully, we head to our seats for the game. Wow. Just ... wow. We cap off the experience with a round of beers and brats.
7:00 -- Gallo stopped in the men's room 15 minutes ago and hasn't been seen since. We decide that he locked himself in a stall, and now he's sitting on a toilet and weeping into his hands about everything that happened. He returns just in time for an incredible national anthem highlighted by a deafening fly-by from four jets that nearly causes about 23,000 heart attacks in the stands. Definitely the wrong crowd for a fly-by. I mean, they just showed a heart disease ad on the Jumbotron.
7:22 -- The Packers roll down the field for a TD. And yes, I'm thoroughly enjoying the pseudo-porn music that leads to the "GO PACK GO!" chant. Bow ... cha-wow-wow-wow ... GO PACK GO!
7:35 -- Gallo comes out of retirement to have his first dip in a few years. "I feel like Christopher on the Sopranos," he says. "I wish I could sit in a car for the next seven hours and zone out petting a dog. Wait, don't put that in the column." Sure thing.
7:59 -- The Pack scores again on one of those classic Favre moments when he whips a laser off someone's hands, only it ricochets off six other guys and lands in a teammate's hands for the TD: 14-7, Packers. The fans are going bonkers. What a crowd. This is insane. They're just like an L.A. baseball crowd, only the exact opposite. Bow ... cha-wow-wow-wow ... GO PACK GO!
(I promise you, nobody gets more excited during an exhibition football game than Packers fans. It's impossible. They even just went wild for a Jumbotron race between a Miller Lite bottle, a Miller bottle and a Miller Genuine Draft bottle, with the MGD Bottle taking it. Should we try to psychoanalyze why Sconnies enjoy watching inanimate objects race? Nahhhhh ... too easy.)
8:12 -- Rookie A.J. Hawk rips through the line and tackles someone for a loss as the crowd erupts. He's the next BMOC in Green Bay if Favre ever actually retires. Etch it in stone.
8:22 -- JackO reports that the Pro Shop has a sign alerting customers that, yes, they sell size 3XL and 4XL shirts. We're all flabbergasted. This leads to a series of PA announcer jokes along the lines of, "Packers fans, don't forget, there's a defibrillator under each and every seat at Lambeau Field!" and "The Packers would like to welcome tonight's sponsors -- Miller Lite, Sony, Pontiac and Steve's Stomach Stapling!"
8:25 -- Starting for the Packers tonight, Najeh Davenport has gotten just about every carry. He just fell down for a 2-yard gain as JackO and I race to make the first, "he looks pooped" joke. That reminds me, for fantasy purposes, Donald Driver looked GREAT in this game. He's the only guy Favre throws to. Hell, he's the only guy Favre probably recognizes.
8:33 -- Remember when Favre freelanced in the end zone and always avoided trouble? Well, he's still doing it, only not nearly as well -- in the last two plays, he almost took a safety and almost threw a 5-yard INT touchdown that the Falcon guy just missed. The Packer fans look rattled. Hey, I've been there -- when Larry Legend declined because of his back in '92, we were in denial the whole time, even as he was limping around with a giant back brace and getting lit up by guys like Mike Sanders. Let's hope Favre retires after the season. It's time. We can give him Joe Theismann's job. In fact, I'm making the offer right now. No, really.
8:40 -- It's halftime and I'm going on a cheese curd mission. Earlier in the game, somebody returned in our aisle with something called "cheese curds." Chip's explanation: "When they cook cheese, they save the fatty part that burns off, then they cook that part again, then they deep-fry it. That's how you get cheese curds." By the way, I paraphrased that quote -- Chip's actual explanation was 45 minutes longer and might still be going if we didn't cut him off. Actually, who am I to talk? This column is 6,000 words right now.
8:45 -- Mission accomplished! I've captured the curds!
8:50 -- As I'm plowing through the cheese curds, we have this exchange:
Chip: "What do you think?"
Me: "Delicious! They should come with tomato sauce though."
JackO (after a beat): "They can't, that would count as a vegetable."
9:10 -- I'm not sure who's hotter right now, the Packers (winning 24-7) or JackO (more on fire than Lisa Lampanelli at the Shatner Roast). As we watched everyone doing the Wave (I'm telling you, it's 1992 in Wisconsin), JackO deadpanned, "Normally I'm against the Wave, but these fans need the exercise." We really need to get him his own one-man show.
9:20 -- Just switched my belt from the third hole to the second hole.
9:35 -- We decide to leave after the third quarter -- if we have any chance to getting back to Milwaukee in time for a few more drinks, we need to leave now. It hurts to go. Literally. I can't move. I have about eight pounds of undigested food in my stomach.
Leaving our section for the last time, Gallo and I turn around and take one last glimpse at ... Lammmmmmm-bowwwww Field. "There's nothing like it," he says. "Every true football fan should come here once."
Or in our case, twice. And counting.
As it turned out, we made it back to Milwaukee in 150 minutes, although Chip shocked everyone by refusing to stop at Beansnappers, a strip joint located near Appleton. What do strippers look like in the heart of Wisconsin? Are they allowed to give lap dances, or is it considered a safety hazard? Sadly, we'll never know. We skipped another casino trip and opted for an Irish bar in Milwaukee, where we spent the rest of the night drinking Smithwicks and vowing to make these sports trips a running tradition. We even picked our next location. I won't spoil it for you. But it's a doozy.
The following morning, Chip and I dropped Gallo and JackO off at the airport, said our goodbyes and headed to Miller Park for another Brewers-Astros game. One catch: Clemens was pitching and we were sitting four rows behind home plate. Just like old times! Honestly, it was like running into an ex-wife -- awkward at first, some bad blood, but strangely good to see them because of the history. Hell, it beat watching Brandon Backe. At one point, when the Rocket was pitching to Prince Fielder, I remembered two things: First, Prince was born during Clemens' rookie year, and second, Clemens OWNED his father. Of course, Prince couldn't hit him, either: Two Ks and a weak groundout. Must be in the genes.
Clemens' velocity is down (91-92 range), but everything else looks the same -- same easy motion, same facial expressions, same gestures, same everything. Against these Quadruple-A lineups, he's practically unstoppable. (No wonder he stayed.) He ended up pitching seven strong and getting the win, although he missed the ending because they probably whisked him away on a private jet. Other than that, the game wasn't notable except for Chip spilling an entire can of Skoal on the bummed-out guy sitting next to him, then urging me not to include this in my column -- yeah, right -- as well as a surreal moment in the bottom of the eighth.
Here's what happened: A Brewer popped a foul ball straight back, and we were looking up for it, and then we realized that -- wait a second, that's coming toward us!!!!!!! -- and it started falling and falling, and the whole thing took long enough that I had time to put my notebook in my pocket and wait for the ball to ricochet toward us. Wouldn't you know, it landed one row in front of us, four seats to my right, and the guy in that seat tried to catch it with his hat. So what happened? The ball ripped through the hat, bounced off the sidewalk in our row, then caromed one row behind us straight to the kid sitting RIGHT BEHIND ME. That's right, my lifelong foul ball drought continues. I've never been that close. The Foul Ball Gods are officially taunting me.
"Damn," I said to Chipper. "Catching a foul ball would have been the perfect ending to this column."
"I don't know," he said. "It's pretty tough to top standing on Lambeau Field."
This is true. And that's why you go to Milwaukee in August.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
doin' what she says...
heidi says i should post more....real stuff. less sports.
so, here i am, bringing the real.
at 2:15 in the AM.
gotta be up at 6:30.
putting off going to bed, as per usual.
gotta get out of that habit.
there are added marriage perks that that gets in the way of.
not so subtle that reference, eh?
why no "serious" posts anymore?
well, probably because i did in fact marry the love of my life.
no more pining for unrequited love, which is what most of my blog posts were ever about.
sure, there were the occasional deep, introspective, religious ones, but...
1. i'm in a bit of a spiritual funk that's hard to shake and
2. at the heart of the deep, introspective posts was probably just me pining over unrequited love.
so, there ya go.
happy artists begat poor music.
got the new audioslave. not too bad. not great. it's a reach.
being happy and in love, i think, has also taken away some of my desire to search for the coolest, most tortured music out there...
when looking for songs for the wedding, i realized most of my music was in the vein of one not able to get what one desired, be it spiritually or emotionally or in love or life or whatever. those don't work so well for celebrations.
so, there's a quick "real" post.
she's lying on the couch over there, sleeping. waiting for me to get off the computer and go to bed.
eh.
old habits die hard.
so, here i am, bringing the real.
at 2:15 in the AM.
gotta be up at 6:30.
putting off going to bed, as per usual.
gotta get out of that habit.
there are added marriage perks that that gets in the way of.
not so subtle that reference, eh?
why no "serious" posts anymore?
well, probably because i did in fact marry the love of my life.
no more pining for unrequited love, which is what most of my blog posts were ever about.
sure, there were the occasional deep, introspective, religious ones, but...
1. i'm in a bit of a spiritual funk that's hard to shake and
2. at the heart of the deep, introspective posts was probably just me pining over unrequited love.
so, there ya go.
happy artists begat poor music.
got the new audioslave. not too bad. not great. it's a reach.
being happy and in love, i think, has also taken away some of my desire to search for the coolest, most tortured music out there...
when looking for songs for the wedding, i realized most of my music was in the vein of one not able to get what one desired, be it spiritually or emotionally or in love or life or whatever. those don't work so well for celebrations.
so, there's a quick "real" post.
she's lying on the couch over there, sleeping. waiting for me to get off the computer and go to bed.
eh.
old habits die hard.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
too little, too late
State of the NBA Finals
By Bill Simmons
Page 2
By Bill Simmons
Page 2
Forget about who's winning the championship. I'm starting to feel like the future of the NBA is at stake.
We just spent the past two months raving about the "New And Improved" NBA -- end-to-end action, loads of points, dramatic endings, a new generation of superstars coming into their own, coaches and owners willing to think outside the box. And Dallas personified everything that was happening. The Mavericks could play small, they could play big, they could play fast, they could play slow ... talking about them almost made me feel like Rollergirl describing Dirk Diggler. Their offense revolved around a 7-foot German who created a new form of post-up offense, setting up shop at the foul line and destroying defenders in a variety of ways. They had an answer for everything. That was the best thing about the Mavs -- their unpredictability. You never knew what to expect with them.
Unfortunately, they still had to get through Miami -- an old-school, MJ Era-type team with one superstar (Wade), another All-Star (Shaq), some overpaid pieces that didn't quite fit and a famous coach. Everything about them is predictable -- one guy creates every shot in crunch time, everyone else stands around and watches him, and every once in awhile those guys get to shoot an open jumper or finish a nice dish. This recipe would be boring if it weren't for Wade, a dynamic talent and the most consistent crunch-time scorer since Jordan. But that's the problem: In between Jordan and Wade, we had to watch all the wannabes pretending to be as good as them. And they weren't. Not even close.
Jesse D. Garrabant/Getty Images
If Miami wins the title, the new NBA slogan may be: "Free throws! They're FAN-tastic!"
