In which I find a new career

Or at least, a new way to zone out while also making the house look better. My next-door neighbor offered the use of his father-in-law's pressure washer, and I've been slaying concrete-dwelling algae by the trillions. I'm not sure I'd want to make an actual career of doing that, since you do have to wrestle that hose around, and get splattered with detritus, but the chance to improve the looks of the house via an 11-horsepower Honda motor and a water spray strong enough to chip concrete makes me giggle.

The cleaning was done in preparation for Operation Childfest 2009, also known as Jacob's first birthday party, which takes place this Saturday. Friends and family are of course on their way, Mama Dunn has baked a cake, Publix has been commissioned to make a cake (for their first birthday, they throw in a free "smash cake" for the young'un to mutilate), and then I've laid in a 50-pound bag of sugar, just to make sure we maximize our glycemic potential.

I had to run to the Food Frolic yesterday to get the makings for Mama Dunn's cake, but before I did, I went to the ATM to get some cash, and to make sure something nefarious hadn't happened to my account. Lately, I'd had my debit card declined at a couple of places, when I knew I had enough money to cover the charge. But, just to be sure some Romanian kid hadn't hacked into my bank's computer, Hoovered up my money, and then went on a World of Warcraft spending spree, I pulled up to the drive-in ATM and got some cash ("Think in multiples of $20," the screen advises me, as if visualizing twenties is what they expect; my ATM is a New-Age spiritualist), as well as a balance. Yep, plenty enough money in there to cover the charges I'd been turned down for. Something had gone wrong in Skynet, and my card had been flagged as being plastica non grata. Oh well, at least I hadn't been cleaned out. I just needed to either get the card unflagged, or to get a new card. On to the Food Frolic.

I only needed a couple of things for the cake, plus some white seedless grapes for me (freeze them; they're the perfect healthy summer refresher), so I was at the checkout in short order. I refuse to be one of those people who waits until the cashier gives the total before getting payment in order--checks should just be outlawed, unless you're paying a bill by mail--so while the lady in front was finishing up, I loaded my stash on the conveyor belt and pulled out my wallet. My wallet that no longer held my debit card.

Slight pause while I gulped my heart back down my throat.

Okay, everybody stay frosty. I can handle this. I'll be out of the checkout line shortly, and the ATM is pretty much in the Food Frolic's parking lot. I'll see if I left the card in the car, then make the short drive to the bank and see if maybe I left the card in the slot. It might still be there, hanging out, waiting for me to return it to its rightful home in my wallet.

Nope. Gone. I don't know if the machine eats your card after it's in the slot for X amount of time, or if somebody else came through and got it, but my little buddy that had been swiped in a zillion scanners was no more.

But for once, I was prepared for just such an emergency. I grabbed my BlackBerry, scrolled down to where I had the toll-free number from the back of the card stored in the memory, and I had the card canceled and a new one ordered before I was out of the parking lot. So the moral of the story is to go, right now, and enter the numbers for all your cards in your phone. Wait. I guess the real moral would be to not be a doofus with your card. Yeah, start with that. Don't be a doofus with your credit or debit cards, and THEN go put those toll-free numbers in your cell phone.

Assuming we all survive (I'm fully prepared for Jacob to get overwhelmed and start crying well before the party even gets going), I'll give a recap of the festivities Monday. Also, hummingbird pictures!

Happy Wednesday!

What's that you say? Today is Thursday, not Wednesday? That can't possibly be right. If today's Thursday, that means I didn't post anything on Wednesday. So adjust your calendars accordingly.

Since this is Wednesday, the day after Jacob's first birthday, I thought I'd post an addendum to something I wrote a while back. They're a few advice tidbits, most of which I've learned the old-fashioned way: I've dumbed them into existence. For instance, I've got a scar on my right arm from a Kaiser blade, some folks calls it a slang blade, that took a neat slice out of my skin because, in technical terms, I was "being an idiot." That earned me a trip to the ER, seven stitches, and a scar that's only growing less visible because I'm freckle-farming it over. So right there's a lesson I can pass on to my son: Don't be an idiot with deadly tools. Feel free to apply that to your own lives, royalty-free.

As I noted in that initial post, there's a much better collection of advice available. These are just my feeble attempts at putting wisdom in my own words.

If you have a conflict with someone, and you two just can't seem to get along, ask him for help.
I read this in Bear Bryant's autobiography way back in the seventies, and it's never left me. Bryant was coaching at Kentucky at the same time as basketball demigod Adolph Rupp. The campus hasn't been built that could handle both those personalities and egos, and they inevitably clashed. Bryant ended up leaving, but he remarked in his book that he should have asked Rupp for a favor. That would have helped break the ice, would have let Rupp know that Bryant respected him, would have expressed Bryant's humility, and generally defused an explosive situation. (Thankfully for Alabama fans, Bryant's realization didn't come until it was too late for UK, which could have owned both the basketball and football worlds.) When you come to someone for help, you're letting them know that you've disarmed. It'll either work out some of the tension, or it'll drive them crazy. Either way, you're a winner.

Don't top everyone.
Everybody likes being the center of attention, and everybody has what he thinks is the all-time, gut-bustingest, jaw-droppingest, all-around phenomenalest story. When somebody has just delivered his such story, joke, anecdote, or pithy saying, let him win. Don't try to top it with, "That reminds me of..." or "You should have seen the..." Let the other person have his or her moment in the sun. Yours will come later.

The getting is always better than the having.
At least, it'll seem that way. You'll find that sometimes, when you finally get the very thing you've desired--new car, new job, girlfriend, electronics equipment, fabled hamburger--you'll be thrilled up to your uvula. Then, you'll find the strangest occurrence. What you thought was the thing you desired will leave you a little less than happy. A little empty, actually. You might even think you've made a mistake. And that's possible. We do sometimes devote far too much time and money towards something we'd be better off consigning to the "Eh, not so much" category. But most likely, you're just experiencing a feeling common to all of us. As C.S. Lewis (whom you'll love reading, if you're a son of mine) put it in Mere Christianity,

In this department of life, as in every other, thrills come at the beginning and do not last. The sort of thrill a boy has at the first idea of flying will not go on when he has joined the R.A.F. and is really learning to fly. The thrill you feel on first seeing some delightful place dies away when you really go to live there. Does this mean it would be better not to learn to fly and not live in the beautiful place? By no means. In both cases, if you go through with it, the dying away of the first thrill will be compensated for by a quieter and more lasting kind of interest. What is more (and I can hardly find the words to tell you how important I think this), it is just the people who are ready to submit to the loss of the thrill and settle down to the sober interest who are then most likely to meet new thrills in some quite different direction. The man who has learned to fly and become a good pilot will suddenly discover music; the man who has settled down to live in the beauty spot will discover gardening.

So don't be disappointed when the initial buzz wears off. Keep pushing on, and it'll get better.

Even a dead fish can swim downstream.
If everybody is doing it, maybe it's because it's a good thing. Most likely, however, everybody is doing what everybody always does, which is obey a herd mentality. Take it from a daddy who spent time working with cattle, a herd mentality isn't any mentality at all. Cows are dumber than a sack of toenail clippings, and so are people who go along with the prevailing wisdom. Never be afraid to say "No."

Hopefully, Jacob will do a better job of adhering to these things than his pater did.

In which the progeny reaches the big 1

A year ago today, the Bat Signal went up: Baby on the way. This is not a drill. This is when heroes are made, people! Move it, move it, move it! We'd had one false alarm before this day, but when The Lovely Missus came down the stairs with that look on her face, I knew, or at least strongly believed, that we'd reached DefCon 1.

I can be on the hyper side at times, so I had figured I'd go into full-bore panic when the time came. I had visions of my turning into Ricky Ricardo, although I pray that I have never been, and never will be, as irritating as that character. Failing that, I figured I'd at least need a hardbitten, WWII Sarge type to give me a speech like, "Scared? Of course you're scared. Childbirth...it does something to a man. I've seen men--strong men, men who'd charge Hell with a cap pistol and a paper hat if I told them to--reduced to a whimpering mess just by the sight of a mucus plug. (Dramatic drag off a hand-rolled cigarette.) But real men, they tough it out. They swallow the bile in their throat, steel their innards, resist the urge to leave the delivery room for the waiting room, even if the waiting room has one of those new flat-screen TVs with ESPN on, and the Coke machine dispenses really cold Cokes, and they face that baby! Now get in there and do your duty, Soldier!"

But it's a funny thing about stressful situations. When you, or at least I, have some control over a situation, I can have more facial tics than a Baghdad Airport baggage checker. But when the situation is completely out of my hands (and I don't have any obstetrical skills), I can throttle back and have a little faith. Such was the case when the Bat Signal was displayed. I got a little antsy, but on the way to the hospital, I didn't take any corners on two wheels, or force a busload of orphans into the ditch. That was a good thing, because not only did no one lose his life before the baby started his post-womb life, but it turned out we were settling in for a while. He was definitely about to start his one-man show, but not until later that afternoon. At one point--and I swear I'm not lying--I actually dozed off on the couch in the delivery room.

We thought for a while that TLM would be able to deliver naturally, but the poor young'un was cursed with a noggin like his daddy's ("I'm not kidding, it's like an orange on a toothpick"),so that was not to be. A C-section was called for, and preparations were made.

The only time I really got scared was when I got to go in the OR with The Lovely Missus, and she began having tremors ("birthquakes," I believed they're called) that were pretty serious. I couldn't see the festivities taking place on the other side of the curtain, so I wasn't worried about the baby, but I was holding TLM's hand, and it was like she was sitting on an industrial clothes dryer with an unbalanced load. That began to scare me after a while.

