Say what you will about American sports fans: They drink and swear and fight and drink some more. They give new meaning to the word "fanatic." They elevate sports beyond everything else in their circumspect lives, at times ignoring friends and family in favor of their chosen "national pastime." When American sports fans rally to appreciate the accomplishments of their favorite teams, cars get turned over, and couches get burned - people get hurt.
Over in Italy, birthplace of "The Sopranos", things are getting more intense. Reacting to the fatal attack on a policeman last week, the Italian Cabinet approved measures Wednesday that could force many of the soccer teams in the nation's top leagues to play in empty stadiums. The decree also also bans clubs from selling blocks of tickets to visiting fans and allows authorities to bar suspected hooligans from entering stadiums, even if they haven't been convicted of crimes. In Europe, we have a firmly established additional category: There are fans, and there are "hooligans" (not to be confused with the "best of" album by the Who with the same name).
Like so many things from the Continent, hooliganism has roots that run back almost two hundred years, but it has only been the last fifty years that a hungry media has elevated this "disorderly behavior" to front page status. And what sort of disorder led to the death of thirty-eight year-old policeman Filippo Raciti last week? Film from cameras mounted around the stadium showed Raciti being hit with a sink that probably had been ripped out of one of the stadium's bathrooms. Raciti continued to work, but about forty-five minutes later he climbed out of his car when someone tossed a firecracker inside, and collapsed to the ground as a small, crude bomb went off next to him, newspapers reported.
Perhaps it's not the spread of democracy that's to blame for all the world's violence after all. Maybe we should look into cancelling the upcoming Iraqi soccer season.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Hallelujah!
Praise the Lord! One of four ministers who oversaw three weeks of intensive counseling for the Reverend Ted Haggard said the disgraced minister emerged convinced that he is "completely heterosexual." This raises a couple of questions: First of all, what do the other three ministers think, and second, just what exactly did Ted have to do to convince that one minister?
"He is completely heterosexual," Ralph said. "That is something he discovered. It was the acting-out situations where things took place. It wasn't a constant thing." No, indeed. Things like that tend to come in spurts.
Haggard resigned as president of the National Association of Evangelicals last year after allegations of sexual misconduct surfaced. He was also forced out from the 14,000 New Life Church that he founded years ago in his basement after male prostitute Mike Jones (completely homosexual) alleged Haggard paid him for sex and sometimes used methamphetamine when they were together. Haggard, who is married, has publicly admitted to "sexual immorality." Confession is good for the soul, but let's be honest, it doesn't pay the bills.
Another oversight board member, the Reverend Mike Ware of Westminster, said the group recommended a move out of town and the Haggards agreed. This suggestion, one assumes, was made along the same lines that the Clantons consider relocating somewhere outside of Tombstone.
Still, the lingering question is that of verification. What sort of stress or performance test was used to determine the "complete heterosexuality" of Ted Haggard. I imagine some variation on the "Clockwork Orange" therapy, with loud organ music playing instead of Beethoven, and pictures of naked men projected on a large screen, alternating with "No!" alternating with each slide, voiced by a heavenly choir. This and the electrodes attached to his manliness.
Oh - and the last recommendation from the oversight council? They strongly urged Haggard to go into secular work. Amen.
"He is completely heterosexual," Ralph said. "That is something he discovered. It was the acting-out situations where things took place. It wasn't a constant thing." No, indeed. Things like that tend to come in spurts.
Haggard resigned as president of the National Association of Evangelicals last year after allegations of sexual misconduct surfaced. He was also forced out from the 14,000 New Life Church that he founded years ago in his basement after male prostitute Mike Jones (completely homosexual) alleged Haggard paid him for sex and sometimes used methamphetamine when they were together. Haggard, who is married, has publicly admitted to "sexual immorality." Confession is good for the soul, but let's be honest, it doesn't pay the bills.
Another oversight board member, the Reverend Mike Ware of Westminster, said the group recommended a move out of town and the Haggards agreed. This suggestion, one assumes, was made along the same lines that the Clantons consider relocating somewhere outside of Tombstone.
Still, the lingering question is that of verification. What sort of stress or performance test was used to determine the "complete heterosexuality" of Ted Haggard. I imagine some variation on the "Clockwork Orange" therapy, with loud organ music playing instead of Beethoven, and pictures of naked men projected on a large screen, alternating with "No!" alternating with each slide, voiced by a heavenly choir. This and the electrodes attached to his manliness.
Oh - and the last recommendation from the oversight council? They strongly urged Haggard to go into secular work. Amen.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Houston, We've Got A Nutjob
U.S. Navy Captain Lisa Nowak, 43, who flew last July on a shuttle mission to the international space station, was charged with attempted vehicle burglary with battery, destruction of evidence and battery. This was in addition to the more impressive charge of kidnapping, as she drove nine hundred miles and donned a disguise to confront a woman she believed was her rival for the affections of a space shuttle pilot.