Here's what happens if Miami wins the title: New Jersey will say to themselves, "Hey, maybe this could happen to us with Vince Carter"; Washington will say the same about Arenas; Boston with Pierce; G-State with Richardson; the Lakers with Kobe; New Team X with Iverson. And so on and so on. But that's just the thing ... we went through this last decade. There was only one MJ; the formula couldn't be replicated. Same with Dwyane Wade; only LeBron can match him. And everyone else will fail trying, which means we can look forward to another decade of perimeter scorers going 11 for 32 in big games, teammates standing around while stars dribble at the top of the key waiting to challenge two defenders at once, and refs deciding every big game (like in Game 5) by how they interpret contact when the same guy is recklessly driving to the basket over and over again. Does any of this sound fun to you? I didn't think so.
As much as I enjoy watching Wade, a Heat title would erase all the progress of this spring. The Heat don't play well together offensively, they don't bring the best out of one another ... they uneasily co-exist for the sake of a larger purpose (an elusive championship). Just watch some of their guys during the average game. Does Shaq ever seem happy? Walker? Payton? Posey? It's a 1990s team playing in a different decade, only Wade is so freaking good, they're getting away with it and, hell, they might even win a championship.
As a basketball fan, I think this would be terrible. A tragedy, even. Nothing against Wade -- after all, it isn't his fault his team sucks and he has to play this way -- but seeing an individual triumph over a team YET AGAIN would erase every positive outcome from the 2005-06 season. Basically, the team with LeBron or Wade will win the next 10-12 titles, and it will come down to which guy made more 20-footers with two guys on him and which guy got the most cheap calls from the most spineless referees. That's not basketball, it's a star system. When my wife was asking why I was so ticked off after Game 5, it wasn't because I had money on the game (I didn't), or because I liked one team more than the other (I don't). If Miami wins, we may as well go back to box haircuts again, because it's going to be 1991 all over again -- the "New and Improved" NBA will have been defeated, and the Old-School NBA will reign supreme.
If you enjoyed the Spurs-Mavs and Suns-Mavs series this year, just root for Dallas these last two games. Trust me. It's for the best.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
couldn't have said it better myself...
sometimes it's nice to read like-minded people. from andywhitman.blogspot.com
==
It strikes me, reading these debates, how little I actually care about this stuff. To tip my hand somewhat, there are women in my church who are involved in leadership. They are involved in church leadership. They are involved in all kinds of leadership, and I can’t imagine life, in general, without their wisdom and gifts. But beyond that, I just really DO NOT CARE. It’s not worth expending much time and energy, nor, as best I can tell, are any of the innumerable other theological topics that tend to bog down Christians from the more important tasks of loving Jesus and loving other people.
I just don’t think it’s all that complicated, although at one time in my life I tried to make it complicated. If you’d look downstairs in my basement, you’d find several bookshelves full of books that deal with theological issues. We just threw about 100 of them away last weekend during a frantic spring cleaning session, but there are still hundreds left. I’ve read most of them. I went to seminary, and studied Greek and Hebrew, and at one time could have debated the merits of whether the apostle Paul was writing to north Galatia or south Galatia. That was back in the days when I thought I might be a pastor, before I figured out that struggles with addictions and telling the fourth grade Sunday School class to "sit down, damn it" probably weren't the best recommendations for church leadership. And none of it helped me much in terms of loving other people, or avoiding some nasty habits, or getting outside the all-consuming Kingdom of Me.
Here’s the thing: the charge that is always leveled at Christians by non-Christians is that we are hypocrites. And, of course, they’re right. We are, indeed, hypocrites, and we fairly routinely betray by our words and actions what we claim to believe. We are self-centered, ingrown, prone to constructing fortresses to keep the rest of the world out. And I have been that way in my own life.
If that is to change – and I hope and believe that it can and that it is – then I need something beyond intellectual answers. I don’t need knowledge. I need a soul transfusion. And if I have overreacted, if I have moved away from the intellectual approach to the Christian life that comes fairly naturally to me, then it is because, in my own Luddite way, I have tired of being a hypocrite. I don’t want to know one thing and do another. I want to live a life and be a part of a church that is characterized by costly love, by getting outside our comfort zones, by caring for the unlovable, by giving of our time, our money, our energy sacrificially to serve others. Really. No fooling. I want and expect that to happen. The best marketing a church can ever do is simply to love other people -- both inside and outside the church -- unconditionally. There is nothing more attractive than that, and nothing more revolutionary. And it’s what Jesus did. And if, by the way, there are women who know how to do that better than I do, and can teach me how to do it better, then I am all ears.
Here is how uncomplicated this is: Love, trust, and obey God. Love other people. Apologize (AKA repent) when you screw up one or both of these things. Repeat as necessary. There. That’s easy. It’s not easy to actually do it, of course. But it’s easy to understand it. And that’s about the extent of my theological interest these days.
==
Theology and the Kingdom of God
I have been watching, with some interest and amazement, a sometimes heated discussion/debate currently underway on one of the online sites I frequent. The topic: women in church leadership. The same tiresome arguments are marshaled on both sides. If God had wanted man to fly, He would have … Sorry, wrong argument. If God had wanted women in church leadership, then He wouldn’t have sent his only begotten Son, got that, Son, and appointed twelve males, as in men, got that, as his closest disciples. And the other side counters with charges of cultural ossification, blindly adhering to the traditions of the past, yada, yada, yada. See how these Christians harangue one another.It strikes me, reading these debates, how little I actually care about this stuff. To tip my hand somewhat, there are women in my church who are involved in leadership. They are involved in church leadership. They are involved in all kinds of leadership, and I can’t imagine life, in general, without their wisdom and gifts. But beyond that, I just really DO NOT CARE. It’s not worth expending much time and energy, nor, as best I can tell, are any of the innumerable other theological topics that tend to bog down Christians from the more important tasks of loving Jesus and loving other people.
I just don’t think it’s all that complicated, although at one time in my life I tried to make it complicated. If you’d look downstairs in my basement, you’d find several bookshelves full of books that deal with theological issues. We just threw about 100 of them away last weekend during a frantic spring cleaning session, but there are still hundreds left. I’ve read most of them. I went to seminary, and studied Greek and Hebrew, and at one time could have debated the merits of whether the apostle Paul was writing to north Galatia or south Galatia. That was back in the days when I thought I might be a pastor, before I figured out that struggles with addictions and telling the fourth grade Sunday School class to "sit down, damn it" probably weren't the best recommendations for church leadership. And none of it helped me much in terms of loving other people, or avoiding some nasty habits, or getting outside the all-consuming Kingdom of Me.
Here’s the thing: the charge that is always leveled at Christians by non-Christians is that we are hypocrites. And, of course, they’re right. We are, indeed, hypocrites, and we fairly routinely betray by our words and actions what we claim to believe. We are self-centered, ingrown, prone to constructing fortresses to keep the rest of the world out. And I have been that way in my own life.
If that is to change – and I hope and believe that it can and that it is – then I need something beyond intellectual answers. I don’t need knowledge. I need a soul transfusion. And if I have overreacted, if I have moved away from the intellectual approach to the Christian life that comes fairly naturally to me, then it is because, in my own Luddite way, I have tired of being a hypocrite. I don’t want to know one thing and do another. I want to live a life and be a part of a church that is characterized by costly love, by getting outside our comfort zones, by caring for the unlovable, by giving of our time, our money, our energy sacrificially to serve others. Really. No fooling. I want and expect that to happen. The best marketing a church can ever do is simply to love other people -- both inside and outside the church -- unconditionally. There is nothing more attractive than that, and nothing more revolutionary. And it’s what Jesus did. And if, by the way, there are women who know how to do that better than I do, and can teach me how to do it better, then I am all ears.
Here is how uncomplicated this is: Love, trust, and obey God. Love other people. Apologize (AKA repent) when you screw up one or both of these things. Repeat as necessary. There. That’s easy. It’s not easy to actually do it, of course. But it’s easy to understand it. And that’s about the extent of my theological interest these days.
Monday, April 17, 2006
...up from the grave he arose...
the tears came too suddenly for me to do anything about it.
must be missing home a little more than i thought.
must be missing family a little more than i thought.
it's going in my list of moments that i can attribute to g*d specifically doing something to affect me, nudge me, speak to me.
the last, i think, was the long drive across the lovely hills of central texas. something about meeting a girl at the upcoming concert i was so anticipating. and she being the one i would marry.
there are others.
the personal bible study in the van, alone, in mission, tx, on the mission trip. "if you are ashamed of me on earth, i will be ashamed of you in heaven."
the waterdeep show at the door, months after breaking up with the girl i once thought i'd spend the rest of my life with. the beginning of what had/has been a long process of healing.
the night in august. i was 9. somehow a scary shadow on the wall in the middle of a storm leading to a discussion and prayer with the parents...the confession of my sin and admitting i needed Him to save me.
outside the tabernacle on the youth trip. an overwhelming presence that made you want to say "can you back off just a big, g*d?" realizing that there was more to salvation and discipleship than that prayer as a 9 year old.
moments i will never forget.
must be missing home a little more than i thought.
must be missing family a little more than i thought.
it's going in my list of moments that i can attribute to g*d specifically doing something to affect me, nudge me, speak to me.
the last, i think, was the long drive across the lovely hills of central texas. something about meeting a girl at the upcoming concert i was so anticipating. and she being the one i would marry.
there are others.
the personal bible study in the van, alone, in mission, tx, on the mission trip. "if you are ashamed of me on earth, i will be ashamed of you in heaven."
the waterdeep show at the door, months after breaking up with the girl i once thought i'd spend the rest of my life with. the beginning of what had/has been a long process of healing.
the night in august. i was 9. somehow a scary shadow on the wall in the middle of a storm leading to a discussion and prayer with the parents...the confession of my sin and admitting i needed Him to save me.
outside the tabernacle on the youth trip. an overwhelming presence that made you want to say "can you back off just a big, g*d?" realizing that there was more to salvation and discipleship than that prayer as a 9 year old.
moments i will never forget.
Friday, April 14, 2006
Letter from Screwtape
Screwtape on The DaVinci Code
by Eric Metaxas
My dear Wormwood,
I trust this finds you as miserable and coarse as ever. I am pleased to take a respite from our usual tutorial and venture into something a bit broader, but vastly instructive for our larger purposes. To wit: I shall today croak a paean of praise to a particular work of middlebrow non-fiction. The genre has been particularly good to us, Wormwood! Do you remember The Passover Plot? Or that excellent hoax by Erich von Daniken, In Search of Ancient Astronauts? You may s now, but in its day even that harebrained rant proved helpful to our cause. As did most of the books on The Bermuda Triangle and “UFO’s”. And don’t get me started on Out on a Limb! Oh, but Wormwood. Those books were mere types and shadows of the one that has in these last days transported me to ecstasies of embarrassing intensity. It is a type of “romantic thriller” (penned by someone under the unwitting tutelage of an old crony of mine from the Sixth Circle); it is titled The DaVinci Code.
I surmised it should be well worth the trouble of familiarising you with it, inasmuch as it contains such a precariously towering heap of our very best non-thinking that it is quite dizzying! It has the genuine potential to mislead, confuse, and vex millions! Indeed the mystical sleight-of-hand involved in shoehorning so many cubic yards of gasbag clichees, shopworn half-truths and straightfaced howlers into a single volume simply beggars belief; and if I didn’t know that the author had had unwitting “help” from my former colleague, the venerable Gallstone, I simply shouldn’t believe it could have been done at all!