The whole "Open womb and remove baby" step probably didn't take five or ten minutes, but in my mind, it lasted longer than a Super Bowl pregame. Eventually, however, at 4:02 p.m., Memorial Day, 2008, the nurses handed me a wriggling, red, irritated, squinty-eyed bundle that was my son. Jacob Hayes Dunn had entered the world the rest of us inhabit.

Here's one thing I've learned on my first anniversary of being a dad. I'd always thought that having a child was a monstrous inconvenience and a major pain. You're talking to, er, reading the words of a man who didn't get married until two weeks shy of his fortieth birthday, so I was pretty used to living a relatively carefree, and 100% diaper-free, sick-baby-free, and middle-of-the-night-crying-free life. But, despite all my preconceived notions, having a child turned out to be...a monstrous inconvenience and a major pain.

Hang on. I'm not saying something that I never want Jacob to read, nor am I admitting that I'm a regular W.C. Fields when it comes to hating babies. I love my son. I'd kill for him. I'd die for him. When he's sick, I'd most gladly take his affliction in his stead. We've had a couple of Children's Hospital E.R. runs, and nothing will put your heart in your throat faster than pulling into that parking lot.

But make no mistake about it: Babies are tremendous burdens. And make no mistake about this: Tremendous burdens are not always bad things. We live in a push-button, customized world, where microwaving a Hot Pocket for 2.5 minutes takes FOREVER in our minds. If the A/C goes out, it's time to call out the National Guard to deliver emergency cooling, NOW! There are interstate highways full of people who have no clue how to change gears on a manual transmission, have never manually cranked down a car window. We've not only pursued the trouble-free life, we've dang near perfected it.

There's nothing wrong with pushing buttons or otherwise using modern conveniences, of course. But sometimes, we need some inconvenience to remind us it's not always about us. Not that I recommend getting much of your philosophy or theology from rock singers, but it's hard to put it more eloquently than Mick Jagger did: You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.

And I needed Jacob Hayes Dunn. Happy first birthday, son.

In which I decide to open a Chick-fil-A

Not really, since I might have the teensiest bit of trouble scrounging up the investment necessary to begin such an endeavor. Then there's the whole "Work all the time (except for Sundays)" part, too. But if I could overcome both those obstacles, I'd open a Chick-fil-A. Because if the one Jacob, Mama Dunn, and I visited today is indicative of the earnings potential, every franchise owner in the country can look the specter of recession square in the eye, pop the band on another stack of hundreds, and order up some more Bentley wax. Place was hopping like a hyperactive kangaroo treatment facility when we were there.

That's especially noteworthy, considering that the -A's offerings are mostly priced on the pricey side of the fast food spectrum. There's no dollar menu to be found. What you will find is, infallibly, a chipper, helpful staff and some fine chicken and waffle fries. (For any readers not living near an -A, my condolences. Please make arrangements to move, immediately. A year or so ago, when I read that James Lileks had just then had the chance to try a slice of poultry heaven on a buttery bun, I wept. The government really should do something about the gulf between the Chick-fil-A haves and havenots. You cannot consume an original grilled sandwich from there and remain an atheist.)

As I said, the place was packed, and Jacob loves him some people-watching. We fed him some chicken and fries, but that really wasn't necessary. He'd have been just as happy sitting in that high chair, taking in the excitement. His head was on a swivel, and his grin couldn't have been wider if we'd have installed a mouth-stretcher. And this is while he's too young to experience the playground. He'll be an addict once he reaches legal ball crawl age.

On the way there, we passed the median where the city of Pelham puts crosses and flags every Memorial Day. Try as I might, I can't think of anything to say about that that doesn't sound forced and trite. It's just extremely touching to be whizzing along in your car, relatively free from concern, breathing air-conditioned air, listening to an MP3 player playing over the car stereo, BlackBerry on your hip, and look over and see names of men and women who won't ever get the chance to do any of that. God bless the departed.

This weekend, it's a racing bacchanalia for the gearheads among us. Sunday morning, it's the Grand Prix of Monaco, which is pretty much the only F1 race I'll watch. (More passing, please.) Then there's the Indianapolis 500, which is pretty much the only IndyCar race I'll watch. (More, um, something, please. I'll have to get back with you with some specificity later.) I'm old enough to remember when the 500 was shown on ABC on a tape delay Sunday night, so you had to stay away from TV and radio if you didn't want to know the outcome. That was back in the Dark Ages, before the Intarwebtubules.

And then there's the Coca-Cola 600, which is the glute-numbingest sports event imaginable. I know there are 24-hour races, but nobody really watches all 24 hours. Right? If you do, my apologies.

Here's an interesting fact to keep in mind while watching the 600. A few years ago, I interviewed Jimmy Kitchens, who's from the Birmingham suburb of Hueytown. He was serving as Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s spotter, which meant that he watched races with 42 other spotters from high above the asphalt, on the roof of the pressbox or other structure. Spotters are most necessary when there's a wreck or when their driver is making a move in traffic (with the helmets and restraints NASCAR requires, it's darn hard to see out of a stocker, hence the added eyes), but they're also used during caution laps. They count down the driver as he nears his pits, they advise the driver and crew if there's any damage on the car, or they can go huddle with another spotter or two for some dealing as far as restarts or drafting or some such. So there's not really a slack time for spotters. And, since roofs aren't known for bathroom facilities, there's no chance to avail yourself of facilities. Just to be sure, I asked Jimmy if the spotters all stayed up there, all race, without taking a pit stop of their own. He assured me they did.

So, if you're looking for something different to do this weekend, watch the 600 from your couch without getting up and breaking the seal on your bladder.

I'm taking Monday off, so until Tuesday, y'all be safe, and remember why it's called Memorial Day.

These baby feet were made for walking

Jacob is getting closer and closer to being a full-fledged walker, although I really don't know why. The boy can crawl faster than I can run. I'm not kidding, I need to take him to a track and put a clock on him through the 100 meters. That's the same reason I'm not sweating him turning into a walker, even though everybody says that's when the trouble starts. Until he's old enough to lace on a pair of running shoes, he's pretty much gotten to his top speed already.

The inaugural birthday celebration draws nearer and nearer. He'll hit the big 1.0 Tuesday, but we're celebrating the following Saturday. (Don't tell him. We're keeping the calendars covered up so he won't notice.)

It's funny to watch him with the dogs. You can tell they know he's not actively trying to hurt him, but they also know that he has yet to learn the difference between "pet" and "grab," which is not a good thing for the hairy among us. A Pekingese is just a four-footed handhold to him, so they've gotten really adept about sidestepping his advances. It only took a few handfuls of hair for them to learn. Bonus cuteness: When he has torn some hair out, he turns to one of us as if to say, "I did good, didn't I?" That's a good thing, because it gives the canines time to bolt for sanctuary underneath the kitchen table.

Following up on the "The Big Bang Theory" post from yesterday, I've just gotten around to watching the final episode of "King of the Hill," which ran Sunday night. I love, love, love that show. Or, more accurately, loved, loved, loved that show. It's been running a few cylinders short the last few years. I figure the ratio of good shows to bad has been 1/5 for the last few seasons. Even the final show was kinda "meh." I didn't get that whole Canadian house-swapping deal.

That's not surprising, though. It's hard to come up with a suitable closer. Really, the only great season finale I can remember was the one the geniuses at "Newhart" came up with. Absolute perfection.

I'll miss KOTH, though. (Warning: Pop culture sacrilege imminent!) I've never been a "Simpsons" fan. Sorry, but it just never did it for me. I know that pop culturists love to talk about how there's real family love beneath all the Simpsonness, but I think they're projecting and rationalizing, and a few other pop psychology terms I can't remember right now. "Family Guy" can be hilarious, but I stopped watching when I saw the neighborhood pedophile appear. I'll watch some out-there humor, perhaps more than I should. But making jokes about sexual predators of children just takes it too far. And "American Dad," of course, is completely unwatchable.

Bring back "The Brak Show," is what I say. (Also, pummel the web dweeb who came up with that eye-scorching background.) "Open up your headhole, Slappy, and listen while I testify" has earned a permanent spot in my cortex.

But I digress. KOTH was a great show because you know that this family did love each other. Sure, Peggy was a little on the prickly side, and Hank had problems exhibiting his love ("Bobby, if you weren't my son, I'd hug you"), but they stuck together, I'll tell you what. You always knew that, no matter how tragic Bill got, no matter how clueless Dale got, or how rapaciously Boomhauer got, Hank was always going to bail them out. It didn't matter if he wanted to bail them out, he had to bail them out. It was just the right thing to do, even if your dad was a shinless misanthrope who'd killed fitty men.

There was so much else to like about KOTH. The repeated Chuck Mangione references and appearances. Khan Souphanousinphone, Sr., the jerky neighbor with the heart of, well, not gold, exactly, but not bile, either. Joe Jack's referring to everyone, regardless of gender, as "Honey." The guest stars like Brad Pitt (who was an excellent Patch Boomhauer) and Matthew McConaughey as Rad Thibodeaux (pronounced "thib-uh-do-axxxx").

There were some classic lines, too. In the interest of fairness, I've limited myself to only lines I can recall, verbatim, without googling. I've already mentioned the "if you weren't my son" quote. Here are a few of my other favorites.

"Son, you're teasing the gorilla in the monkey house."
"Are you gonna leave quietly, or am I gonna have to carry you out baby-tantrum-style?"
"Just when I think you've said the stupidest thing ever, you keep talking!"
"Soccer was invented by European women so they'd have something to do while their husbands cooked dinner."
(Hank, while preparing to pray) "Lord, Hank Hill here, Methodist."
(Hank, commenting on Bobby's love for Christian rock) "You're not making rock and roll better, you're making Christianity worse."