Are you thinking of "The Right Stuff" right now? I am. Actually, I sort of expect that this is the kind of thing that will most likely end up on the Lifetime Network, starring Lindsay Wagner and Tori Spelling. Police said Nowak drove from her home in Houston to the Orlando International Airport to confront Colleen Shipman. I'm hoping that in the TV movie that they change that to stealing an F-16 from the hangar at the Johnson Space Center. The thought of driving nine hundred miles to do anything makes the question of just how tightly screwed on this lady's space helmet was a relative afterthought. About the second or third time I stop at a Denny's I'm starting to reconsider that whole federal prosecution idea. But that's just me. Nowak raced from Houston to Orlando wearing diapers so she wouldn't have to stop to urinate, authorities said. I guess that would cut down on the number of stops, and boy, doesn't that astronaut training pay off when you're just this side of section eight?
NASA spokesman James Hartsfield in Houston said that, as of Monday, Nowak's status with the astronaut corps remained unchanged. "What will happen beyond that, I will not speculate," he said. Hartsfield said he couldn't recall the last time an astronaut was arrested and said there were no rules against fraternizing among astronauts. It puts me in mind of one of those later episodes of "I Dream of Jeannie," like "How To Marry an Astronaut" - talk about zany hijinks!
You know, come to think of it, as far as that whole fraternizing thing goes, I'll bet we could get this thing on Showtime - "Chicks in Space." I tell you, this stuff just writes itself.
Are you thinking of "The Right Stuff" right now? I am. Actually, I sort of expect that this is the kind of thing that will most likely end up on the Lifetime Network, starring Lindsay Wagner and Tori Spelling. Police said Nowak drove from her home in Houston to the Orlando International Airport to confront Colleen Shipman. I'm hoping that in the TV movie that they change that to stealing an F-16 from the hangar at the Johnson Space Center. The thought of driving nine hundred miles to do anything makes the question of just how tightly screwed on this lady's space helmet was a relative afterthought. About the second or third time I stop at a Denny's I'm starting to reconsider that whole federal prosecution idea. But that's just me. Nowak raced from Houston to Orlando wearing diapers so she wouldn't have to stop to urinate, authorities said. I guess that would cut down on the number of stops, and boy, doesn't that astronaut training pay off when you're just this side of section eight?
NASA spokesman James Hartsfield in Houston said that, as of Monday, Nowak's status with the astronaut corps remained unchanged. "What will happen beyond that, I will not speculate," he said. Hartsfield said he couldn't recall the last time an astronaut was arrested and said there were no rules against fraternizing among astronauts. It puts me in mind of one of those later episodes of "I Dream of Jeannie," like "How To Marry an Astronaut" - talk about zany hijinks!
You know, come to think of it, as far as that whole fraternizing thing goes, I'll bet we could get this thing on Showtime - "Chicks in Space." I tell you, this stuff just writes itself.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
Super Silly Us
Probably the main reason that I wanted the Denver Broncos to win Super Bowl XII (Twelve) was that I wanted the Dallas Cowboys to lose. I came by my Broncos fanaticism fair and square. I watched my local AFL franchise limp into the NFL and hang around the bottom of the league for a dozen years or so before finally developing something that every fan dreams of: A Nickname. In 1977, the Denver Broncos became "The Orange Crush" - the most vaunted and opportunistic defense of its day. They finished the season with twelve wins and just two losses. Craig Morton came off the New York Giants' scrap heap to lead this "Cinderella" team to the biggest game the Broncos had ever played.
Across the field was a team with more than its share of nicknames: "Doomsday Defense", "America's Team", and their quarterback was "Roger the Dodger", with some rookie named Tony Dorsett - later "TD". All this would have been fine and I would have still been happy to root for my team, but the real reason for me to loathe The Dallas Cowboys was Glen. This smirking sycophant had been a thorn in my side since seventh grade. With his helmet of precisely combed hair and obsequious manner, he was the golden boy of the crowd I hung around with. Parents and teachers loved him. He was so polite. He was so bright. He was a Dallas Cowboys fan.
That Sunday afternoon, January 15, 1978, a little piece of me died as I watched the ball bounce all the wrong ways. I watched the first of what would become a string of ignominious losses by the Denver Broncos in the Super Bowl. The party in my parents' living room was a pretty quiet affair by halftime, with a thirteen point lead for America's team - Glen's team. When Craig Morton was yanked after his fifth interception, my hopes rested on the narrow shoulders of backup Norris Weese.
It didn't happen. Not that day. It took another four tries to get it right, setting new marks for futility along the way. Twenty years and ten days after that first ill-fated attempt, the Denver Broncos were Super Bowl Champions. I have no idea where Glen was that day, but I want to believe that stupid grin tilted just a little. The party in my living room went on a good long time.
Across the field was a team with more than its share of nicknames: "Doomsday Defense", "America's Team", and their quarterback was "Roger the Dodger", with some rookie named Tony Dorsett - later "TD". All this would have been fine and I would have still been happy to root for my team, but the real reason for me to loathe The Dallas Cowboys was Glen. This smirking sycophant had been a thorn in my side since seventh grade. With his helmet of precisely combed hair and obsequious manner, he was the golden boy of the crowd I hung around with. Parents and teachers loved him. He was so polite. He was so bright. He was a Dallas Cowboys fan.