Now, Wormwood, before you object to my calling this book “non-fiction”-- since it is technically classified as “fiction”-- let me say that it is essentially non-fiction, at least as far as our purposes are concerned. That’s because it’s principle delight for our side is that in the tacky plastic shell of some below-average “fiction” the book parades as “fact” a veritable phalanx of practical propaganda and disinformation that would make our dear Herr Goebbels (Circle Eight, third spiderhole on the right) jade green with envy! Souls by the boatload are blithely believing almost all of the deliciously corrosive non-facts that are congealed everywhere in it, like flies in bad aspic, and it is that precisely which most recommends this glorious effort as worthy of our dedicated and especial study.
But where to begin in describing to you its myriad delights? First, a brief synopsis of the plot: a museum curator is murdered by a fanatical albino Christian bigot (nice opening, no?); the curator’s granddaughter and an American “symbologist” (don’t ask me, I haven’t the time) try to find the real killer and are launched on a wildly implausible and fantastically cryptical search for the proverbial Holy Grail, all the while chased by angry gendarmes and the aforementioned unhinged albino. In the process they (and the lucky reader) discover that: the Church is murderous and evil; the Bible is a hoax; Jesus is not divine, but merely a married mortal and an earnest proto-feminist (!); there is no such thing as Truth; and oh, yes... is the truest kind of prayer. Can you stand it? A virtuoso performance, no? It’s as if the author’s somehow squeezed all of hell into a walnut shell. And oh, yes, one more historical “fact”: Leonardo DaVinci’s homosexuality was “flamboyant”! Do tell.
But that’s just the irresistible plot, Wormwood. It’s the author’s technique in so many other areas that is particularly worth our attention. For example, there is the manner in which the book seduces its reader with naked flattery, holding out the carrot -- or should I say apple -- of “inside knowledge.” Make note of this, Wormwood; it worked wonders for us in Eden and works for us still. The author trots out the ageless fiddle-faddle about a parallel “reality” beside the “official” one everyone’s been sold. You know, the moth-eaten, bedraggled idea that all of history is a grand “conspiracy” conducted by some hidden elites! But wait, the lucky reader is to be let in on it all, and for the mere price of purchasing this book! He’ll learn the “real” story behind the “official” story that all the other saps have been buying for lo! these many centuries. Heady stuff, eh, Wormwood? Transparent as it might seem to us, this temptation has always been been too great for the humans to bear. They ache to be part of that “inside” group that knows what’s “really” going on, and they fall for it every time. It’s not so different from their craving for gossip or “dirt”; only better, since there isn’t the pesky nuisance of guilt to deal with. They cannot help themselves; they simply swallow it without a thought. That’s the key, Wormwood, for if actual thinking can be prevented, the humans are under our control.
There’s something about a crackpot conspiracy that makes my brown scales twinkle, Wormwood. There’s nothing like a grand conspiracy to twist truth round and round -- until the shape of the thing one ends up with is unrecognizable from that with which one began. I remember when I was young, in an immature display of rakish pique I bewitched an inept sausagemaker such that the next time he applied himself to the sausagemaker’s art he became almost instantly entangled in the entrails with which he was working. That image reoccurs to me now as I recall this great book, Wormwood. You see, this book is that hopelessly intestine-entangled sausagemaker writ large, I tell you! The reader will become snarled in the vile, greasy entrails of its thousand half-truths and will die before he extricates himself! What could be better?
But don’t let’s digress. I was speaking of the employment of flattery. Understand, Wormwood, that the successful devil -- and this devilishly clever author -- well knows his audience, and then tells that audience precisely what it wants to hear. As long as what one puts out is vaguely plausible, they’ll buy it by the yard, and at retail prices! Trust me, Wormwood, these gullible dullards are even likely to thank you for the privelege of being your customer!
I particularly admire the writer’s way of tapping into the widespread disaffection and resentment so many modern women feel toward men. This emotional woundedness is a veritable Mother Lode (pun intended) of destructive possibilities, and it is as profitably mined here as ever it has been. The author winds up his female readers by informing them that they’ve been getting the short end of the stick ever since Eve was kicked out of the garden for her assertive sassiness! History has cheated them! The Church has oppressed them and they deserve better! And he supports this wall of custard with a thousand most excellent pseudo-facts!
Really, Wormwood, the author’s pretense of taking the feminine side of things is extraordinary. For he has cleverly substituted the au courant idea of femininity for the thing itself. According to this version of things we must only know one thing about women, and that is, first and foremost, that they are hideously oppressed. Once alerted to this central fact of their identity throughout all of history, and especially of “Church” history, they’ll believe they needn’t bother about much else.
Revealed to the readers is the “fact” that in the interests of keeping power in the hands of men the Church murdered five million women in the middle ages! Don’t laugh, Wormwood. This author delivers this screaming absurdity with a deadpan that would make Buster Keaton envious. Never mind that it isn’t close to being even one percent true by any conceivable historical standard. The point is that it sounds true, at least to the ever-expanding herd of sheep who are grazing madly upon this ripping, dreamy, peachy excuse for a book! It sounds true and therefore it must be true! Every woman who has been wounded by a man will be vulnerable to this excellent strategem. Whenever and wherever possible, Wormwood, fan this outrage vigorously.
The ersatz “her-story” of the Church’s vicious oppression of women is seasoned with great steaming lumps of balderdash about Nature and “Mother Earth.” It’s a briliant connection. Men and women alike invariably eat it up with a spoon because it gives them a heady sense of being somehow “spiritual” without the annoying necessity of adopting all of those patriarchal “rules”! Never mind, Wormwood, that in this Nature goddess silliness they are worshipping deities that don’t exist! The only thing that matters is that they are not worshiping the deity that does! How we accomplish that doesn’t matter a fig! And if we can give them a sense of their own superiority, a recognition of their sober respect for Mother Earth and against all senseless violence, and against all war and for peace and harmony and tolerance and recycling, well, all the better!
I ought to mention, too, that what passes in this book for perhaps the main “argument” in favor of those pagan goddess religions is that they predate Christianity. Behold the genius of this, Wormwood! It suggests that because pagan goddess worship is older than Christianity it is somehow more pure, closer to the source of “true” spirituality. But where is the logic in this, Wormwood? A horse predates a motorcar, but who would prefer it? Monarchy predates democracy! A joey predates an elderly ‘roo! What of it?? Brilliant!
Before I go on, let me say that I have seen some execrable parodies of this book, my very least favorite being Bring in Da Vinci, Bring in Da Funk, a filthy piece of cant not to be read under any circumstances -- and I mean it, Wormwood. Don’t give me any humbug about how it will help you see how the Enemy thinks and therefore aid you in defeating him. The fact is, my callow dunderhead, that some things have the ability to corrupt the cynical likes even of you. You might well take these corruptions at face value and start having qualms about working against our enemy above, so ixnay on at-thay ook-bay, et it gay? I’m ot-nay oking-jay!
Now then, another extremely admirable facet of this book is the author’s intimate knowledge of his audience’s skyscraping ignorance, which he exploits to devastating effect. One must ever endeavor to capitalize upon ignorance, Wormwood. This is one of the chiefest weapons in our arsenal, and let me observe -- and not without some glee -- that the ignorance of contemporary Western Society in matters of history and theology both, is of an absolutely unprecedented greatness. Never before have so many known so little about so much of great importance.
Ask your average fellow in the street the slightest detail of a daft sitcom of forty years ago and he will move heaven and earth to to supply you with the answer, and then will likely prate on with other similarly inane details -- as if knowing who lived at 1313 Mockingbird Lane was his very passport to the Elysian Fields. Ha! But ask him to tell you about the Nicean Council, or ask him what are the Synoptic Gospels and you will suddenly find yourself in the presence of a weatherbeaten cigar store Injun! But then go ahead and ask him who played drums for The Monkees, or the name of that blasted itinerant peddlar on Green Acres and you will think yourself in the presence of a very Voltaire! Our television executives Down Under have been awfully successful!
As I say, this book exploits the ignorance of its readership with an exemplary elan. One particularly daring example claims that the Crusades were principally concerned with gathering and destroying information! This is bold and laughable twaddle, but it fits so nicely into ye olde conspiracy theory -- that the powerful religious hypocrites want to keep the “truth” out of the hands of their powerless subjects. And what do readers of this book know of the Crusades?
Then there’s that double whopper with cheese, about how the Emperor Constantine “invented” Christianity in the fourth century! Never mind that people had been believing it for all those years before it was “invented”. And in the same masterstroke the author undermines the authority of the Bible by declaring that what it contains arrived on a strictly “political” vote. All of those wonderful “Gospels” that didn’t fit with the “patriarchal” version of things were cruelly -- always “cruelly” -- suppressed and rejected; the oppressive messages it now contains were slipped in to fit Constantine’s political agenda! Who among this book’s readers will know that for three centuries most of those same Gospels were already considered a part of the scriptural canon? Who among his doughheaded readers even knows the meaning of the word “canonical”! My nostrils flare in admiration.
And at the creamy center of the story is the swaggeringly wild idea that Mary Magdalene (whom, incidentally, a cousin of mine once possessed briefly, only to be rudely evicted) would have married Our Chief Enemy! Oh, fatuosity! But again, it shrewdly plays into what the reader so wants to believe: that Jesus was not divine, and that all the demands that go along with his divinity may be conveniently ignored. And, perhaps most cunningly, it does not dismiss Jesus entirely, but patronizingly reduces him into a toothless sage, a veritable “nice guy.” Naturaly the author has added that requisite whiff of subversive sexuality. And oh, yes, hold onto your horns, Wormwood: Mary Magdalene is the Holy Grail! You see, her womb... oh, never mind! It’s just too rich!
As singularly brilliant as our colleague is in what concerns us most, the writing is -- alas and alack! -- scandalously slipshod and often pure giggle-fodder. I mean, the detail of a hulking albino ascetic! Named Silas! Silas! I’m wheezing with laughter this minute! Honestly, it’s too much! I’m almost surprised the author simply make him a drooling simpleton named Benji! “Must kill!” The unintentionally comic monkeyshines of this character almost spoiled my appreciation of the work. But again, it’s decidedly not the fictional elements, however ghastly, that matter here, Wormwood! Most readers won’t notice the thick prose or wafer-thin characters anyway. For many of them, paperback “romances” are like mother’s milk! What does matter is passing along cunning and doubt-sowing falsehoods as smoothly as possible. The rest is merely the narrative butter, as it were, that helps the nasty gobbets slide down the gullet all the more easily. But really, Wormwood -- an albino ascetic! Why didn’t he toss in a vicious freckled humpback? Or some cheerful peasants with goiters? I must stop.
Well, Wormwood, there we are. If you can slither past the Early Reader prose and the overcaffeinated, goggle-eyed plot I think you’ll find that you’ve a veritable textbook on your hands, one that will reward you again and again as you stagger forward and downward in mastering the grand and ignorable art of leading souls, one by one, toward a fathomlessly bleak eternity. Cheers.