If I had to pick my favorite five episodes, I'd go with these:

5. "Propane Boom"/"Death of a Propane Salesman." (A two-parter.) Competition from the Mega-Lo Mart costs Hank his job, and he's forced to take a position at the Mart. When Boomhauer attempts to comfort Hank over the propane explosion that killed Luanne's boyfriend Buckley ("Hey"), he gives a long, mumbling, Boomhauerian soliloquy that's of course indecipherable. Hank replies, "That's what we tell ourselves, isn't it, Boomhauer?" Slays me every time.

4. "A Fire-fighting We Will Go." Hank and the boys become volunteer firemen, then burn their own firehouse down. During the investigation (conducted by a fire chief played by Barry Corbin), the boys all give their version of what caused the fire. When Boomhauer tells his version, all the other characters speak Boomhauer. This episode also has the last TV appearance of Buddy Ebsen, who voiced Chet Elderson.

3. "Return to La Grunta." Luanne purchases a "dolphin encounter" for Hank at the posh La Grunta country club. While encountering the cetacean, named Duke, Hank is, well, um, he's the victim of unwanted physical advances. When Hank finally breaks down and tells Peggy about it, Peggy wants to know if the dolphin, you know, has regular equipment and all. Hank replies, "It's a mammal, Peggy."

2. "A Beer Can Named Desire." Hank gets an opportunity to throw a football through an opening in a giant Alamo Beer can at the Superdome for $1 million, or for $100,000 if he lets Dallas Cowboys legend Don Meredith throw the ball. On the way, the crew drops Bill off at his family plantation in Louisiana. There's a matriarch there (played by Meryl Streep) and three widowed Southern belles (played by the Dixie Chicks), and Bill's fey cousin Gilbert ("ghille-bear"). When Gilbert says, "I've always been a creepuh. Violetta says I creep like the kudzu that's slowly but surely strangling our Dixie," I convulse. Every time.

1. "Aisle 8A." Hands-down the funniest episode of all time. Khan has to go to Hawaii for a conference, leaving his daughter Khan Jr. with the Hills. Khan Jr. "becomes a woman" while her parents are away, and Hank is forced to take her to the hospital, and then to the Mega-Lo Mart for supplies. While he's at the hospital, he hints that the hospital should give her the supplies. "If she had a cut, you'd give her a Band-Aid, wouldn't you?" Then, once at the Mart, Khan Jr. goes down the feminine supplies aisle and breaks down, forcing Hank to go down the aisle, too. Classic, killer funny.

There are other great episodes, like "The Redneck on Rainey Street," where Khan (who forgets to put a cover sheet on his TPS report) stops being an office drone and becomes a redneck. That episode includes a version of Tom Petty's "Rednecks" performed by the Drive-by Truckers.

And there's "It Ain't Over 'Til the Fat Neighbor Sings," where Bill joins the Harmoniholics, an all-male singing group. In that one, Dale, attempting to shame Bill into leaving the group, says, "This chorus is the feces produced when shame eats too much stupidity!"

But there's no use crying over spilt animation. The show was past its prime, and Mike Judge has moved on to "The Goode Family," which looks like it has promise. I love the fact that the do-gooding Goode family wanted to adopt an African baby, and ended up with a white South African named Ubuntu. Plus, there's reruns, and my collection of DVDs. In my heart and mind, Hank is still in his prime, out in the alley, and he always will be. Yup.

Blogging will happen today

Just had a few things come up this morning that have me running behind. Check back later for your usual dose of life-changing greatness from me.

There I go again, pulling my facetious muscle.

Whatever happened to the Bermuda Triangle?

No real reason for titling this post the way I did, other than the fact I'm watching "Airport '77," and the 747 the bad guys are hijacking was just referred to as entering the Triangle. Back in the seventies, you couldn't pick up a reputable newspaper (Enquirer, Star, etc.) without a reference to the Triangle. It was a big supernatural vortex where boats and planes disappeared quicker than free Foghat tickets. Then one day, I guess Erich von Daniken lost interest, and the Triangle was phenomenon non grata.

I'm saving the "Airport" movies for another post, though. Today, it's all about my favorite new show, "The Big Bang Theory." How exactly has this excellent comedy escaped my attention until a couple of weeks ago? I'm putting each and every one of you on report for not alerting me, and I'm noting in your permanent record that I was very, very disappointed in you. For shame.

I will share a tad of the blame, although in my defense, a healthy dose of cynicism at Hollywood's ability to turn out a decent comedy nowadays is a supremely defensible position. "Gary Unmarried," "The New Adventures of Old Christine"--well, I think I've made my point. I'll stipulate that "The Office" has generated chuckles at times, but I just can't get into it. I think it's the fact that it's taped without a live audience, and part of comedy is the danger of performing before a few hundred disapproving sets of eyes. (I know that comedies filmed before live audiences are edited, but that doesn't completely do away with the pressure of nailing a line. It's not like the actors can do take after take, like they can without an audience. Sooner or later, the folks from Iowa and Minnesota will grow weary of the continued re-takes.)

But "The BigBang Theory," which will henceforth be referred to as TBBT, has it all. Filmed in front of a live audience. References to things like Munchhausen's Trilemma.

Leonard: What do you mean, you're moving out? Why?

Sheldon: There doesn't have to be a reason.

Leonard: Yeah, there kinda does.

Sheldon: Not necessarily. This is a classic example of Münchhausen's Trilemma. Either the reason is predicated on a series of sub-reasons leading to an infinite regression, or it tracks back to arbitrary axiomatic statements, or it's ultimately circular, i.e. I'm moving out because I'm moving out.

Leonard: I'm still confused.

Sheldon: Leonard, I don't see how I could have made it any simpler.

Plus, there's the absolute persnickety genius perfection of Jim Parsons' Sheldon. When it comes to a person fitting the role, I have to go back to Don Knotts' Barney Fife to find a more perfect fit. He's preening and self-important, but he's also likable. Try pulling that off the next time you think your thespian chops are stout.

I despised "Roseanne" (the show, not the pers--never mind), so I only became aware of Johnny Galecki when I saw the criminally underappreciated "Suicide Kings." (Rent it. You'll love it.) He's perfect as the love-bumbling, brainy-but-approachable Leonard. He's like a younger George Costanza, if Costanza had had a heart. And a brain.

I'm less enamored of Simon Helberg's Howard Wolowitz or Kunal Nayyar's Rajesh Koothrappali, although both of them have their moments. And I'd prefer they ditch Sara Gilbert's Leslie Winkle completely. She seems completely out of her element in a brainy sitcom. (I know she graduated from Yale with honors, but those honors were in art. Not impressed.)

But the show truly won my heart when I heard things like Sheldon's statement that, "Like a modern-day Napoleon, I've been exiled to the Elba of the stairwell." Or Sheldon's correction of Penny's statement that he and Leonard had "a little misunderstanding" by saying, "No, Galileo and the Pope had 'a little misunderstanding.'" Who's writing these most excellent references, Dennis Miller? In a sea of sophomoric "humor" on television, it's beyond refreshing to see such genius.

Especially since that genius is swaddled in some weapons-grade stupidity on CBS' part. For one, they have just announced that they're moving the show from 7 p.m. central time on Mondays to 8:30 p.m. Way to hide the show, CBS. It's always great to slot a great show in the slot normally occupied by "Rules of Engagement."

Secondly, CBS has decided that a show geared toward geekery won't have full-length episodes posted online, only clips. Because there's no way that geeks in 2009 could ever find an alternative way to get those episodes. So instead of sitting down in front of a computer monitor and watching ads, those geeks will be torrenting episodes completely free of ads. Or so I hear. I personally have no idea how such things take place. Nope, not me.

Not gonna happen

Sorry, folks, but I quite simply don't have anything to say today. I could vomit up some words if I absolutely had to, but I'm running on fumes, and I'd rather pass on posting than waste your time. Hopefully, things will be better tomorrow. (Not that they're all that bad now. I'm just wasted, mentally.)

Let's hear it for my good friend, J.T.

That's my friend and fellow Samsonian, James "J.T. " Thomas, who laid a country-boy stomping on the "Survivor" field to win the $1,000,000 prize for being the sole survivor, as well as the $100,000 prize for being so doggone lovable. Man, when I think back on all the good times J.T. and I have had, fishing and hunting and just sitting around the campfire swapping stories, I can't help but mist up. I get especially misty when I remember how, when I'd advise J.T. to go on a reality show and win a million dollars with his charm and smarts, he'd say, "One of these days, Jim, I'm going to do that. I'm going to win a million dollars, and when I do, I'm going to share it with you, 50-50, because of your inspiration. You are the wind beneath my wings, Jim, and you know that. Shoot, I only go by J.T. because it sounds like J.D., in honor of you."

Okay, okay, that never happened. Truth be told, although I'm from the same area as J.T., and keep in mind that Samson only has about 2000 residents, I've never met him or heard of him until a cousin told me that a Samsonian was going to be on the show. (Reminds me of the joke I heard a long-forgotten comedian tell back in the eighties. He was from Canada, and whenever he'd tell anybody that, they'd go, "You're from Canada? Do you know Bob?")

But I figure my story is about as believable, and as grounded in truth, as plenty of the stories being told about J.T. now. The young man was already as likeable as Mike Rowe, and that was before he snagged $1.1 million, minus the inevitable monstrous whack the IRS will take out of those winnings. It's like the few zillion people who clearly remembered being present at Madison Square Garden when Wilt Chamberlain scored an NBA record 100 points, even if that game was actually played in Hershey, Pennsylvania. Prepare for a huge influx of new close friends, J.T.

