Memo to Josh Howard: Shut up and play

I interrupt this blog silence for this important commercial message: Dallas Mavericks forward Josh Howard apologized for dissing the national anthem because people didn't like him any more.

First of all, Howard is just an idiot. If he was stupid enough to insult America in the first place, he's stupid enough to think that we'll believe his apology is sincere. He apparently needs to listen to more Timbaland. It's too late to apologize.

Second of all, I thank him for opening the door for late rant. There was plenty that bothered me about the Olympics -- don't get me started on China. But right up near the top is the fact that there wasn't a flag to be seen when the United States men's basketball team won the gold medal.

There were plenty of symbols, the Nike swoosh most obvious among them. But for Lebron James or Kobe Bryant or Carmelo Anthony to tell us that he's playing for America? Please. That's like Josh Howard saying he really does respect the national anthem.

After the final against Australia, yup, no question the so-called Redeem Team deserved gold. And a Redeem Team they were. But they weren't trying to re-establish the United States as a world basketball power. They were playing to redeem themselves, polish their bronzed and bruised egos.

Maybe I had too many pictures of Jim Craig taped up around my room in high school, but if they had won it for America, there would have been a flag. Maybe carried by Dwayne Wade in a victory lap around the arena. Or maybe wrapped around Jason Kidd's shoulders on the medal stand as the Star-Spangled Banner was played.

But that's a little much to expect from an NBA posse. Doesn't matter who they playing for, it's only about claiming the reward.

I Coulda Been A Contendah!

One of my friends always asks "Where do you find these things?" The answer, of course, is the Internet. In this case, courtesy Yglesias. I'm not sure if it's sad or just plain scary, but this could have been me. Thankfully I went the word route instead of the on-camera talent route. Mostly because I can't go that long without blinking and rarely look like a deer caught in headlights.

Sensitivity training for AP

The news business today isn't what it was when I started back in the day, but I'm still pretty old school when it comes to some things. Like not victimizing the victim. The AP has a exclusive today about how Olympic swimmer Margaret Hoelzer was molested as a child.

Now, among the things we should be taking from this story are enlightenment about assault on children and how some kids don't even realize what was done to them until years later; a deep appreciation for the sorrow, anger and frustration this young woman has borne for nearly 20 years and also for her strength to succeed so spectacularly in spite of it; but mostly for her courage to share the story in the first place.

Then the writer -- the version I linked to didn't have a byline -- says: "Her message will be so much more poignant now that she's come clean about her past."

Comes clean.

You come clean about stealing hubcaps or throwing rocks at cats. You come clean about using HGH. You come clean about things you did wrong, not wrongs done to you.

Yes, I'm nitpicking. It's one sentence buried near the bottom where most people won't read it. But I did. Margaret Hoelzer probably will. And her friends and family. And other victims. And what they see is the slightest implication -- wholly unintended of course -- of fault.

The last thing anyone who knows me well would call me is PC. This is more about the decline of language or at least the awareness of the meaning of the words being written. More and more, the emphasis is getting the story, getting the story, getting the story and once it's out there, the story suffers because nobody paid attention to what it says.

Margaret Hoelzer will undoubtedly inspire other young victims to unburden themselves and confide their stories. Let's hope none of them will think twice because of something they read in the newspaper or online.

Music calms the savage b(r)east

I love the music on my iPod. Yup, that's the news of the day because I haven't listened to it in so long that I forgot just how good it is. I pretty much stopped using it when I had to stop running. D'oh.

So my soundtrack today started with Death Cab for Cutie's "Plans", included some Eminem, Five for Fighting, Sia, Black Eyed Peas, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Foo Fighters, Killers, Dropkick Murphys and a playlist I made for a road trip to NYC with the girls.

I have come to the conclusion that I must listen to my music more and that we all need a soundtrack. I know mine will have to include "Breathe Me" (Sia) and "Learn to Fly" (Foo Fighters), "The Impression That I Get" Mighty Mighty Bosstones, "Driving With One Hand on the Wheel" (Aimee Mann). Probably half the songs from "Garden State." That's for starters. What's your soundtrack include? And how many songs does a life soundtrack get to have anyway?

Leave a comment, I'd love to know.

Bippity Boppity Boo

I found out Wednesday that wishes do come true! Comiserating (OK, whining) to a friend about work and everything else that sucked on Tuesday via email, I wrote to her that we needed fairy godmothers.

Lo and behold on Wednesday I got one! This pic popped into my inbox Wednesday night from one of my longest-running and best friends who I haven't spoken to in far too long, apparently. I had no idea that Sarah, aka Glinda the Good Witch, had discovered her inner fairy, but as usual, she showed up right when I needed her.

LOL

I haven't laughed much this week, but this morning I laughed for most of the 20-minute walk to work. I know I looked like one of those people you see coming toward you in downtown Boston who immediately makes you cross the street.

The intercom on my train wasn't working great today, so there was a lot of static in the speakers as the conductor announced South Station and reminded us to take all our belongings, so I wasn't sure I heard him right:

"Thank you for shopping Wal-Mart."

I asked him on the way out today if I had heard him right and he smiled and said "yeah, if you can't laugh about it, why bother?" He also said that someone on the train would probably call and complain and get him pulled off service.

That would be too bad because we all need somebody to remind us each day to take a minute and laugh. Even a stranger on a train.