Your affectionate Uncle,
Screwtape
**
Eric Metaxas is the author of the much acclaimed Everything You Always Wanted to Know About God (but were afraid to ask), of which Ann. B. Davis (Alice of the Brady Bunch) has said "I'm absolutely smitten with this book!" and which Eric himself calls "Perhaps the best Easter present imaginable! For anyone!! Have you tried amazon.com? My goodness, what are you waiting for??
by Eric Metaxas
My dear Wormwood,
I trust this finds you as miserable and coarse as ever. I am pleased to take a respite from our usual tutorial and venture into something a bit broader, but vastly instructive for our larger purposes. To wit: I shall today croak a paean of praise to a particular work of middlebrow non-fiction. The genre has been particularly good to us, Wormwood! Do you remember The Passover Plot? Or that excellent hoax by Erich von Daniken, In Search of Ancient Astronauts? You may s now, but in its day even that harebrained rant proved helpful to our cause. As did most of the books on The Bermuda Triangle and “UFO’s”. And don’t get me started on Out on a Limb! Oh, but Wormwood. Those books were mere types and shadows of the one that has in these last days transported me to ecstasies of embarrassing intensity. It is a type of “romantic thriller” (penned by someone under the unwitting tutelage of an old crony of mine from the Sixth Circle); it is titled The DaVinci Code.
I surmised it should be well worth the trouble of familiarising you with it, inasmuch as it contains such a precariously towering heap of our very best non-thinking that it is quite dizzying! It has the genuine potential to mislead, confuse, and vex millions! Indeed the mystical sleight-of-hand involved in shoehorning so many cubic yards of gasbag clichees, shopworn half-truths and straightfaced howlers into a single volume simply beggars belief; and if I didn’t know that the author had had unwitting “help” from my former colleague, the venerable Gallstone, I simply shouldn’t believe it could have been done at all!
Now, Wormwood, before you object to my calling this book “non-fiction”-- since it is technically classified as “fiction”-- let me say that it is essentially non-fiction, at least as far as our purposes are concerned. That’s because it’s principle delight for our side is that in the tacky plastic shell of some below-average “fiction” the book parades as “fact” a veritable phalanx of practical propaganda and disinformation that would make our dear Herr Goebbels (Circle Eight, third spiderhole on the right) jade green with envy! Souls by the boatload are blithely believing almost all of the deliciously corrosive non-facts that are congealed everywhere in it, like flies in bad aspic, and it is that precisely which most recommends this glorious effort as worthy of our dedicated and especial study.
But where to begin in describing to you its myriad delights? First, a brief synopsis of the plot: a museum curator is murdered by a fanatical albino Christian bigot (nice opening, no?); the curator’s granddaughter and an American “symbologist” (don’t ask me, I haven’t the time) try to find the real killer and are launched on a wildly implausible and fantastically cryptical search for the proverbial Holy Grail, all the while chased by angry gendarmes and the aforementioned unhinged albino. In the process they (and the lucky reader) discover that: the Church is murderous and evil; the Bible is a hoax; Jesus is not divine, but merely a married mortal and an earnest proto-feminist (!); there is no such thing as Truth; and oh, yes... is the truest kind of prayer. Can you stand it? A virtuoso performance, no? It’s as if the author’s somehow squeezed all of hell into a walnut shell. And oh, yes, one more historical “fact”: Leonardo DaVinci’s homosexuality was “flamboyant”! Do tell.
But that’s just the irresistible plot, Wormwood. It’s the author’s technique in so many other areas that is particularly worth our attention. For example, there is the manner in which the book seduces its reader with naked flattery, holding out the carrot -- or should I say apple -- of “inside knowledge.” Make note of this, Wormwood; it worked wonders for us in Eden and works for us still. The author trots out the ageless fiddle-faddle about a parallel “reality” beside the “official” one everyone’s been sold. You know, the moth-eaten, bedraggled idea that all of history is a grand “conspiracy” conducted by some hidden elites! But wait, the lucky reader is to be let in on it all, and for the mere price of purchasing this book! He’ll learn the “real” story behind the “official” story that all the other saps have been buying for lo! these many centuries. Heady stuff, eh, Wormwood? Transparent as it might seem to us, this temptation has always been been too great for the humans to bear. They ache to be part of that “inside” group that knows what’s “really” going on, and they fall for it every time. It’s not so different from their craving for gossip or “dirt”; only better, since there isn’t the pesky nuisance of guilt to deal with. They cannot help themselves; they simply swallow it without a thought. That’s the key, Wormwood, for if actual thinking can be prevented, the humans are under our control.
There’s something about a crackpot conspiracy that makes my brown scales twinkle, Wormwood. There’s nothing like a grand conspiracy to twist truth round and round -- until the shape of the thing one ends up with is unrecognizable from that with which one began. I remember when I was young, in an immature display of rakish pique I bewitched an inept sausagemaker such that the next time he applied himself to the sausagemaker’s art he became almost instantly entangled in the entrails with which he was working. That image reoccurs to me now as I recall this great book, Wormwood. You see, this book is that hopelessly intestine-entangled sausagemaker writ large, I tell you! The reader will become snarled in the vile, greasy entrails of its thousand half-truths and will die before he extricates himself! What could be better?
But don’t let’s digress. I was speaking of the employment of flattery. Understand, Wormwood, that the successful devil -- and this devilishly clever author -- well knows his audience, and then tells that audience precisely what it wants to hear. As long as what one puts out is vaguely plausible, they’ll buy it by the yard, and at retail prices! Trust me, Wormwood, these gullible dullards are even likely to thank you for the privelege of being your customer!
I particularly admire the writer’s way of tapping into the widespread disaffection and resentment so many modern women feel toward men. This emotional woundedness is a veritable Mother Lode (pun intended) of destructive possibilities, and it is as profitably mined here as ever it has been. The author winds up his female readers by informing them that they’ve been getting the short end of the stick ever since Eve was kicked out of the garden for her assertive sassiness! History has cheated them! The Church has oppressed them and they deserve better! And he supports this wall of custard with a thousand most excellent pseudo-facts!
Really, Wormwood, the author’s pretense of taking the feminine side of things is extraordinary. For he has cleverly substituted the au courant idea of femininity for the thing itself. According to this version of things we must only know one thing about women, and that is, first and foremost, that they are hideously oppressed. Once alerted to this central fact of their identity throughout all of history, and especially of “Church” history, they’ll believe they needn’t bother about much else.
Revealed to the readers is the “fact” that in the interests of keeping power in the hands of men the Church murdered five million women in the middle ages! Don’t laugh, Wormwood. This author delivers this screaming absurdity with a deadpan that would make Buster Keaton envious. Never mind that it isn’t close to being even one percent true by any conceivable historical standard. The point is that it sounds true, at least to the ever-expanding herd of sheep who are grazing madly upon this ripping, dreamy, peachy excuse for a book! It sounds true and therefore it must be true! Every woman who has been wounded by a man will be vulnerable to this excellent strategem. Whenever and wherever possible, Wormwood, fan this outrage vigorously.
The ersatz “her-story” of the Church’s vicious oppression of women is seasoned with great steaming lumps of balderdash about Nature and “Mother Earth.” It’s a briliant connection. Men and women alike invariably eat it up with a spoon because it gives them a heady sense of being somehow “spiritual” without the annoying necessity of adopting all of those patriarchal “rules”! Never mind, Wormwood, that in this Nature goddess silliness they are worshipping deities that don’t exist! The only thing that matters is that they are not worshiping the deity that does! How we accomplish that doesn’t matter a fig! And if we can give them a sense of their own superiority, a recognition of their sober respect for Mother Earth and against all senseless violence, and against all war and for peace and harmony and tolerance and recycling, well, all the better!
I ought to mention, too, that what passes in this book for perhaps the main “argument” in favor of those pagan goddess religions is that they predate Christianity. Behold the genius of this, Wormwood! It suggests that because pagan goddess worship is older than Christianity it is somehow more pure, closer to the source of “true” spirituality. But where is the logic in this, Wormwood? A horse predates a motorcar, but who would prefer it? Monarchy predates democracy! A joey predates an elderly ‘roo! What of it?? Brilliant!
Before I go on, let me say that I have seen some execrable parodies of this book, my very least favorite being Bring in Da Vinci, Bring in Da Funk, a filthy piece of cant not to be read under any circumstances -- and I mean it, Wormwood. Don’t give me any humbug about how it will help you see how the Enemy thinks and therefore aid you in defeating him. The fact is, my callow dunderhead, that some things have the ability to corrupt the cynical likes even of you. You might well take these corruptions at face value and start having qualms about working against our enemy above, so ixnay on at-thay ook-bay, et it gay? I’m ot-nay oking-jay!
Now then, another extremely admirable facet of this book is the author’s intimate knowledge of his audience’s skyscraping ignorance, which he exploits to devastating effect. One must ever endeavor to capitalize upon ignorance, Wormwood. This is one of the chiefest weapons in our arsenal, and let me observe -- and not without some glee -- that the ignorance of contemporary Western Society in matters of history and theology both, is of an absolutely unprecedented greatness. Never before have so many known so little about so much of great importance.
Ask your average fellow in the street the slightest detail of a daft sitcom of forty years ago and he will move heaven and earth to to supply you with the answer, and then will likely prate on with other similarly inane details -- as if knowing who lived at 1313 Mockingbird Lane was his very passport to the Elysian Fields. Ha! But ask him to tell you about the Nicean Council, or ask him what are the Synoptic Gospels and you will suddenly find yourself in the presence of a weatherbeaten cigar store Injun! But then go ahead and ask him who played drums for The Monkees, or the name of that blasted itinerant peddlar on Green Acres and you will think yourself in the presence of a very Voltaire! Our television executives Down Under have been awfully successful!
As I say, this book exploits the ignorance of its readership with an exemplary elan. One particularly daring example claims that the Crusades were principally concerned with gathering and destroying information! This is bold and laughable twaddle, but it fits so nicely into ye olde conspiracy theory -- that the powerful religious hypocrites want to keep the “truth” out of the hands of their powerless subjects. And what do readers of this book know of the Crusades?
Then there’s that double whopper with cheese, about how the Emperor Constantine “invented” Christianity in the fourth century! Never mind that people had been believing it for all those years before it was “invented”. And in the same masterstroke the author undermines the authority of the Bible by declaring that what it contains arrived on a strictly “political” vote. All of those wonderful “Gospels” that didn’t fit with the “patriarchal” version of things were cruelly -- always “cruelly” -- suppressed and rejected; the oppressive messages it now contains were slipped in to fit Constantine’s political agenda! Who among this book’s readers will know that for three centuries most of those same Gospels were already considered a part of the scriptural canon? Who among his doughheaded readers even knows the meaning of the word “canonical”! My nostrils flare in admiration.
And at the creamy center of the story is the swaggeringly wild idea that Mary Magdalene (whom, incidentally, a cousin of mine once possessed briefly, only to be rudely evicted) would have married Our Chief Enemy! Oh, fatuosity! But again, it shrewdly plays into what the reader so wants to believe: that Jesus was not divine, and that all the demands that go along with his divinity may be conveniently ignored. And, perhaps most cunningly, it does not dismiss Jesus entirely, but patronizingly reduces him into a toothless sage, a veritable “nice guy.” Naturaly the author has added that requisite whiff of subversive sexuality. And oh, yes, hold onto your horns, Wormwood: Mary Magdalene is the Holy Grail! You see, her womb... oh, never mind! It’s just too rich!