Other than his winning the million plus, the best thing about last night's show was when Jeff Probst asked J.T. what he was going to do with the money, and he replied, "Hopefully, use it to make more money." This is one 24-year-old with his mind on the big picture. I hope I never read a report about how he's become the darling of the NYC club scene, or has begun dating a Kardashian. (I actually hope to never read a report of anybody dating a Kardashian.)

Throughout this season, I watched J.T. act more smoothly than iced Teflon. He buddied up to the right people, kept his mouth shut better than any contestant ever, and, no doubt, conned a few people with that good ol' boy persona. I don't mean that he's actually not nice. From what I've heard, he's supremely likable in real life. What I mean is that there were most likely some people who heard J.T. open his mouth, heard that slow-issuing Southern drawl, and figured there was a slow wit pushing out those syllables. During the final Tribal Council (and yes, I do feel pretty stupid typing that phrase), J.T. couldn't have been more down-home, "Aw, shucks" in his manner, while second-place Stephen Fishbach came off as a slick, fast-talking New Yorker. No wonder J.T. stomped a mudhole in Stephen, vote-wise, winning all the jury's votes (feel stupid typing that, too) in a 7-0 blowout. According to his bio, Fishbach is a corporate consultant, and he's only 29. I'm not saying that maybe he's gotten through a lot with some bovine feces skills, but...wait. That's exactly what I'm saying. And I think when the pressure's on, that bovine feces was exposed for what they are. It's like being friends with a car salesman. He might be a nice guy, but you still know that when the going gets tough, he's gonna make with the weasel words.

So now, I have no reality show vice. (Or reality show vise, either, ever since I broke my "The Amazing Race" bench vise cranking on that wagon wheel I never finished.) At least, I don't have a vice until the fall, when "Survivor: Samoa" premieres. With that title, I assume at least a few of the challenges will involve eating those killer Girl Scout cookies (if so, I would CRUSH my fellow competitors), or maybe pronouncing some of the vowel-heavy native names. I'll be counting the days.

All I need now is Ethel and Fred

Give me those two, and the "I Love Lucy" episode that has been my life the past few hours would be complete. Let me explain. Sorry, I mean, "'splain."

The Bat Signal goes out late yesterday afternoon that my superpower, reviewing music, is needed at WorkPlay. Jars of Clay are playing there, and unless I don my secret identity and review them, Gotham City South will remain ignorant of that performance's merits, or lack thereof. I assure Commissioner Gordon that I'm on the case, and head out to WorkPlay later that evening.

Just as I'm getting into downtown Birmingham, I notice that the temp gauge on the Batmobile is reading a little high. Almost a lot high, actually. But I don't have a whole lot of time before the concert starts, so I park the Batmobile and go inside.

After the very good concert is over (full review to follow once it's published), I dash to the Batmobile, jump in, start it up, and head back to the Batcave. I know that turning the heater on takes heat off the engine, so I roll down the windows and crank the heater to the "Sun's Core" setting. The whole way home, I'm checking the temp gauge like it's a threat radar in an F-16, praying that I'm not forced to call The Lovely Missus--did I mention she was in bed with a migraine? 'Cause she was--to come get me. Within a mile of my house, I was convinced I wouldn't make it, but the needle dipped a skosh and I was able to pull into the driveway.

Flash-forward to this morning, skipping over a rather restless night for Jacob, which of course means a rather restless night for Daddy. Mama Dunn and Jacob are up, and I realize that the dumpster hasn't become sentient and walked itself to the curb, meaning that I'll have to do it. And, although I know, I know, I KNOW that it's critical to always close the gate to the backyard, I leave it open. Then I go inside, tell MD that I'm going to work on the car in the driveway, and commence to do just that.

If this were a TV movie, maybe titled "Not Without My Pekingeses," the camera would slowly zoom in on that gate, maybe show it slowly creaking in the breeze, then blare a dramatic, "Dum, dum, DUM!" musical sting. Because you know what happened next. The dogs, led by Penelope, who always signals it's elimination time by going to the hearth, spinning, and barking, have to go out. MD, who doesn't know I've stupidly left the gate open, lets them out. And, because dogs are like kids and can sense an opportunity to get into trouble from several miles away, Penelope, Brutus, and Humphrey all three bolt through the gate.

Did I mention that at the bottom of our hill is a major four-lane highway? And that our dogs are all brown, short, easy-to-miss-and-run-over dogs?

Thankfully, they had instead gone up the street. I found this out when our next-door neighbors, who will hereafter be referred to as "The. Best. Neighbors. EVAR!" and who had begun searching for The Fugitive Three when they saw me running around, heard the news from another wonderful neighbor. So I fire up the Batmobile, drive up the street where the fugitives were last seen, and see them. Brutus, who's the definition of a scaredy-dog and whom I can't believe left in the first place, comes to me right away. I stuff him in the car.

Humphrey, who's not afraid of anything, decides to make the old man run around for a little, but finally hunkers down and lets me grab him. In he goes, right next to Brutus. But devious little Penelope knows what's coming, so she goes back down the street, in the eventual direction of the four-lane. Thankfully, the female half of The. Best. Neighbors. EVAR! helped herd her into the backyard.

Of course, we've got company coming tomorrow, so their little excursion in the dewy grass means that all three of the little hairballs will have to be washed tonight, which is always a joy, since they all put out several Chewbaccafuls of hair. Pekes are double-coated dogs, so it's a chore just to get all that hair wet, much less clean.

Here's the real kicker, though. When they're finally back inside, they all give me that look that only big-eyed Pekes can give. The one that says, "Can you possibly stay mad at these faces?"

So, how was your morning?

Absolutely, 100% true update that just happened: Just because this morning has started off so well, Humphrey just decided to make it better by piddling on the newspaper Jacob had been playing with in the floor.

I can do this, I can do this, I can do this

I can blog and work via the laptop, not my office PC, while Mama Dunn is incapable of picking up The Progeny because of her cataract surgery. I will not freak out when The Progeny is bawling because Mama Dunn has suddenly turned cold, in his estimation. Because I'm good enough...no, that's not it. Because I have to. And you do what you have to. Should make for some interesting blogging stories, if nothing else. Just this morning, I've tried to cook eggs while the dogs agitated to go outside and Jacob turned over a full water bowl. And while I don't like to brag, I'm confident in saying that my blood pressure can't be over, oh, 240/160.

That's probably an exaggeration. The blood pressure part, not the dog bowl and chaos stuff, which really happened. I actually handled it pretty well, all things considered. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't ready for Mama Dunn to get the all-clear to resume nanny duties.

Speaking of Mama Dunn, her post-cataract-removal checkup came out okay. She still has to wear the welding goggle sunglasses when she goes outside, but she can already see an improvement in her vision in that eye.

Preparations continue for Operation Baby Birthday Uno. I'm hoping that by the time it does roll around, the weather is somewhat less Seattle-like. I really don't want my yard to become a full-blown moor.

It's predicted to rain this weekend, which will mess up the Regions Charity Classic golf tournament here. I hope that doesn't happen, even though I loathe golf. It's too slow. Its ratio of talk to action is even greater than competitive domino stacking. I don't understand how a major-league baseball player can decide in four-tenths of a second whether or not to hit a ball coming at him at 90+ mph in front of thousands of screaming fans, but it takes Tiger Woods five minutes to line up a five-foot putt, in complete silence. To quote Tim Wilson again, if you can't get your nose broken doing it, it's not a sport, it's a game. Ben Roethlisberger can throw a 45-yard touchdown strike with a linebacker homing in on his ribcage at warp speed, but heaven forbid somebody sneeze during Phil Mickelson's backswing.

And I know that golf is supremely difficult. I know that what top golfers can do with a club is tantamount to sorcery. But there are lots of things that are very difficult to do. Free-diving, for example, is not only difficult, but deadly. Yet I have no interest in watching free-divers, no matter how hazardous their sport. Cliff diving is hard, and deadly, but aside from some old "Wide World of Sports" episodes, I don't want to devote my life to watching it. (And I have to insert Norm McDonald's quote about cliff diving. "There are two kinds of cliff divers. There's world champions, and stuff on a rock.")

In addition to my usual distaste for golf, the Regions tournament is part of the Champions Tour, which used to be the Seniors Tour. So it's not only a slow, boring sport, but a slow, boring sport played by old people. Now that's excitement! Am I right, people?

Still, lots of people love the Classic, so I don't want it to rain. Plus, there's Do Dah Day, and nobody wants wet puppies.

And if it does rain, again, I've got "Airport," "Airport 1975" and "Airport '77" stored on the DVR. Might was well watch some disaster movies while your weather is a disaster.

It's quiet...too quiet

Sorry for the lack of postage yesterday, but while Mama Dunn's cataract surgery went perfectly, according to the doctor, there was much confusing, crying, and temper-tantrum-throwing afterward. Plus, Jacob got ill, too.

Here's what happened. I loaded up MD and The Progeny in the car, drive just a few minutes down the road to the hospital, and check in at the surgery center. I'll admit to being suspect of a little prejudice in typing this, but The Progeny was pretty doggone well-behaved for at least an hour. But there's only so much waiting a soon-to-be-one-year-old can do, and Jacob he ventually hit his limit. I left MD, left my cell phone number with the receptionist, and took Jacob for a ride.

Before too long, it was time for some food consumption, so I drove back home and dispensed some food. Don't ask me what it was, because it all looks the same when it's been pureed into oblivion. Jacob was happy, but he was also sleepy by now, so it was upstairs to the Childhood Bedding Unit, where he was soon blissfully out.

Of course, you know what came next. He'd just gotten good and asleep when the clinic called for me to come get Mama Dunn. So, as much as I hated to do it, I had no choice but to go roust Jacob from his sleep, then make another run south to the surgery center. And, as incredulous as you may be (and you've always been an incredulous lot), he was actually very nice through the whole ordeal, if you discount the usual few minutes of "Why'd you do that?" grumpiness that usually accompanies one of his wakenings.