A post a day

The idea here when I started this baby, was to have an outlet to write, react, vent, praise, ponder and sometimes shout from the proverbial (and virtual) rooftop. Doesn't matter if anyone's listening. It's a way to stay sharp, be creative. Have my say.

Dang that takes a lot of energy. Or maybe it just takes time. I don't know what goes faster -- 24 hours or a paycheck. The principle's really the same -- you have X amount of minutes, just like you have X amount of dollars. Once you deduct all the daily responsibilities: showering, feeding the masses, getting the kids off to school, work, feeding the masses again, cleaning up, wrestling SpongeBob for a few minutes of quality time, getting ready for bed, reading stories, finishing the work you brought home .... The day's about spent. And when the day has really sucked, like today, and yesterday and last week ... There's not always a whole helluva a lot to say -- well, OK there is, but nobody wants to read it over and over again.

So the stories I want to write are still simmering in my head. My dear friend Kelly, whose heart is as big as her metabolism is slow (I'm just workin' with information you gave me sistah), always manages to leave me with little sayings that stick in your head like bad songs on the radio.

One is "If you want to make God laugh, make a plan." Being a planner, that is especially appreciated.

The one that's been kicking my ass lately (thanks Kel) is "Any idiot can write a page a day." I have pages and pages to write and can't manage a post a day. So this is my woe-is-me moment. I'll wake up tomorrow, start again and hope there's some change left at the end of the day. How long can it take to fill a page?

Never hold The Onion(s)

I love onions. My favorite grilled cheese has cheddar, feta, tomato and onions. Can't have a Coney without. Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, but don't ever hold the onions.


I even start my day with onions -- The Onion to be exact. And I don't know if it's because it's Monday, the start of a long week or because I had beef last night, but this post about cows made me laugh out loud. If you can't navigate by the North Star, just bet on the bovine, go with the Guernsey. That's no bull.


And if you didn't find that amusing (or better yet, if you did), wait 'til tomorrow and read this. A shout out to Phil for sharing it a long time ago. It still holds true at least once a week.

A Daffy Duck Stamp Story

This just quacked me up today.

Apparently, people calling a phone number printed on card issued by the government to order Duck Stamps -- you know, the license issued by the Fish and Wildlife Service you have to buy if you want to legally go out and shoot things with feathers -- instead get a phone sex line because of a typo on the card.

KUSA in Denver first reported the error on Wednesday. The phone number to order a Duck Stamp is 800-782-6724 or 800-STAMP24. The number on the card is 800-872-6724 or 800-TRAMP24.

According to the AP story, if you call the second number, you are "enticed by a husky female voice to 'talk only to the girls that turn you on,' for $1.99 a minute."

What the story doesn't say is that if you dial the right number, you are enticed by Daffy Duck to talk to only the Looney Tunes characters you want for $1.99 minute. Let me tell you, if you pick Elmer Fudd, it's gonna get costly.

Random GOP thoughts

To those of you who have been checking for new posts, thanks for reading. It's been awhile. Many reasons, none valid other than sheer laziness.

Nothing jump starts the creative juices quite like a total and mindbogglingly unbelievable meltdown like that of the Republican party. File under truth is stranger than fiction, not to mention a helluva lot more entertaining. Hour by hour it gets more bizarre, almost to the point where it's hard to find the words ... by I'll try.

• There are not truth to the rumors that the GOP is changing the convention slogan to "What Happens in St. Paul, stays in St. Paul.
• There are some hilarious, satirical (and yes, probably highly offensive) photos here. I wish Time or Newsweek ran a column similar to Sports Illustrated's "Signs the Apocalypse is Upon Us." The winner would have to be the report that Bristol Palin's Baby Daddy was joining the Palins at the convention.
• Is it me or does Palin look like Agent 99 (my apologies to Barbara Feldon)? And you know, it's really no stretch to picture John McCain as Maxwell Smart.
• And hey, if Gov. Palin can be vice president, do ya think there's a Cabinet position for Lynne Spears? Department of Labor? How about Health and Human Services?

The Women's Vote

Ladies, in case you didn't know, when the Republicans announced that the governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin, would be the vice presidential candidate, they pretty much locked up the women's vote. Game over for Obama. He shoulda picked Hillary.

At least that's what the cashier in my local Stop & Shop was saying late Friday afternoon ... "Well, he's got the women's vote now ..."

Not quite sure what he said after that because, true to my X chromosome, everything above my shoulders just stopped working. Good thing too, because the readers who know me well can't believe that I didn't say anything to the guy ... smiling sweetly and mentioning that I heard one of the southern contingents would be wearing bright orange Virginia for Vaginas T-shirts at the convention this week.

Judging from the words and self-assured ignorant smile of the 40-something white male running the 12-items-or-less lane around 5 p.m. on Friday afternoon of a holiday weekend, we vote with our tits, not with our brains.

We will vote for McCain/Palin because we share issues like motherhood and PMS and do-these-pants-make-me-look-fat. It doesn't matter if we agree on issues like the economy, health care, education, the war in Iraq. We will unite because we understand bad hair days and bloating and that creepy soft handshake men give us so we won't be intimidated or hurt ...

And that's really OK because when I use my brain these days, it starts to hurt. It has to process information like there probably being a lot more men out there with the same thoughts and perceptions of that cashier (and I was in a blue state Stop & Shop, not a Piggly Wiggly or Winn Dixie!).

So unite ladies. The election has been decided for us. We can get back to our knitting circles and sip our cosmopolitans and talk about the stuff that really matters. Like that brownie recipe.