As singularly brilliant as our colleague is in what concerns us most, the writing is -- alas and alack! -- scandalously slipshod and often pure giggle-fodder. I mean, the detail of a hulking albino ascetic! Named Silas! Silas! I’m wheezing with laughter this minute! Honestly, it’s too much! I’m almost surprised the author simply make him a drooling simpleton named Benji! “Must kill!” The unintentionally comic monkeyshines of this character almost spoiled my appreciation of the work. But again, it’s decidedly not the fictional elements, however ghastly, that matter here, Wormwood! Most readers won’t notice the thick prose or wafer-thin characters anyway. For many of them, paperback “romances” are like mother’s milk! What does matter is passing along cunning and doubt-sowing falsehoods as smoothly as possible. The rest is merely the narrative butter, as it were, that helps the nasty gobbets slide down the gullet all the more easily. But really, Wormwood -- an albino ascetic! Why didn’t he toss in a vicious freckled humpback? Or some cheerful peasants with goiters? I must stop.
Well, Wormwood, there we are. If you can slither past the Early Reader prose and the overcaffeinated, goggle-eyed plot I think you’ll find that you’ve a veritable textbook on your hands, one that will reward you again and again as you stagger forward and downward in mastering the grand and ignorable art of leading souls, one by one, toward a fathomlessly bleak eternity. Cheers.
Your affectionate Uncle,
Screwtape
**
Eric Metaxas is the author of the much acclaimed Everything You Always Wanted to Know About God (but were afraid to ask), of which Ann. B. Davis (Alice of the Brady Bunch) has said "I'm absolutely smitten with this book!" and which Eric himself calls "Perhaps the best Easter present imaginable! For anyone!! Have you tried amazon.com? My goodness, what are you waiting for??
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
it's only....
APRIL 12.
i think i finally see some hint of green on the trees.
hopefully i'm not horribly grumpy after these 6 weeks of inpatient call.
i think i finally see some hint of green on the trees.
hopefully i'm not horribly grumpy after these 6 weeks of inpatient call.
player ratings - USA v Jamaica
maybe i should start a soccer-only blog. become famous.
==
Meola - 5 - looked old, slow
Albright - 6 - struggled on the left. better on the right. unlucky on the headers.
Mastroeni - 5 much less of an impact on the game at central defense
Pope - 6.5 - made some quality stops. always around the ball in the penalty area. unfortunately, no finishes
Hejduk - 4 - great energy as always, but reckless tackles merited either 2 yellows or 1 red. could be a liability in the WC
Ralston - 3 - can you feel the rust?
Noonan - 5 - we've seen much better from him. looked slow.
Donovan - 7 - nice runs, poor service. tried to inspire with his persistent pressure up front. should've finished better.
Olson - 6 - Looked better than I've seen him in a long time. Got lucky on the goal
Wolff - 4 - Still don't see what he can add to the WC team. Poor finishing.
Twellman - 4 (no service, no Twellman) agree with what was said previously.
Johnson - 5 - Still trying to find touch. However, didn't lose the ball, kept attacks going with good distribution.
Ching - 4 Was he out there? Got lost among the trees.
Dempsey - 8.5 - Could be better in defense, but put constant pressure on the defense and created lots of fouls, more of which should have been yellow.
O’Brien - 6 - An average O'brien is better than 9/10ths of MLS players, but touch was clearly off.
==
Meola - 5 - looked old, slow
Albright - 6 - struggled on the left. better on the right. unlucky on the headers.
Mastroeni - 5 much less of an impact on the game at central defense
Pope - 6.5 - made some quality stops. always around the ball in the penalty area. unfortunately, no finishes
Hejduk - 4 - great energy as always, but reckless tackles merited either 2 yellows or 1 red. could be a liability in the WC
Ralston - 3 - can you feel the rust?
Noonan - 5 - we've seen much better from him. looked slow.
Donovan - 7 - nice runs, poor service. tried to inspire with his persistent pressure up front. should've finished better.
Olson - 6 - Looked better than I've seen him in a long time. Got lucky on the goal
Wolff - 4 - Still don't see what he can add to the WC team. Poor finishing.
Twellman - 4 (no service, no Twellman) agree with what was said previously.
Johnson - 5 - Still trying to find touch. However, didn't lose the ball, kept attacks going with good distribution.
Ching - 4 Was he out there? Got lost among the trees.
Dempsey - 8.5 - Could be better in defense, but put constant pressure on the defense and created lots of fouls, more of which should have been yellow.
O’Brien - 6 - An average O'brien is better than 9/10ths of MLS players, but touch was clearly off.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
the beat goes on...
getting so very, very tired.
not a good way to go into a tough call rotation.
it makes me feel terrible to see her that way.
i felt so helpless.
sometimes i feel like i'm living on the edge of everything unraveling completely...
not a good way to go into a tough call rotation.
it makes me feel terrible to see her that way.
i felt so helpless.
sometimes i feel like i'm living on the edge of everything unraveling completely...
Thursday, April 06, 2006
100% Texan
I'm in one of those phases where i just post other people's stuff...
I agree with these whole-heartedly...well, except the "Ranch" one...
You're 100% Texan if...
*You can properly pronounce Corsicana, Palestine, Decatur, Wichita Falls, San Antonio, Mexia, Waco, and Amarillo.
*A tornado warning siren is your signal to go out in the yard and look for a funnel.
*You've ever had to switch from "heat" to "A/C" in the same day.
*You know that the true value of a parking space is not determined by the distance to the door, but by the availability of shade.
*You think everyone from a bigger city has an accent.
*You measure distance in minutes.
*Little Smokies are something you serve only for special occasions.
*You listen to the weather forecast before picking out an outfit.
*You know cowpies are not made of beef.
*Someone you know has used a football schedule to plan their wedding date.
*You have known someone who has had one belt buckle bigger than your fist.
*You aren't surprised to find movie rental, ammunition, and bait all in the same store.
*A Mercedes Benz is not a status symbol. A Ford F350 4x4 is.
*You know everything goes better with Ranch.
*You actually get these jokes and are "fixin' " to send them to your friends.
*You go to the river/lake because you think it is like going to the
ocean.
*You aren't sure how exactly everyone at the family reunion is related to you. You also aren't sure if you've ever even seen them before in your life.
*Finally, you are 100% Texan if you have ever heard this conversation:
"You wanna coke?"
"Yeah."
"What kind?"
"Dr. Pepper."
I agree with these whole-heartedly...well, except the "Ranch" one...
You're 100% Texan if...
*You can properly pronounce Corsicana, Palestine, Decatur, Wichita Falls, San Antonio, Mexia, Waco, and Amarillo.
*A tornado warning siren is your signal to go out in the yard and look for a funnel.
*You've ever had to switch from "heat" to "A/C" in the same day.
*You know that the true value of a parking space is not determined by the distance to the door, but by the availability of shade.
*You think everyone from a bigger city has an accent.
*You measure distance in minutes.
*Little Smokies are something you serve only for special occasions.
*You listen to the weather forecast before picking out an outfit.
*You know cowpies are not made of beef.
*Someone you know has used a football schedule to plan their wedding date.
*You have known someone who has had one belt buckle bigger than your fist.
*You aren't surprised to find movie rental, ammunition, and bait all in the same store.
*A Mercedes Benz is not a status symbol. A Ford F350 4x4 is.
*You know everything goes better with Ranch.
*You actually get these jokes and are "fixin' " to send them to your friends.
*You go to the river/lake because you think it is like going to the
ocean.
*You aren't sure how exactly everyone at the family reunion is related to you. You also aren't sure if you've ever even seen them before in your life.
*Finally, you are 100% Texan if you have ever heard this conversation:
"You wanna coke?"
"Yeah."
"What kind?"
"Dr. Pepper."
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
couldn't have said it better myself....
A letter from ... New York (to the citizens of England) 'American sports are played with the hands. Using your feet is for commies' Millions of children grow up in America playing football. But they all give up by the age of 10. Award-winning writer Dave Eggers explains just why his country will never understand the sport they insist on calling soccer Sunday April 2, 2006 The Observer When children in the United States are very young, they believe that soccer is the most popular sport in the world. They believe this because every single child in America plays soccer. It is a rule that they play, a rule set forth in the same hoary document, displayed in every state capital, which insists that six-year-olds also pledge allegiance to the flag - a practice which is terrifying to watch, by the way, good lord - and that once a year, they dress as tiny pilgrims with beards fashioned from cotton. On Saturdays, every flat green space in the continental US is covered with tiny people in shiny uniforms, chasing the ball up and down the field, to the delight and consternation of their parents, most of whom have no idea what is happening. The primary force behind all of this is the American Youth Soccer Organisation, which was formed in the Seventies to popularise soccer among the youth of America, and did this with startling efficiency. Within a few years, soccer was the sport of choice for parents everywhere, particularly those who harboured suspicions that their children had no athletic ability whatsoever. The beauty of soccer for very young people is that, to create a simulacrum of the game, it requires very little skill. No other sport can bear such incompetence. With soccer, 22 kids can be running around, most of them aimlessly, or picking weeds by the sidelines, or crying for no apparent reason, and yet the game can have the general appearance of an actual soccer match. If there are three or four co-ordinated kids among the 22 flailing bodies, there will actually be dribbling, a few legal throw-ins, and a couple times when the ball stretches the back of the net. It will be soccer, more or less. Most of America's children assume that soccer will always be a part of their lives. When I was eight, playing central midfield for the undefeated Strikers (coached by the unparalleled Mr Cooper), I had no life expectations other than that I would continue playing central midfield until such time as I died. It never occurred to me that any of this would change. But at about age 10, something happens to the children of the United States. Soccer is dropped, quickly and unceremoniously, by approximately 88 per cent of all young people. They move onto baseball, football, basketball, hockey, field hockey, and, sadly, golf. Shortly thereafter, they stop playing these sports, too, and begin watching these sports on television, including, sadly, golf. The abandonment of soccer is attributable, in part, to the fact that people of influence in America long believed that soccer was the chosen sport of communists. When I was 13 - this was 1983, long before glasnost, let alone the fall of the wall - I had a gym teacher, who for now we'll call Moron McCheeby, who made a very compelling link between soccer and the architects of the Iron Curtain. I remember once asking him why there were no days of soccer in his gym units. His face darkened. He took me aside. He explained with quivering, barely mastered rage, that he preferred decent, honest American sports where you used your hands. Sports where one's hands were not used, he said, were commie sports played by Russians, Poles, Germans and other commies. To use one's hands in sports was American, to use one's feet was the purview of the followers of Marx and Lenin. I believe McCheeby went on to lecture widely on the subject. It was, by most accounts, 1986 when the residents of the US became aware of the World Cup. The games were not usually broadcast in our country, but isolated reports came from foreign correspondents. We were frightened by these reports, worried about domino effects, and wondered aloud if the trend was something we could stop by placing a certain number of military advisers in Cologne or Marseille. It was not until 1990 that all of the World Cup was broadcast in the US, and even then, in the small hours of the night, and even then, in Spanish. At the same time, high school soccer was booming in the suburbs of Chicago, due in large part to an influx of foreign exchange students. My own high school team was