But the weed of crankiness sometimes grows slowly, as I was soon to find out. All the shuffling had completely hosed Jacob's sleeping schedule, as well as his eating schedule, playing schedule, etc., and he was not all that disposed to resuming his regularly scheduled programming any time soon. Plus, Mama Dunn's surgery requires her to not bend below the waist or do any heavy lifting for two weeks, which means no picking up Jacob. And that's not good. Daddy arms are okay for comforting, Mother arms are better, but nothing's as good as Grandma's. Jacob went to sleep with his best girl still in love with him, and woke up dumped like yesterday's coffee grounds.

Thankfully, The Lovely Missus had already planned a short excursion to her sister's house, so we received a short reprieve from the fussing, which I'm sure will resume with full force this afternoon. Oh well. I've been considering shaving off all my hair (that's a bit of fanciful language there, my saying "all my hair," as if there's a lot; I'm like that long-forgotten comedian who said that he didn't have hair, he had hairs). I guess it'll be just as effective to pull it out as to shave it.

I'll have to write either at night, while Jacob is asleep, or while TLM is home for the foreseeable future, so you're liable to get updates at 1:30 a.m. or not at all at times. Please try to go on with your lives, nonetheless.

You can also check out my other blog, follow my Tweets if you'd like, become a fan on Facebook, and, if the mood strikes you, drop a penny or two in the tip jar up there at top left. I'd appreciate all four.

Blogging forecast

Late to nonexistent, with a chance of tomorrowness. Mother is having cataract surgery, so how that goes will determine if/when I get to blog today.

Koogle, we hardly knew ye

The late Mitch Hedberg said, "Sometimes in the middle of the night, I think of something that's funny, then I go get a pen and I write it down. Or if the pen's too far away, I have to convince myself that what I thought of ain't funny."

Such is my life, kinda. I had no sooner turned off the BlackBerry last night when several items that would fit in a post I'd planned began coming to mind. I couldn't convince myself that what I'd thought of wasn't funny, or interesting, although something being unfunny or uninteresting has certainly never stopped me from blogging on it before. (Like I need to tell you people that.) So I fired the BB up again, and commenced thumbing up some notes. I use the 'Berry and not pen and paper because I've been known to scribble notes that were incomprehensible while fully awake, much less groggy-headed. Didn't want my own Flaming Globes of Sigmund episode.

What I'd been planning on blogging on for a while was the products, things, or concepts I've used at some point that are no longer extant. At least, they're no longer extant if you go by my memory and a cursory googling. If I'm wrong, email me and I'll make the corrections, and in many cases will also try to track down some of these products and order up a passle.

Let's start with the eponymous product, Koogle. According to the Wikipedia article (and I think it's high-larious that this article doesn't meet Wikipedia's "standards"), Kraft manufactured the flavored peanut butter from 1971 until discontinuing it later in the seventies. I'm sure the flexible nature of memory has inflated the actual taste of the stuff from good to incredible in my mind, but I do remember it as being quite tasty. I don't think I ever tried the cinnamon or vanilla flavors, but I have happy childhood memories of the banana and chocolate flavors. Kraft people, let's make with the retro foodstuffs, okay?

I was prepared to mention Pearl Drops toothpaste, but the aforementioned cursory googling turned up a website for the stuff. It doesn't look the way I remember it, so it's possible it's a reincarnated product, like Pop Rocks.

Other than recipes for a DIY version, there were no results for Oatmeal Jumbles, which was a product by Kraft or General Foods, or at least one of the major conglomerates, that allowed you to bake a mixture of oatmeal cookies with brownies into a gooey mixture that would send your taste buds into spasms of ecstasy. I remember eating them in the early eighties, but I also remember them disappearing a short while later, and I think I know why. I know it's folly to base your research on one statistical sample, but in this case, I'll make an exception. Because, according to my tests, not only did the stuff send your taste buds into spasms of ecstasy, but it also sent your GI tract into spasms of a food-ridding frenzy. I think the combination of fat and fiber was the culprit. Whatever the reason, it resembled the effects of the weapons-grade laxative they give you when you're scheduled for a colonoscopy. I ate some and then went in for my shift at the Piggly-Wiggly, and got into trouble for disappearing into the bathroom for long periods. I assure you I'm not making up that anecdote.

Next on our tour of the product graveyard is the headstone for Chipos. The link goes to the only result I could find, a mere Flickr image of a coupon for the product, which came in a box like a cereal box. As you can see in the image, they were a "new fashioned" product, "fashioned from dried potato granules." I can't see how that kind of marketing failed, but I guess it did. To me, nothing says "tasty" like "potato granules." (They were actually pretty tasty.)

While I appear to be somewhat of a loner in my recollection of the preceding products, there are evidently hordes of people who fondly recall Funny Face drink mixes. I'm not going to recap it here, because that'd be repetitive. Just make with the clickies.

Freakies cereal is also fondly remembered by a lot of people. I think one of my relatives still has a Freakies magnet on her refrigerator, now that I mention it. Extensive love posted at the link.

I don't actually remember the taste of Sour Bites candy, but I sure remember that striped lion mascot. (Hit the link and scroll down a little for the image.)

I have no personal recollection of using Underalls, but I do remember that they once sponsored a racecar in NASCAR. How'd you like to finally earn a ride in NASCAR's top division, only to be told that your sponsor would be something called Underalls? And, since the teams coach drivers to mention the sponsors as much as possible (there's even a company, Joyce Julius and Associates, that tallies each "impression" of a brand during a race), some poor guy had to get out of his car and tell a reporter, "Well, the Underalls Chevy run good today." I imagine he prayed that Massengill or Kotex would sponsor a car, just so he'd have somebody to laugh at. Too bad the Boudreaux's Butt Paste car was still years from sponsorship.

Underalls disappeared for a while, perhaps because they were rumored to be yeast-infection factories, but they've been brought back by a Canadian company. (Warning: PDF link.) Maybe there have been great strides in yeast-infection-prevention technology in the intervening years.

Quite a few products I'd thought long gone are actually still being manufactured. Take Frostie Root Beer, for example. The grape-flavored drink Grapico is not only still being manufactured, but is owned by Birmingham's own Buffalo Rock company. That most stereotypical of Southern drinks, RC Cola is still alive and well, or at least alive. Fruit Stripes gum, too, as well as L'eggs pantyhose. (The last without the distinctive egg-shaped packaging. What's the point?)

Retsyn, which is evidently a yummy mixture of copper gluconate and partially hydrogenated cottonseed oil, is still being piped into Certs products, althought the Certs people don't tout the fact like they used to. Time was, Retsyn was hyped like a miracle drug. It has Retsyn! Nobody really knew what it was, or what it did, but we bought the stuff, anyway. We were stupid like that.

Now, for some things that aren't products, but which seem to have disappeared. Howzabout "W" as a vowel? Back when I was a child, i.e., on the eighth day after creation, I was taught that the vowels were your basic five, "and sometimes y AND W." (My teachers spoke that last line in capitals, just like that. Always scared me.) Now, however, people will look at you like you've sprouted poison ivy from your eyebrows if you mention W as being a vowel.

But my memory hasn't gone soft. W really can be a vowel. How? Well, in the word "how," for one example. So there. Nyah, nyah, nyah, he typed, most adultly.

A few years ago, someone sent me the link to this video, which I still think is cute, although I'm sure the young lady in it regrets the day video cameras were invented.

It was then that I found out that, at least in some circles, kids no longer go to the prom, but to prom. Why is that? Is your iPod-laden, tons of text-messaging schedule too busy to pronounce a perfectly good article that has served the English language for eons? Or is this like the rassinfrassin' Flickr phenomenon, in which we just drop letters for no reason other than to appear cool? Do these kids wonder why Ralph Kramden didn't say, "To moon, Alice!"?

Also, do schools still teach the Schwa sound? And does it still frustrate kids like it did me? I was always bumfuzzled to the nth degree by that, because I never knew where their example came from. It would be like teaching the long E sound by saying, "It's the 'Flema' sound." What the heck's a flema?

But the one thing that really twists my knickers is the death, ongoing, of Haagen-Dazs Triple Brownie Overload ice cream. It was chocolate ice cream, with chocolate brownies, AND chocolate chunks in it. When I discovered it at the Winn-Dixie in Tuscaloosa, I also noticed that whenever it appeared in the freezer section, it also disappeared quicker than a federal budget surplus. According to this Newsweek article, the introduction of the company's "Extraas" line increased their market share by one-third, so the only logical thing for them to do was, of course, to kill that line.

Speak not to me of high-fat alternatives to TBO. A pox on your Ben & Jerry's. Ben & Jerry's is tofu, carob, asphalt, and gravel compared to TBO. (Plus, I prefer my ice cream to be less preachy than B&J.) TBO was, quite simply and without argument, the greatest ice cream ever to grace the appreciative tongue of man.

A few years ago, I contacted the Haagen-Dazs people about resurrecting the flavor, but they just patted me on the head like a youngster asking Santa for an Uzi, and sent me some coupons for some of their regular brands, which of course can't hold a candle to TBO.

What tepid offerings does the company have now? Well, yummy stuff like Toasted Coconut Sesame Brittle! Yum! Sesame, so you get all the flavor of a Big Mac bun. Wait, there's also Caramelized Hazelnut Gianduja, which sounds like an affliction, not a confection.

Here's a suggestion, Haagen-Dazs people: Realize that your market is people who are more than happy to pay premium prices for premium fat content, stop imitating The Granola Barn when it comes to new flavors, and bring back Triple Brownie Overload!