ridiculously good by the standards of the day, stacked as it was with extraordinary players from other places. I can still remember the name of the forward who came from, I think, Rome: Alessandro Dazza. He was the best on the team, just ahead of Carlos Gutierrez (not his real name), who hailed from Spain and played midfield. Our best defender was a Vietnamese-American student named Tuan, and there was also Paul Beaupre, who was actually from our own WASP-filled town, but whose name sounded French. We were expected to be the state champions, but we did not come very close. Homewood-Flossmoor, we heard, had a pair of twins from Brazil. A short time later, after the growth of professional indoor soccer and then some vague stabs at outdoor leagues, we proved to the world that the US was serious, or relatively serious, about soccer, and the World Cup came to America in 1994. At least 4 to 5 per cent of the country heard about this, and some commensurate percentage of them went to the games. This was enough to fill stadiums, and the experiment was considered a success. In the wake of the Cup in America, other outdoor leagues have struggled to gain footing, and the current league seems more or less viable, though newspaper coverage of the games usually is found in the nether regions of the sports section, near the car ads and biathlon round-ups. Our continued indifference to the sport worshipped around the world can be easily explained in two parts. First, as a nation of loony but determined inventors, we prefer things we thought of ourselves. The most popular sports in America are those we conceived and developed on our own: [American] football, baseball, basketball. If we can claim at least part of the credit for something, as with tennis or the radio, we are willing to be passively interested. But we did not invent soccer, and so we are suspicious of it. The second and greatest, by far, obstacle to the popularity of the World Cup, and of professional soccer in general, is the element of diving. Americans may generally be arrogant, but there is one stance I stand behind, and that is the intense loathing of penalty-fakers. There are few examples of American sports where diving is part of the game, much less accepted as such. Things are too complicated and dangerous in American football to do much faking. Baseball? It's not possible, really - you can't fake getting hit by a baseball, and it's impossible to fake catching one. The only one of the big three sports that has a dive factor is basketball, where players can and do occasionally exaggerate a foul against them, but get this: the biggest diver in the NBA is not an American at all. He's Argentinian! (Manu Ginobili, a phony to end all phonies, but otherwise a very good player.) But diving in soccer is a problem. It is essentially a combination of acting, lying, begging and cheating, an unappealing mix. The theatricality of diving is distasteful, as is the slow-motion way the chicanery unfolds. First there will be some incidental contact, and then there will be a long moment - enough to allow you to go and wash the car and return - after the contact and before the diver decides to go down. When you've returned from washing the car and around the time you're making yourself a mini-bagel grilled cheese, the diver will be leaping forward, his mouth Munch-wide and oval, bracing himself for contact with the pitch. But this is just the beginning. Go and do the grocery shopping and perhaps open a new account at the bank, and when you return, our diver will still be on the ground, holding his shin, his head thrown back in mock-agony. It's disgusting, all of it, particularly because, just as all of this fakery takes a good deal of time and melodrama to put over, the next step is so fast that special cameras are needed to capture it. Once the referees have decided either to issue a penalty or not to our Fakey McChumpland, he will jump up, suddenly and spectacular uninjured - excelsior! - and will kick the ball over to his team-mate and move on. American sports are, for better or worse, built upon transparency, or the appearance of transparency, and on the grind-it-out work ethic. This is why the most popular soccer player in American history is Sylvester Stallone. In fact, the two greatest moments in American soccer both involved Sylvester Stallone. The first came with Escape to Victory, the classic film about Allied soccer-playing PoWs, and the all-star game they play against the Nazis. In that film, Stallone plays an American soldier who must, for some reason - no one can be expected to remember these things - replace the goalie on the PoW team. Stallone does this admirably, the Allies win (I think) and as the crowd surrounds them, they are hidden under coats and fans, and sneak away to freedom. The second most significant moment came when the World Cup came to the US, in 1994. It is reported that Stallone attended one of the games, and seemed to enjoy it. It's inevitable, given the way the US teams are improving every year, that eventually we will make it to the semi-final of a World Cup, and it's likely, one would think, that the United States will win it all in the near future. This is a country of limitless wealth and 300 million people, after all, and when we dedicate the proper resources to a project, we get the job done (see Vietnam, Lebanon, Iraq). But until we do win the World Cup - and we have no chance this particular time around, being tossed into the Group of Death, which will consume us quickly and utterly - soccer will receive only the grudging acknowledgement of the general populace. Then again, do we really want - or can we even conceive of - an America where soccer enjoys wide popularity or even respect? If you were soccer, the sport of kings, would you want the adulation of a people who elected Bush and Cheney, not once but twice? You would not. You would rather return to your roots, communist or otherwise, and fight fascism with your feet. · From The Thinking Fan's Guide |
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
endless winter...
yesterday was the first official sunroof open day of the season. twas quite enjoyable. if only it would, you know, stay that way. none of this...a few days of 60, a few days of 30, a few days of 50, a few days of 30 stuff....
i get caught in the middle of wanting to make this an "important" blog where i wax poetic and/or launch into a long narrative about some lifechanging or interesting subject, of just some sort of journal that i can go back and read 10 years for now for ....and giggles.
yesterday...gave my first lecture to college students. tis much easier to lecture about a topic you know inside and out to people that have no clue, as opposed to lecturing to your peers, half of which probably know more about the subject than you...
today...AM meeting...sports medicine where i didn't really see anything interesting...and boring afternoon lectures on HPV, intimate partner violence, and polycytic ovarian disease. stop me if the excitement is too much.
still stuck on smallville. trying to resist the urge to buy it on DVD.
i don't know what i'm going to do when heidi moves in. my guess is she won't let me watch nearly as many of these series as i do...maybe i'll have to buy the DVDs then to watch on call or something...
i get caught in the middle of wanting to make this an "important" blog where i wax poetic and/or launch into a long narrative about some lifechanging or interesting subject, of just some sort of journal that i can go back and read 10 years for now for ....and giggles.
yesterday...gave my first lecture to college students. tis much easier to lecture about a topic you know inside and out to people that have no clue, as opposed to lecturing to your peers, half of which probably know more about the subject than you...
today...AM meeting...sports medicine where i didn't really see anything interesting...and boring afternoon lectures on HPV, intimate partner violence, and polycytic ovarian disease. stop me if the excitement is too much.
still stuck on smallville. trying to resist the urge to buy it on DVD.
i don't know what i'm going to do when heidi moves in. my guess is she won't let me watch nearly as many of these series as i do...maybe i'll have to buy the DVDs then to watch on call or something...
Monday, March 27, 2006
Forgettable weekend...
21 hrs of urgent care is not fun.
let's just forget about the past 2 days.
not that much about today was memorable.
i wish i wasn't such a procrastinator.
let's just forget about the past 2 days.
not that much about today was memorable.
i wish i wasn't such a procrastinator.
Friday, March 24, 2006
lazy friday
norah jones' side project .
sports med conference all day yesterday and today. not too bad. learned a lot about the "patello-femoral pain syndrome." otherwise known as "the low back pain of sports medicine." in other words, count it among the group of entities docs most hate to treat - vague symptoms that are rarely attributable to one thing and offer no easy answers.
so, in my smallville craze, i'm watching about 3 different seasons at once, trying to catch up. season 4 on monday nights. season 3 daily. season 5 (current season) on thursday nights.
i watched last night's episode. it made me cry. tears flowing like crazy. yeah. i must be on the verge...on the edge...something.
not looking forward to 20 hours of urgent care this weekend. sure, the money is nice, but so is sleeping in until 10.
sports med conference all day yesterday and today. not too bad. learned a lot about the "patello-femoral pain syndrome." otherwise known as "the low back pain of sports medicine." in other words, count it among the group of entities docs most hate to treat - vague symptoms that are rarely attributable to one thing and offer no easy answers.
so, in my smallville craze, i'm watching about 3 different seasons at once, trying to catch up. season 4 on monday nights. season 3 daily. season 5 (current season) on thursday nights.
i watched last night's episode. it made me cry. tears flowing like crazy. yeah. i must be on the verge...on the edge...something.
not looking forward to 20 hours of urgent care this weekend. sure, the money is nice, but so is sleeping in until 10.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
i am crying inside.
Sounds like a cliché indie song, no?
I am so, so, so very sad that I won’t be able to attend this show.
http://www.wallofsoundfestival.com/home.php
To all of my Texas friends: You had better be at this show, or I shall kick your ass.
Seriously.
Nothing cool like this comes anywhere close to Wisconsin.
Reason #347 that I want to move back to Texas.
Also, how freaking slow has blogger been lately? It took me 30 minutes to get online to post this tonight. i think maybe it's a firefox problem, actually.
Keeping with the 2 line a day project….Yesterday remarkable for the afternoon’s sports medicine clinic. Seeing interesting things occasionally. 13 year old with a severe meniscus tear. Rather rare. Got to do a couple of injections. Very useful. Yesterday evening spent looking for a tux. By myself. Thought I could do it, then realized how lost I was without the ol’ female touch. Just let me pick the tux and she can pick everything else…colors, etc.
Today…clinic most of the day. Always behind as usual. I’m not good working with a student. They bog me down too much. Saw a gal with chicken pox despite the vaccine. Didn’t look like what I remember it looking on me.
The Book of Romance came in. Hopefully she’ll like it, and not think too much about the past. Just when I get excited about something….
I also got John & Stasi Eldredge’s latest. “Captivating.” Looking forward to it. Looking forward to reading in general. For fun, that is.
still stuck on smallville. thank goodness for hdnet.
I am so, so, so very sad that I won’t be able to attend this show.
http://www.wallofsoundfestival.com/home.php
To all of my Texas friends: You had better be at this show, or I shall kick your ass.
Seriously.
Nothing cool like this comes anywhere close to Wisconsin.
Reason #347 that I want to move back to Texas.
Also, how freaking slow has blogger been lately? It took me 30 minutes to get online to post this tonight. i think maybe it's a firefox problem, actually.
Keeping with the 2 line a day project….Yesterday remarkable for the afternoon’s sports medicine clinic. Seeing interesting things occasionally. 13 year old with a severe meniscus tear. Rather rare. Got to do a couple of injections. Very useful. Yesterday evening spent looking for a tux. By myself. Thought I could do it, then realized how lost I was without the ol’ female touch. Just let me pick the tux and she can pick everything else…colors, etc.
Today…clinic most of the day. Always behind as usual. I’m not good working with a student. They bog me down too much. Saw a gal with chicken pox despite the vaccine. Didn’t look like what I remember it looking on me.
The Book of Romance came in. Hopefully she’ll like it, and not think too much about the past. Just when I get excited about something….