Sorry for the rant, but when you're refusing to bring back dairy perfection, you're walking on the fighting side of me.

If you have any products, concepts, entities, etc. that you remember but which has departed this mortal coil, drop me a line and I'll post a follow-up.

Update: The folks over at Homestarrunner.com still use "the" before "prom."

Surviving "Survivor"

Go ahead and prepare your hissing, because I'm admitting once again that I love "Survivor." (I also loved Survivor, back in the 80s, but only for that one song.) It's my one reality-show vice, if you don't count "Dirty Jobs" and "Mythbusters" as reality shows. The former I'll watch over and over, because it's awesome, and because Mike Rowe just may be the most self-effacing, likable guy to ever appear on television. He makes Mr. Rogers seem like Mr. T. The latter I'm slowly falling out of love with, because it seems to me that they've been slacking off a little on their myth selection lately. ("I'll slack you off, you fuzzy little foreigner," he thought, in a superfluous and silly "Caddyshack" moment.) Plus, sometimes Jamie and Adam don't so much bust a myth as they do bend it, or maybe bruise it a little.

So if you stay in the reality-game-show vein, "Survivor" is the only one I watch with any regularity. "Hell's Kitchen" had its moments--you donkey!--but Gordon Ramsay is the definition of a one-trick pony, and I'm tired of risotto and beef Wellingtons. "Top Chef" has always been too pretentious for me to watch with any regularity, ever since I saw Marcel or Maurice or whatever his name was allow that he trafficked in "cutting-edge molecular gastronomy." Really? Howzabout cooking something, Chester? Because, for all the "foodie" phenomenon, what you're doing boils down to taking some food and applying spices and heat. You're not splitting the atom. And I say this as a man who's made barbecued marshmallows, for crying out loud. (They're a lot of work, but they're delicious. And you're guaranteed to be the talk of the church social with a plate of them.)

"Last Comic Standing" had its moments, too, but there's only so much of comedians' private lives you can watch without needing extensive counseling. Most of them are such swirling vortexes of need that you actually start wishing for them to stop being themselves and just let loose with a string of airline and "Men and women sure are different" jokes.

Other than those two, and maybe one or two episodes of "Big Brother," which I thought was as exciting as sitting in a dentist's office, I don't think I've watched any reality shows. I'm gonna dance with the one what brung me, and I've watched every episode of every "Survivor" season but the first. Curiously, I had no interest whatsoever in that first season.

The bad thing about "Survivor" is that, as you near the finish line (we're down to five contestants now), there aren't as many conspiracies and conflicts floating around the camps, so the interest level goes down a commensurate level. We don't watch this show for the fire-making skills.

Begin admitted digression, because this always drive me crazy: If any of you ever get on "Survivor," please note that the firestarter they supply you is like this one. And the way you make fire with the thing is to shave off some material from the BACK SIDE FIRST, then flip it around and generate a spark with a machete strike against the flint. Instead of using that weeeeeee spark to ignite coconut husks or whatever, you're using it to ignite magnesium, which will always light, even when wet. I've never seen anyone do this on the show, even though you'd think that contestants would research this a little, considering it's for a million rassinfrassin' dollars.

End admitted digression.

Not only does the decreased number of contestants lower the conflict levels, but it also gives plenty of time for the contestants to make inane comments like, "Earl Bob is really playing this game to win." Naw! Get out! You're making this up. Surely everybody is a regular humanitarian role model like you.

My other favorite thing to gripe about is when the contestants get sent to "Exile Island" (which this season isn't so much an island as it is a...spot), and they talk about how they would have died if they hadn't been able to start a fire. Yes, because the film crew, medical personnel, medevac chopper, and legal advisors just offscreen would have just sat there and watched you die. It'd be boffo ratings!

But nothing beats the family reunion shows for "This is sickening" moments. All the contestants get to reunite with their wife, or son, or assistant soccer coach, and they go on and on about how horrible it's been without them, and it's been the longest 30+ days of their life, etc. And I'm sure that the film crew is jerking their chains a little to get the best responses, too.

Here's what really bugs me about the "I've been away from my Binky for so long" moments. Number one, you volunteered for the show, and you knew full well that, if you had any shot at the money, you'd have to be away from your family for X amount of days. And even if you got voted off at the first tribal council, you still couldn't just go home to the family, because then all the spoiler sites would broadcast to the world who was booted in what order. So don't act as if Jeff Propst shanghaied you to Brazil at machete-point. You had to audition, pass tests, and sign reams of legal forms to make it on this show.

Secondly, you've been away from your family for a little over a month, and that month was spent knowing that, if something bad were to happen, you'd be helicoptered out in a heartbeat. There are men and women in Iraq, Afghanistan, and around the world that are away from their families for much longer than that, as well as being in situations where there are people actively trying to literally kill them, not TV kill them. And there's not even a remote chance of there being a million-dollar prize to the people completing those tours.

Don't get me wrong. If I ever made it on the show (and I never will, because I'm what you call a wimp), and I made it to the family reunion show, I'd squawl like a new puppy when my wife or whoever came out from the bushes. And I'd miss my wife and family and friends immensely while I was out there. But I like to think that I'd also be able to keep things in perspective and realize that I'm playing a game, not making a major sacrifice.

Oh, and fellow Samsonian J.T. still rocks. He's the biggest threat to win the thing, but he's so likable that the other contestants don't even recognize that. Why, he's a regular Southern-fried Mike Rowe.

The laaady with the Flehmen and the stuff and the...

I'm sorry, but I can't quit saying "Flehmen response," after seeing it on Ugly Overload this morning. It sounds like something Jerry Lewis would do, but it's a real phenomenon in the animal kingdom.

Now, the neventy-flavin response, that's pure Lewis.

I'm kinda sheepish about admitting this, but I used to be a huge Lewis fan. Now, before you cross me off the cool list forever, let me explain that "used to be" refers to when I was barely in the double-digit category, age-wise. I'm talking about the era when I'd run to the TV every afternoon to catch "Gilligan's Island," people, so cut me some slack. To a young feller such as myself, Lewis was the pinnacle of funniness.

So, besotted as I was with Lewis, I was pretty much enraptured to see Jerry Lewis' name on a jukebox at a restaurant in Florala, Alabama. (It's right on the Florida-Alabama line, see, so it's Flor-Ala, which I'll admit rolls off the tongue easier than Alaflor, which sounds like a prescription antihistamine.) I can't remember what the restaurant was named, since it's gone through several incarnations over the years, most of them with Dairy in the name, like Dairy-Viscount, Day-Ree-Dreem, etc. It's still there, right near that corner. You know, that corner where that one street intersects that other street. See? Now you remember it.

Anyway, back then, my rule was "When you see Jerry's name, you don't think, you just act." And act I did, somehow begging a dime or nickel (told you it was a while back) from some adult to punch B17, then wait a few seconds while Jerry was cued up. And that's the day I figured out that Jerry Lewis and Jerry Lee Lewis were two completely different people. The world is a cruel place. You want comedy, you get rockabilly.

That shock was almost as bad as when I found the hidden Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle and Van, and figured out that Santa Claus...well, you know. I still don't like to talk about it.

Moving on, the weather service has cancelled the Arkwatch for today, so perhaps we'll have some sun in the sunny South. I know Jacob would appreciate being able to cavort on the back patio/slab.

The little goob pulled off a heck of a trick yesterday afternoon. Mama Dunn was cooking supper, and I was walking through the kitchen when I noticed that he had crawled out of his diaper, while somehow remaining fully snapped into his onesie. As I Tweeted yesterday, that's a cooler trick than a woman taking off her bra without taking her top off, if you ask me. The boy's not yet one year old, and he's already a better magician than David Copperfield, not to mention looking a lot less like Robby Benson, which you can't stress enough, if you ask me.

What's that you say? I haven't posted a weird MP3 in a few days, and the world economy may shut down as a result? How about a selection by another beloved funnyman from my youth, Roger Miller? Here's a sub-two-minute slice of silliness titled "My Uncle Used to Love Me, But She Died."

Once again reporting from Seattle

That's not accurate, of course. Seattle doesn't get tornadoes like Alabama does. We are getting Seattle-level rainfall, though, with a likelihood of some heap bad weather this afternoon. Other areas of the state have already gotten it. What's that you say? Hurricane season starts June 1? Yay. I think we need to move.

I'm joking, of course. Every spot on Earth has its positives and negatives. If it's not rain and tornadoes, it's ginormous moths.

I'm not particularly an insectophobe, but I'll admit that such a creature alighting on my shoulder would probably make me spasm like a particularly girly five-year-old girl.

One insect thing that does always get me is walking into a spider web. It doesn't matter how much of my brain knows that there's a zillionth of a percent chance of such an encounter resulting in a serious spider bite, there are still a few neurons that didn't get the "Don't panic!" memo. Then, the rest of my brain gives in to peer pressure (evidently, the scared neurons are the cool kids, and the rest just want to be like them; if they jumped off a bridge...), and it's instant DefCon 1. Stand Operating Procedure for DefCon 1 is flailing around like a nuclear-powered gyroscope in an always futile attempt to free myself from the web strands. Such episodes don't last long, but they're still supremely embarrassing.

Moving on, here's what I heard in the thrift store last night from a young girl and her mother on the other side of a shelf from me.

"Those are albums."
"What are albums?"
"They're the way we used to listen to music."

And I aged a few more decades.

Technically, the woman should have explained that music is still packaged in albums, since an album is a collection of music. It's LPs that died, except for audiophiles who recognize that they're still the best option for rich, full sound. At least, that's what they've read in Condescending Music Geek Monthly. Personally, I think that the number of ear pairs capable of discerning a farthing's worth of difference between a CD and an LP is the same as the number of tongues capable of discerning the difference between a decent grocery store blend coffee and Sumatran-Algonquin Morning Glory coffee. But that's just me.

I will lament the demise of really good LP cover art, though. It's just not the same when you buy a CD or MP3. You need all those square inches to get the full effect of, say, ELO's "Out of the Blue." Why'd I ever throw away that LP? (Side note/warning: Disparage ELO within earshot of me at your peril. The later stuff reeked, but in their prime, they were excellent.)

Moving on, Jacob is this close to walking. He's at the jump door, and he's been prepped how to react once he's in the airstream, he just can't bring himself to leave the airplane. But he'll make the jump one day. In preparation of that day, he's fortifying himself with hearty meals and fruits, which he absorbs by osmosis after they're smeared all over his face and hair. We're raising an amoeba.

The amoeba is almost one year old. May 26, he'll clock the big 1. I understand it's customary to jump-start the national economy by inviting several thousand people (a good rule of thumb is everybody in every state that abuts your home state, plus Texas) to a birthday party that'll overwhelm him so much that he's crankier than Andy Rooney before the first slice of cake is passed around, but we're such iconoclasts that we're keeping the party list down in the single digits. I'm looking forward to spoiling the little good later, when he can understand what's going on, but when he's perfectly content to pass time by gnawing on his toes or planting his face in the bathwater, I see no reason to take out a second mortgage to fund the frolic.

I'm also looking forward to taking him fishing. I don't know why that activity, of all the ones he'll get to do, has me salivating, but the thought of snagging a bluegill or catfish with him has me all agog with anticipation. A few more birthdays, and I'll get to do it. Yay for me.

Live, from Scufflegrit Road

Not really, although I did pass under Scufflegrit Road while we were coming back from Arkansas. Took a short trip to visit the Natural State family members. Here's an interesting fact: Arkansas is actually located in Seattle. At least, that's what it seemed like, since it rained from the time we got there to the time we left. We got there Friday afternoon, and by Sunday afternoon, Jacob was in full-blown cabin fever mode. He REALLY likes his neighborhood perambulations, and when he doesn't get them, well, he lets you know it. Luckily, there was a honkin' big Wal-Mart near the father-in-law's place, so he got to do some inside perambulation, if there is such a thing.

Scufflegrit Road passes over Highway 78, which will one day be I-22 but for now is just one majorly awesome stretch of four-lane without the eleventy-billion signs that populate all the other interstates. I'm a committed capitalist, so I appreciate business and all that, but I could do with a little more scenery in my scenery.

Father-in-law lives in Batesville, Arkansas, and our route there takes us through rice-growing country, which fascinates me. Where I grew up, in south Alabama, peanuts, soybeans, cotton, corn, and a few other crops are commonplace. But all those grow in dirt, whereas rice grows in water, or at least flooded dirt. And my brain can't reconcile what is essentially farming a lake. U.S. 64 through Marion, Wynne, McCrory, and Augusta is surrounded by serpentine berms and acres of flat land, some of it already flooded. Monstrous four-wheel-drive tractors with multiple tires on each axle sit idle, ready to somehow plant, cultivate, and eventually harvest rice. I had enough trouble farming dirt, where you can see what you're doing. I shudder to think of the agricultural devastation I'd cause trying to farm water.

Also, Arkansas has "Highway Police" cars. I've never seen that term before. I know that's completely superfluous knowledge, but when you're the only conscious person in a car speeding toward Bald Knob, Ar., you tend to notice things like that.

I want to work there, just so I can answer the phone. (Sorry for the lack of quality, but such is life when it's Seattle weather and you're shooting subjects with a BlackBerry camera.)

Also saw this on the way up to Batesville.


Got to be secure in your manhood to pull into that lane.

Not a lot else to say, other than to point out that, if you're looking for something to do this weekend, Allendale County, SC has a big festival weekend.

Did you hear about....

the man who had a wild pig burst through his kitchen door, run into his fireplace, and start trying to climb up the chimney?
He had swine flue.

Did you hear about the gal who laid out in the sun until she looked like a well-fried piece of bacon?
She had swine hue.

Did you hear about the church that was built by a famous sausagemaker, who specified that some of the benches had to be in the shape of a pig?
It had swine pews.

Sorry, folks, that's about all I have today, so I'm both late and lame. But you buys your ticket and you takes your chances, and that's what came up today. I might try to atone for the slowness and slackness by posting tomorrow, but I can't say that for sure. Job requirements (the paying kind) are rudely intruding once more, so I could be otherwise detained. If that doesn't work out, I'll see you Monday.

Last post before my swiney death

I know that my time is short. Any second now, I'll succumb, in grisly fashion, to the swine flu virus that has killed millions of people already. (Researches for a second.)

Okay, has killed hundreds. (Researches further.)

Okay, has killed ones of people already. We're still all going to die, I tells you, because this strain of flu is too virulent to exist outside of a George Romero movie. You so much as mention the words "swine flu," and you're dead before you hit the floor. Plus, your intestines squirt out your eyes, AND your brain bursts into flames! It's virulent! It's new and improved virulent, and deadly! (Does a little bit more research.)

As the World Health Organization raised its infectious disease alert level Wednesday and health officials confirmed the first death linked to swine flu inside U.S. borders, scientists studying the virus are coming to the consensus that this hybrid strain of influenza -- at least in its current form -- isn't shaping up to be as fatal as the strains that caused some previous pandemics.

In fact, the current outbreak of the H1N1 virus, which emerged in San Diego and southern Mexico late last month, may not even do as much damage as the run-of-the-mill flu outbreaks that occur each winter without much fanfare.

What a gyp. So now we're NOT all going to die a grisly death, flopping around like spastic, beached flounders, with our intestines bursting out our eyes? I would have appreciated being told this BEFORE I went and loaded up every credit card I could get my hands on in a pre-apocalyptic bacchanalia of spending.

Please explain to me how, in an age where we're swimming (not "literally swimming," because that would imply we were doing the Australian Crawl atop data) in data, so many people can be so ridiculously uninformed. We don't have to wait for the morning or evening paper, or the top-of-the-hour newscast. We don't even have to be hooked into the grid. You can wirelessly surf via laptop or BlackBerry and avail yourself of more breaking news than every newspaper editor in the history of the world had at his disposal. But we still run around peeing on ourselves, when it'd actually be safer to emulate Shaun and his friends in "Shaun of the Dead" and be ignorant of the zombies around you than panic over an imminent death from nonexistent zombies. ("Don't forget to kill Phillip!")

If this were a "Twilight Zone" episode, this would be the point when I notice a sniffle, and then turn on the television to find that swine flu has indeed mutated into full-blown Guacamole Fever, and all of humanity is doomed. But Rod Serling is long dead, and my theology really doesn't accommodate a God who's so into plot twists that he kills you for mania skepticism. And if I'm wrong, and I do die because of this post, well, at least I won't have to pay off those Visa bills.

Here today, gone two days later

As I've mentioned, one of my duties working the pressbox at Talladega was helping sportswriters in the 'box ask questions of the drivers in the infield media center. Sportswriter Bob raises his hand, I run, wireless mike in hand, and give Bob the mike so that can make with the queries. You really have to be qualified to handle such an assignment, too. The guy who had the job before me, Mr. Snickers, has been called one of the most intelligent chimps ever (non-cigar-smoking division).

Sunday, one of the writers I had to give the mike to was David Poole, aka the Grantland Rice of NASCAR reporting. There are a bunch of great writers like Mike Mulhern, Monte Dutton, Jenna Fryer, Nate Ryan, and others, but David was generally regarded as the best. Was regarded, because he's dead now.

Over thousands of backstretches and hundreds of checkered flags, David Poole made himself into more than one of the nation's leading authorities on NASCAR. He became a part of the sport he loved.

“David Poole was as much a fixture in this sport as the actual cars themselves,” driver Dale Earnhardt Jr. said Tuesday. “He was a one-of-a-kind individual and an extremely talented writer.”

Poole, who covered racing for the Observer, died of a heart attack Tuesday at his Stanly County home. He was 50.

A native of Gastonia, N.C., Poole became the Observer's NASCAR writer in 1997. He built a national following through ThatsRacin.com and a daily program he hosted on Sirius NASCAR Radio.

The National Motorsports Press Association four times named him its writer of the year. He wrote about the sport with the enthusiasm of a fan and the critical eye of a journalist.

“He could be controversial from time to time but he always wrote and spoke what he believed,” said Richard Childress, president and CEO Richard Childress Racing. “He didn't pull any punches with anybody and that's what people respected about him. He was good for the sport.”

I don't mean to act as if David and I were close personal friends or anything like that. I knew him, had interviewed him, and as I mentioned, handed him a mike Sunday. But I doubt he knew my name or face. So I'm not being dramatic or going for a cheap emotional punch by writing this. It's just weird that Sunday, when he walked into the pressbox, he was winded and a little flushed. I thought, "That walk up the steps almost killed him." And two days later, his heart gave out.

One of my long-time jokes is that one day, I'm going to unleash a new diet on America, called the Sportswriters' Diet. All it will consist of is pictures of fat sportswriters, which is almost a redundant term. Seeing what a lack of exercise and eating road food will do to the human body will cause millions of Americans to put down the spoon and go for a walk, and I'll be rich. And I'm including myself in that group of chubby writers, since it's not like I'll ever be mistaken for Kate Moss.

David was also a member of that group. He had a weight problem, and had for as long as I'd known him. He was 50, and my own father (who wasn't fat but who smoked and had a family with a history of heart disease) died when he was 44 from a heart attack, so David was definitely in the risk zone for having a heart attack. If I had to bet, I'd say that he was going to try to eat better and lose weight "one of these days," and just never got around to it.