I also got John & Stasi Eldredge’s latest. “Captivating.” Looking forward to it. Looking forward to reading in general. For fun, that is.
still stuck on smallville. thank goodness for hdnet.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
loopy
one other thing. the ny-quil equivalent i just took, plus the jazz in the background, has me feeling rather loopy. could make for an introspective night...if i wasn't so tired...
another lazy sunday...
went to a church similar to my upbringing for the first time in a long time today. it was quite enjoyable, even despite the fact the sermon was completely on their upcoming building project. i didn't mind because 1) got to worship to songs i haven't worshiped to in a long time. and there was an actual band playing. and people not buried in their songbook but singing and dancing. and, i don't know, just the joy of singing loudly songs that are echoing through the hall from people singing as passionately as you about them. and i didn't mind the building project sermon because he promised it would be the only one. the word has to get out somewhere. and, sure, this church reminds me a bit too much of prestonwood baptist church in plano and its' bap-to-dome, but, still, it's as close to home as there is around here. at least it is assuming i don't want to waste weeks visiting every small church around. some of those promise to be closer to what i am looking for, but, with time limited, and me already so "backslidden," i think it's time to just settle in, flaws and all.
afternoon spent watching bball once again. texas cruises to sweet 16. still not convinced they can win the whole thing, but, man, would it be nice.
evening and rest of the day spent on wedding arrangements/planning. also spent the night working on next year's schedule. would be much easier if we had a clue as to how many residents we'll have.
i should sleep soon. the ambitious plan is up at 5 or 5:30 to workout for 30 minutes. we'll see how it goes.
afternoon spent watching bball once again. texas cruises to sweet 16. still not convinced they can win the whole thing, but, man, would it be nice.
evening and rest of the day spent on wedding arrangements/planning. also spent the night working on next year's schedule. would be much easier if we had a clue as to how many residents we'll have.
i should sleep soon. the ambitious plan is up at 5 or 5:30 to workout for 30 minutes. we'll see how it goes.
catching up...
so...thursday was primarily a day for watching basketball. march madness tourney time. took a little time off thursday and friday to watch the games.
which means friday was more of the same...as well as saturday. the difference being heidi was by my side to watch the game then. how cool it is that we can hang out and watch march madness together...and with her actually enjoying it. very lucky guy i am.
and then, while i'm gone to work urgent care yesterday, she takes it upon herself to clean the bathroom and fold the laundry. man. first, i suck when it comes to that stuff, and in some ways i'm surprised she stuck around despite my bachelor-ways. i do plan some changes when we get married, and i am enjoying the last few days of living alone...but there are also times i wonder that, despite waiting, let's say, 7 or 8 years to get married, that i'm not ready for being a husband, much less a father...
but, as they say, i guess you never really are. we'll see how things go.
which means friday was more of the same...as well as saturday. the difference being heidi was by my side to watch the game then. how cool it is that we can hang out and watch march madness together...and with her actually enjoying it. very lucky guy i am.
and then, while i'm gone to work urgent care yesterday, she takes it upon herself to clean the bathroom and fold the laundry. man. first, i suck when it comes to that stuff, and in some ways i'm surprised she stuck around despite my bachelor-ways. i do plan some changes when we get married, and i am enjoying the last few days of living alone...but there are also times i wonder that, despite waiting, let's say, 7 or 8 years to get married, that i'm not ready for being a husband, much less a father...
but, as they say, i guess you never really are. we'll see how things go.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
somebody save me
i'm so stuck on smallville. i may have to buy the series on dvd.
bummer of a day today. our residency program is going downhill fast. 2 of 6 residents matched. countless folks that didn't want to come here. i don't know if it's our program sucking the big suck, or if people that are going into FP just don't want to do OB anymore. and heaven knows we do way more than our share of OB for FP docs.
afternoon and evening spent with folks at house of guinness then mamma mias. not a typical shane afternoon and evening, but interesting to be part of that world from time to time.
note to self. must remember to get brackets done by tomorrow. i don't think texas will be able to pull off the trifecta.
the books are in the mail. hopefully we'll enjoy reading them together...
bummer of a day today. our residency program is going downhill fast. 2 of 6 residents matched. countless folks that didn't want to come here. i don't know if it's our program sucking the big suck, or if people that are going into FP just don't want to do OB anymore. and heaven knows we do way more than our share of OB for FP docs.
afternoon and evening spent with folks at house of guinness then mamma mias. not a typical shane afternoon and evening, but interesting to be part of that world from time to time.
note to self. must remember to get brackets done by tomorrow. i don't think texas will be able to pull off the trifecta.
the books are in the mail. hopefully we'll enjoy reading them together...
Monday, March 13, 2006
where does the time go
i wonder how much of my life is truly productive.
began my sports medicine rotation today. clinic in the AM. working with the team doc for the brewers in the pm. saw a couple of meniscal injuries, a buttock hematoma (yeah, go figure), a tarsal coalition and foot stress fracture, and synvisc injection. should be a good month.
i need to figure out how to make the most of this month. see prev post.
began my sports medicine rotation today. clinic in the AM. working with the team doc for the brewers in the pm. saw a couple of meniscal injuries, a buttock hematoma (yeah, go figure), a tarsal coalition and foot stress fracture, and synvisc injection. should be a good month.
i need to figure out how to make the most of this month. see prev post.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
wbc & soccer?
one world baseball classic, soccer related comment.
people make fun of the us for trying to copy european countries when it comes to our pro soccer teams. names like dc unted or fc dallas or real salt lake (ok, that one does suck), or houston dynamo. or for copying their general uniform style. or trying to emulate how they decide playoffs or champions.
and i say...it goes both ways, and it's nothing to be ashamed of.
take a look at the world baseball classic uniforms. each country has a look that distinctly copies a MLB team. the fonts. the styles. the color schemes.
to take it further. take a look at nfl europe. everything they do tries to copy the nfl.
try hockey. it's taken a distinctly american flavor.
so, i don't have a problem when american soccer teams try to emulate what other countries do with the world's most popular sports. it just makes sense. sure, this is america. but the rest of the world has 100s of years of history in soccer, so it's ok to copy them, follow in their footsteps, just like we have 100s of years of history in baseball, so the rest of the world copies and follows us when it comes to things like the world baseball classic.
ok. good night.
people make fun of the us for trying to copy european countries when it comes to our pro soccer teams. names like dc unted or fc dallas or real salt lake (ok, that one does suck), or houston dynamo. or for copying their general uniform style. or trying to emulate how they decide playoffs or champions.
and i say...it goes both ways, and it's nothing to be ashamed of.
take a look at the world baseball classic uniforms. each country has a look that distinctly copies a MLB team. the fonts. the styles. the color schemes.
to take it further. take a look at nfl europe. everything they do tries to copy the nfl.
try hockey. it's taken a distinctly american flavor.
so, i don't have a problem when american soccer teams try to emulate what other countries do with the world's most popular sports. it just makes sense. sure, this is america. but the rest of the world has 100s of years of history in soccer, so it's ok to copy them, follow in their footsteps, just like we have 100s of years of history in baseball, so the rest of the world copies and follows us when it comes to things like the world baseball classic.
ok. good night.
OB is over
2 more lines for today. worked urgent care this morning. watched texas lose big 12 championship this afternoon. not much else but sleep really. start sports medicine tomorrow. on the one hand, ready to get back to "normal" life. on the other hand, it's really the last 4 weeks of "normal" life as i've known it that i'll have...and really the last 4 weeks of "normal" bachelorhood i'll have. cuz after that is 6 weeks of teaching service call, then only 2 weeks to the wedding. i have a ton of stuff that needs to get done.
beginning to feel the crunch. of time.
beginning to feel the crunch. of time.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
heat wave
first day over 60 degrees in like 6 months, and i'm stuck inside on call.
my luck continues.
my luck continues.
tired of scut
ob call. loving the scut.
it seems i never get easy days.
other people: show up for urgent care, have one person to see in 3 hours.
me: show up for urgent care, have seven people waiting.
other people: have zero deliveries on a weekend day on OB call.
me: already have one, 2 more coming in to triage to be evaluated for labor.
random tip via soundmoneytips.com
if you want to text message someone for free, use your computer. dial xxx-xxx-xxxx@teleflip.com. free and easy, works for all carriers.
it seems i never get easy days.
other people: show up for urgent care, have one person to see in 3 hours.
me: show up for urgent care, have seven people waiting.
other people: have zero deliveries on a weekend day on OB call.
me: already have one, 2 more coming in to triage to be evaluated for labor.
random tip via soundmoneytips.com
if you want to text message someone for free, use your computer. dial xxx-xxx-xxxx@teleflip.com. free and easy, works for all carriers.
Friday, March 10, 2006
best laid plans...
well, that project lasted all of 2 days.
trying to catch up.
3 days ago - post-call from OB. clinic in the AM. a pain. sleep-walked through it. drowsy half-daze the rest of the day.
2 days ago - AM clinic. boring lecture afternoon. the evening was nice...spending it with heidi, vegging on the couch.
yesterday - not much. first dental appt in 4 years. catching up on charts. cleaning some. hanging out with my lovely future wife some more after she got back from finding a dress for her mom at the wedding. we might have the wedding songs picked out.
today - clinic all day. moonlighting tonight. call tomorrow. moonlighting the next day. it'll be a busy few days.
trying to catch up.
3 days ago - post-call from OB. clinic in the AM. a pain. sleep-walked through it. drowsy half-daze the rest of the day.
2 days ago - AM clinic. boring lecture afternoon. the evening was nice...spending it with heidi, vegging on the couch.
yesterday - not much. first dental appt in 4 years. catching up on charts. cleaning some. hanging out with my lovely future wife some more after she got back from finding a dress for her mom at the wedding. we might have the wedding songs picked out.
today - clinic all day. moonlighting tonight. call tomorrow. moonlighting the next day. it'll be a busy few days.
Monday, March 06, 2006
day 2
OB call. nothing too exciting. a couple of deliveries. a bad case of HELLP syndrome. some very bad stuff can happen with pregnancy. i'm so very tired of doing other people's work, which is sometimes all that residency seems. doing scut for other folks. and not even just scut...just work that they take for granted that we do for them. hmm. at least i'm more than halfway done now.
day 1
first day of the 2 line journal. goal is a minimum of 2 lines daily. we'll see.
wasn't expecting the snow today. a good 1-2 inches. the snow is always a nice surprise, but, better in january than march.
day wasn't mostly church and lunch with heidi and her parents, then home to work on finances, taxes, laundry, cleaning, etc. tons of fun. did watch texas clinch big 12 basketball title.
other goals decided on today: read through book of romance with heidi. begin reading personally again. just ordered brennan manning's devotions and john eldgredge's captivating or whatever it's called.
basically, every time i go to a lutheran church with heidi, it reminds me of how much i miss my own church community, and how i wish there was one here, and how i need to quit using that as an excuse to not be in fellowship with Him. thus the above goals decided on today. a lack of a church should not mean a lack of communion.
oh, and i've given up on keeping shanehall.org updated. too much trouble to make a custom blog. while cool, i just don't have the time.
good night.
wasn't expecting the snow today. a good 1-2 inches. the snow is always a nice surprise, but, better in january than march.
day wasn't mostly church and lunch with heidi and her parents, then home to work on finances, taxes, laundry, cleaning, etc. tons of fun. did watch texas clinch big 12 basketball title.
other goals decided on today: read through book of romance with heidi. begin reading personally again. just ordered brennan manning's devotions and john eldgredge's captivating or whatever it's called.
basically, every time i go to a lutheran church with heidi, it reminds me of how much i miss my own church community, and how i wish there was one here, and how i need to quit using that as an excuse to not be in fellowship with Him. thus the above goals decided on today. a lack of a church should not mean a lack of communion.
oh, and i've given up on keeping shanehall.org updated. too much trouble to make a custom blog. while cool, i just don't have the time.
good night.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
reinvention
there was a time i felt writing was a way to keep creative portions of my brain from dying.
i'm going to try to revive that.
goals for this year:
1. explore the interesection of the lutheran faith and my own beliefs
2. keep a film journal - documenting reviews of every movie i've seen
3. keep a music journal - document reviews of every CD i buy
4. consider a book journal - quotes and thoughts inspired by words written by humans
5. consider a TV journal - i'd rather not, but, maybe i should...if only i didn't watch so much fluff...
ambitious? yes.
doable? probably not
but worth a shot.
i'm going to try to revive that.
goals for this year:
1. explore the interesection of the lutheran faith and my own beliefs
2. keep a film journal - documenting reviews of every movie i've seen
3. keep a music journal - document reviews of every CD i buy
4. consider a book journal - quotes and thoughts inspired by words written by humans
5. consider a TV journal - i'd rather not, but, maybe i should...if only i didn't watch so much fluff...
ambitious? yes.
doable? probably not
but worth a shot.
Monday, January 09, 2006
simplistic...
i'm trying to find a point of conversation, or a point of discussion, or a point of commonality from which to start this discussion or dialogue in my mind, but with arguments that are this simplistic, i find it hard to...
http://www.wels.net/cgi-bin/site.pl?1518&cuTopic_topicID=9&cuItem_itemID=9424
Could you provide a summary of the differences between WELS and Billy Graham?
A: As a Baptist, Billy Graham does not believe in infant baptism, in part because he does not believe that we are all born sinners and in part because he does not believe that in baptism God gives us the new birth of water and the Word.
Dr. Graham preaches a clear gospel message of what Christ has done for all sinners by his perfect life and innocent sacrifical death. A hallmark of his preaching, however, is that it consistently demands a "decision for Christ." "But there is something you must do," he says.
Lutherans believe with Luther that "I cannot by own thinking or choosing believe in Jesus Christ my Lord not come to him; but the Holy Spirit has called me by the gospel."
As a non-Lutheran, Billy Graham also denies that Christ gives us his body and blood in the Lord's Supper as a means for strengthening and preserving us in the faith.
He is also a millennialist, that is, he believes that before the final judgment Christ will come and reign on earth for a thousand years.
i'm sorry, but billy graham, and christians of other denominations in general, aren't nearly that easy to explain away...
http://www.wels.net/cgi-bin/site.pl?1518&cuTopic_topicID=9&cuItem_itemID=9424
Could you provide a summary of the differences between WELS and Billy Graham?
A: As a Baptist, Billy Graham does not believe in infant baptism, in part because he does not believe that we are all born sinners and in part because he does not believe that in baptism God gives us the new birth of water and the Word.
Dr. Graham preaches a clear gospel message of what Christ has done for all sinners by his perfect life and innocent sacrifical death. A hallmark of his preaching, however, is that it consistently demands a "decision for Christ." "But there is something you must do," he says.
Lutherans believe with Luther that "I cannot by own thinking or choosing believe in Jesus Christ my Lord not come to him; but the Holy Spirit has called me by the gospel."
As a non-Lutheran, Billy Graham also denies that Christ gives us his body and blood in the Lord's Supper as a means for strengthening and preserving us in the faith.
He is also a millennialist, that is, he believes that before the final judgment Christ will come and reign on earth for a thousand years.
i'm sorry, but billy graham, and christians of other denominations in general, aren't nearly that easy to explain away...
religious struggles
in the days and weeks to come, i'm going to begin a dialogue, mostly with myself, regarding my struggles with reconciling my fiance's religious upbringing with my own....
this is kind of a pot-shot opening, but i have to get it off my chest...
it strikes me as odd that a church, a WELS (Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran Synod), which is so paritcular about the image it puts forth and the words chosen and who can participate with them in worship, including a) changing words to common and wide-spread praise songs (ok, i've just heard maybe 2 of these) b) practicing closed communion - not the modern protestant practice of closing communion to unbelievers, but closing communion to those who are not of their own particular denomination, and, specifically, synod, c) prohibing who can participate in a wedding ceremony to only WELS members so that i cannot have any of my friends participate in the ceremony, nor will i be able to take communion with my new bride during the ceremony...etc...
it strikes me as odd that this church would have a 50 foot tall christmas tree smack dab in the middle of the alter. ok, it was off to the side, but it's hard for a 50 foot tree to not dominate the scene...blocking off even the icon of jesus at the back of the alter.
some words on the historical significance of the christmas tree:
"The Christmas tree is often explained as a Christianization of the ancient pagan idea that the evergreen tree represents a celebration of the renewal of life. In Roman mosaics from what is today Tunisia, showing the mythic triumphant return from India of the Greek god of wine and male fertility, Dionysus (dubbed by some modern scholars as a life-death-rebirth deity), the god carries a tapering coniferous tree. Medieval legends, nevertheless, tended to concentrate more on the miraculous "flowering" of trees at Christmas time. A branch of flowering Glastonbury thorn is still sent annually for the Queen's Christmas table in the United Kingdom.
Taiwanese aboriginals, tutored by Christian missionaries, celebrate with trees (Cunninghamia lanceolata) outside their homes.
Among early Germanic tribes the Yule tradition was celebrated by sacrificing male animals, and slaves, by suspending them on the branches of trees. According to Adam of Bremen, in Scandinavia the pagan kings sacrificed nine males of each species at the sacred groves every ninth year. According to one legend, Saint Boniface attempted to introduce the idea of trinity to the pagan tribes using the cone-shaped evergreen trees because of their triangular appearance."
But, I suppose, if Martin Luther did it, it must be ok...
"Germany is credited with starting the Christmas tree tradition as we now know it in the 16th century when devout Christians brought decorated trees into their homes. Some built Christmas pyramids of wood and decorated them with evergreens and candles if wood was scarce. It is a widely held belief that Martin Luther, the 16th-century Protestant reformer, first added lighted candles to a tree. Walking toward his home one winter evening, composing a sermon, he was awed by the brilliance of stars twinkling amidst evergreens. To recapture the scene for his family, he erected a tree in the main room and wired its branches with lighted candles.
Most 19th-century Americans found Christmas trees an oddity. The first record of one being on display was in the 1830s by the German settlers of Pennsylvania, although trees had been a tradition in many German homes much earlier. The Pennsylvania German settlements had community trees as early as 1747. But, as late as the 1840s Christmas trees were seen as pagan symbols and not accepted by most Americans.
It is not surprising that, like many other festive Christmas customs, the tree was adopted so late in America. To the New England Puritans, Christmas was sacred. The pilgrims's second governor, William Bradford, wrote that he tried hard to stamp out "pagan mockery" of the observance, penalizing any frivolity. The influential Oliver Cromwell preached against "the heathen traditions" of Christmas carols, decorated trees, and any joyful expression that desecrated "that sacred event." In 1659, the General Court of Massachusetts enacted a law making any observance of December 25 (other than a church service) a penal offense; people were fined for hanging decorations. That stern solemnity continued until the 19th century, when the influx of German and Irish immigrants undermined the Puritan legacy."
you might say i'm being picky here...but...that's just it. big organizations and large organized religions begin to find it difficult to be 100% consistent in every single thing they do, ultimately leading to compromises in areas that fit their fancy, but not in others that have either "been done for years" or don't suit their agendas...
i dunno. i've got to figure out a way to reconcile all of this. god, please grant me wisdom.
this is kind of a pot-shot opening, but i have to get it off my chest...
it strikes me as odd that a church, a WELS (Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran Synod), which is so paritcular about the image it puts forth and the words chosen and who can participate with them in worship, including a) changing words to common and wide-spread praise songs (ok, i've just heard maybe 2 of these) b) practicing closed communion - not the modern protestant practice of closing communion to unbelievers, but closing communion to those who are not of their own particular denomination, and, specifically, synod, c) prohibing who can participate in a wedding ceremony to only WELS members so that i cannot have any of my friends participate in the ceremony, nor will i be able to take communion with my new bride during the ceremony...etc...
it strikes me as odd that this church would have a 50 foot tall christmas tree smack dab in the middle of the alter. ok, it was off to the side, but it's hard for a 50 foot tree to not dominate the scene...blocking off even the icon of jesus at the back of the alter.
some words on the historical significance of the christmas tree:
"The Christmas tree is often explained as a Christianization of the ancient pagan idea that the evergreen tree represents a celebration of the renewal of life. In Roman mosaics from what is today Tunisia, showing the mythic triumphant return from India of the Greek god of wine and male fertility, Dionysus (dubbed by some modern scholars as a life-death-rebirth deity), the god carries a tapering coniferous tree. Medieval legends, nevertheless, tended to concentrate more on the miraculous "flowering" of trees at Christmas time. A branch of flowering Glastonbury thorn is still sent annually for the Queen's Christmas table in the United Kingdom.
Taiwanese aboriginals, tutored by Christian missionaries, celebrate with trees (Cunninghamia lanceolata) outside their homes.
Among early Germanic tribes the Yule tradition was celebrated by sacrificing male animals, and slaves, by suspending them on the branches of trees. According to Adam of Bremen, in Scandinavia the pagan kings sacrificed nine males of each species at the sacred groves every ninth year. According to one legend, Saint Boniface attempted to introduce the idea of trinity to the pagan tribes using the cone-shaped evergreen trees because of their triangular appearance."
But, I suppose, if Martin Luther did it, it must be ok...
"Germany is credited with starting the Christmas tree tradition as we now know it in the 16th century when devout Christians brought decorated trees into their homes. Some built Christmas pyramids of wood and decorated them with evergreens and candles if wood was scarce. It is a widely held belief that Martin Luther, the 16th-century Protestant reformer, first added lighted candles to a tree. Walking toward his home one winter evening, composing a sermon, he was awed by the brilliance of stars twinkling amidst evergreens. To recapture the scene for his family, he erected a tree in the main room and wired its branches with lighted candles.
Most 19th-century Americans found Christmas trees an oddity. The first record of one being on display was in the 1830s by the German settlers of Pennsylvania, although trees had been a tradition in many German homes much earlier. The Pennsylvania German settlements had community trees as early as 1747. But, as late as the 1840s Christmas trees were seen as pagan symbols and not accepted by most Americans.
It is not surprising that, like many other festive Christmas customs, the tree was adopted so late in America. To the New England Puritans, Christmas was sacred. The pilgrims's second governor, William Bradford, wrote that he tried hard to stamp out "pagan mockery" of the observance, penalizing any frivolity. The influential Oliver Cromwell preached against "the heathen traditions" of Christmas carols, decorated trees, and any joyful expression that desecrated "that sacred event." In 1659, the General Court of Massachusetts enacted a law making any observance of December 25 (other than a church service) a penal offense; people were fined for hanging decorations. That stern solemnity continued until the 19th century, when the influx of German and Irish immigrants undermined the Puritan legacy."
you might say i'm being picky here...but...that's just it. big organizations and large organized religions begin to find it difficult to be 100% consistent in every single thing they do, ultimately leading to compromises in areas that fit their fancy, but not in others that have either "been done for years" or don't suit their agendas...
i dunno. i've got to figure out a way to reconcile all of this. god, please grant me wisdom.
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