I think I'm going to get around to it. I hope some of the folks in the media center and pressbox do, too.

Now, where was I?

I'm still marveling at the Carl Edwards crash, as well as Edwards' ability to get out of a freshly destroyed car/plane and pull off a Ricky Bobby imitation with that jog to the finish line. And I'm almost caught up on sleep, although I will ask that you omit any incoherence (beyond that normal level of incoherence which you have come to expect from me, I mean). I will caution you that there's going to be a rambling quality to today's post, too, so you can change the channel if you can't stomach that kind of thing. Can't say that I blame you, really.

Aside: Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes put out some killer soul music back in the seventies, as my computer just proved with a serving of "Bad Luck." Just saying.

The familial unit is now back together, after my Talladega stint and a simultaneous old home place visit by The Lovely Missus, The Jakester, and Mama Dunn. I'm told the highlight of the visit for Jacob was seeing the goats and guard donkey at his Aunt Hazel and Uncle Wedsel's. ("Guard Donkey" would be a good name for a rock band, as Dave Barry would say.) Pics of said visit will appear here tomorrow.

TLM did say that it was hard to contemplate that quiet little Samson, Alabama was the scene of mass murder a few short weeks ago. Most everybody in that area knows everybody else, and is related to more than a few, so it's like somebody set off a grenade at a family reunion. (I'm not trying to make Samson into Mayberry. The town has its problems, as do all towns, and they're not solvable in 22-minute installments. I just figure that most readers grew up in towns with a population larger than roughly 2000, and might not understand the impact of the killings.) I've heard a rumor about an all-class reunion for Samson High grads this October, and I would imagine that if that does take place, it'll be an emotional one.

Moving on, I went back and did some totaling, and while I'm sure it's not a completely accurate count, I believe I've reviewed 162 acts for The Birmingham News. Considering how much of a music geek I am, I'm pretty thankful for those opportunities. I may have to recap a few of the best in that string, although I know that the most jaw-dropping performance I witnessed was the 2006 Drive-by Truckers/North Mississippi Allstars concert at the beautiful Alabama Theatre. When the Truckers' Jason Isbell (now a former Trucker), Patterson Hood, and Mike Cooley were joined by the Allstars' Luther Dickinson for an encore, I thought my face would melt from the guitar-shredding.

The strangest performance was The Lemonheads' appearance at Zydeco, when leader Evan Dando appeared to be as happy to be there as a pig at a barbecue, tried to walk off before his contractual obligation, came back for a few more listless songs, then did walk off. Won lots of fans' undying devotion that night, I'm sure.

The longest night (I think in some dimension, it's still going on) was the Bela Fleck and the Flecktones/Keller Williams/Yonder Mountain String Band performance at Oak Mountain Amphitheatre. (Technically, it's the Verizon Wireless Music Center Birmingham, but Verizon hasn't paid ME any money to refer to them in the venue's name.) All of them are outstanding musicians, but jam bands aren't my personal fave, and when I looked around at the paying public and saw more than a few sleepy looks, I knew it was a long night.

I think the only five-star ratings I've given were for one Truckers' concert (I've reviewed three or four), Alison Krauss and Union Station, Toby Keith (the man knows how to put on a show), and The Chieftains. There might be a few more, but not many. I figure that to earn a five-star rating, there can't be one weak spot in the whole night, and there's usually at least one in even great concerts. Sometimes, though, everything just comes together, and you get the feeling the singers and musicians couldn't blunder if you rubbed bacon on their guitar strings and slipped green persimmon juice in their throat spray.

Individually, I think the most virtuoso performance was by Robert Randolph, who can flat-out abuse a steel guitar, who also took turns on pretty much every instrument on stage and, I think, simultaneously ran one of the the tower spotlights and sold frozen lemonade in the cheap seats. The man's versatile.

There were some guilty pleasures, too. I'll admit grinning like a dead pig in the sunshine during the Poison/Cinderella concert at Oak Mountain. The lyrics are pretty puerile, but they're still goofy fun.

More on the music reviewing side tomorrow. If you're good, I may even tell you about my first-ever concert, way back about the time Adam and Eve got their eviction notice. I'll tease it with just two words: Pablo Cruise.

As always, please check out Retrosnark, follow my Tweets if you'd like, tell a friend or 12 about my places, become a fan on Facebook, and, if the mood strikes you, drop a penny or two in the tip jar up there at top left. I'd appreciate all five.

From high above Talladega Superspeedway

That's right, children, your Uncle Jim is advance-blogging Monday's post from the pressbox at Talladega Superspeedway. Why? Because I love you big galoots, of course! It has nothing to do with the fact I've spent three long (but fun) days at the track, and will probably sleep late tomorrow. Nosirree, that's not it.

I had not planned on being here, since the Birmingham News, like every other paper and magazine, has cut way back on freelancing. Up until last spring's race, I hadn't missed a Talladega race for five or six years. Then I took a sabbatical with the impending birth of the Jakester, taking myself out of the rotation. I figured it would be a one-race suspension, if you will, but that fall, the axe came down. No dogs allowed, so to speak, and my 'Dega days were over.

Until this week, when the fine folks at the track's PR department gave me a call and asked if I'd help run the pressbox. I didn't want to appear too eager, so I gave them the cold shoulder for at least two picoseconds before giving them what was no doubt an ear-shattering yes. What started out as just an assignment to help the sportswriters with releases and questions turned into a spell in the very minor spotlight when I was asked to lend my mellifluous voice to the pressbox communications. Here's how that works. When a NASCAR race is over, they bring the top three finishers, the top-finishing rookie, and maybe a couple other people into the infield media center, which is where most sportswriters watch the race. In a time of multiple television screens and broadband connections (a few things that weren't present only a few years ago), it's not really necessary to watch the race from the pressbox, although a few beat writers (not beat writers, Daddy-O) still do. Questions are asked of the drivers and others from the majority of writers, situated in the media center.

Then Kerry Tharp, the illustrious potentate of NASCAR communications (a thin, tanned, nice guy you can see in a minor role in "Talladega Nights") will say, "Now we'll go upstairs to the pressbox." At that point, yours truly, who's standing on a mid-pressbox platform, looks expectantly at the raft of sportswriters sitting above him, most of whom are steadfastly not paying attention to him, because they're on deadline and have already gotten the information they want from the already-asked questions. But if a writer raises his or her hand (there are more than a few female beat writers; Jenna Fryer is the main AP beat writer), I sprint toward him or her with a wireless mike that I thrust, Jerry Springer-like, into his or her face. I then retreat to my podium to once again cast puppy-dog eyes on the assembled personages. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Hopefully interesting aside: The vast majority of the writers covering the event watch the vast majority of the race on TV screens. You can't see but about five seconds' worth of action from the media center, and even if you're in the pressbox, it's just easier to follow on television.

That's what I was prepared to do. But I was also asked to take the role of pressbox announcer, which is a cat of a different color, as a friend of mine used to say. To fulfill that role, I sit next to two NASCAR stat/PR people. Periodically, they look at me and say something like, "The No. 7 was sent to the rear of the field for an engine change," or, "The No. 82 received a pass-through penalty for doing work before the green flag." I grab a CB-looking mike, key it, and relay that info to the pressbox and media center. Once the race starts, I also say things like, "The caution was for an accident in turn two. Involved were the 12, 17, 24, and 31. Caution laps were 12-14."

Granted, that's not exactly Don LaFontaine-level voice work, but it is fun. And there's an element of stress, too, since sportswriters can be pretty belligerent when something is omitted or ambiguous. But the weekend went pretty well, except for a few miscues. Saturday, I gave some information while a driver was being interviewed on television, which is bad mojo, but didn't cost me my assignment.

Sunday, I made a verbal faux pas that didn't so much get me in trouble as it did earn me some horse laughs. (See aforementioned belligerence.) I was told to give the names of drivers involved in a crash, and to say that they had been evaluated and released from the infield CARE center. That's what I was supposed to say. But what I said was that they had been evaluated and released from the infield MEDIA center. And sportswriters are rarely, if ever, also doctors. So the guffawing commenced immediately, which in turn made me momentarily stumble over some other announcements. But hey, it ain't like I ever claimed to be a professional. And in my defense, the NASCAR PR folk did say that it was a pleasure working with me, and wanted me to keep doing it. So maybe my puppy-dog eyes overcame my ineptitude.

And my announcing wasn't the only first for me. I've seen something around 15 or so Winston/Nextel/Sprint Cup races here, and I'd never before seen a wreck with my own eyes. Until today, when I saw part of the big wreck, although it was a pretty good piece from me. And then I saw the ending wreck, which was about 50 yards away from me, and which I'm not ashamed to say gave me the heebiest of jeebies, to quote Peggy Hill. I was never in danger, but seeing a 3400-pound car get airborne at 190+ MPH and then head toward a grandstands will make the iciest of ventricles flutter, I promise. Especially if said ventricle belongs to someone who remembers Bobby Allison's wreck, in about the same location on the track.



Carl Edwards, the driver who got some hospital air during the crash, was fine. He even got out of the wreckage and jogged across the finish line, like Ricky Bobby did in "Talladega Nights." But eight people in the stands were not so lucky. Six were evaluated and released in the infield CARE center, and two were airlifted to Birmingham with non-life-threatening injuries.

It's a bone of contention amongst sports fans as to whether or not racing is really a sport. I submit any activity that pits knowhow and physical performance against the immutable laws of mass, friction, heat, and gravity, is either a sport or something that is far and above what are called sports. If Tiger Woods hitting a golf ball amid zillion-dollar homes and rigidly enforced silence is a sport, racing is darn sure a sport.

In conclusion, I'd like to thank the boys back in the shop for making the Summer's Eve/Count Chocula Pontiac run real good.