That Sunday afternoon, January 15, 1978, a little piece of me died as I watched the ball bounce all the wrong ways. I watched the first of what would become a string of ignominious losses by the Denver Broncos in the Super Bowl. The party in my parents' living room was a pretty quiet affair by halftime, with a thirteen point lead for America's team - Glen's team. When Craig Morton was yanked after his fifth interception, my hopes rested on the narrow shoulders of backup Norris Weese.
It didn't happen. Not that day. It took another four tries to get it right, setting new marks for futility along the way. Twenty years and ten days after that first ill-fated attempt, the Denver Broncos were Super Bowl Champions. I have no idea where Glen was that day, but I want to believe that stupid grin tilted just a little. The party in my living room went on a good long time.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
If I Had A Million Dollars
Five and a half years ago, we began the grand assault on our back yard known as "building a deck." We were most fortunate to have a hard-working and patient group of friends who not only helped us build what would become essentially an extra room on our house, but we learned the magic of using a carpenter's pencil to keep the boards evenly spaced, and that 107.7 FM "The Bone" plays AC/DC hourly at ten after the hour. When the smoke cleared, we had a place to sit on hot summer nights and wait for the grilling to be done, or look up at the stars on those rare occasions that the fog doesn't roll in, and we had generated a great deal of scrap lumber.
One afternoon, in a fit of Paterfamilias, I went out back with a fistful of screws and a cordless drill and created a tree fort in our apricot tree. I did this as my wife fretted about my safety and the health of the tree, and my son looked on with mild concern. Once the initial construction was complete, we drove for half an hour to find a place that would sell us a sturdy, bumpy slide and a nice rope ladder. I attached these to my barely planned structure, and pronounced it complete. My son made a few trial runs on the slide, and then retired to the sandbox, somewhat nonplussed by whole experience.
Over the years, the tree fort has seen its share of action - especially in the spring, when the squirt guns first come out and the branches provide good cover for a patient aqua-sniper. It has been the site of a number of Easter egg sightings, and when new kids first come to our house, they want to climb up and see the sights from inside. A great many different snacks and lunches have been consumed on the plywood floor, and it has even proved a sturdy platform for our apricot harvest in those years that such a thing was possible.
Today, the fort came down. The floor had rotted, and the railings were unsafe for even the smallest of children. The slide and the rope ladder were still in pretty good shape in all their pre-fab glory, but the rest came apart in a rather unsettling rush. It made me grateful for all the structural advice and planning we received on the deck, which is holding up quite nicely. Not so for the tree fort. After the screws had been removed from the lumber, a great portion of the rotting timbers now rests in our compost bin along with the branches that we were able to trim from the tree before it all came tumbling down.
I know I miss it more than my son - it was my project, after all - but I wonder how he'll feel when springtime comes.
If I had a million dollars
I'd build a tree fort in our yard
If I had million dollars
You could help, it wouldn't be that hard
If I had million dollars
Maybe we could put like a little tiny fridge in there somewhere
You know, we could just go up there and hang out
Like open the fridge and stuff
There would already be laid out foods for us
Like little pre-wrapped sausages and things
They have pre-wrapped sausages but they don't have pre-wrapped bacon
Well, can you blame 'em
Uh, yeah
- Barenaked Ladies
One afternoon, in a fit of Paterfamilias, I went out back with a fistful of screws and a cordless drill and created a tree fort in our apricot tree. I did this as my wife fretted about my safety and the health of the tree, and my son looked on with mild concern. Once the initial construction was complete, we drove for half an hour to find a place that would sell us a sturdy, bumpy slide and a nice rope ladder. I attached these to my barely planned structure, and pronounced it complete. My son made a few trial runs on the slide, and then retired to the sandbox, somewhat nonplussed by whole experience.
Over the years, the tree fort has seen its share of action - especially in the spring, when the squirt guns first come out and the branches provide good cover for a patient aqua-sniper. It has been the site of a number of Easter egg sightings, and when new kids first come to our house, they want to climb up and see the sights from inside. A great many different snacks and lunches have been consumed on the plywood floor, and it has even proved a sturdy platform for our apricot harvest in those years that such a thing was possible.
Today, the fort came down. The floor had rotted, and the railings were unsafe for even the smallest of children. The slide and the rope ladder were still in pretty good shape in all their pre-fab glory, but the rest came apart in a rather unsettling rush. It made me grateful for all the structural advice and planning we received on the deck, which is holding up quite nicely. Not so for the tree fort. After the screws had been removed from the lumber, a great portion of the rotting timbers now rests in our compost bin along with the branches that we were able to trim from the tree before it all came tumbling down.
I know I miss it more than my son - it was my project, after all - but I wonder how he'll feel when springtime comes.
If I had a million dollars
I'd build a tree fort in our yard
If I had million dollars
You could help, it wouldn't be that hard
If I had million dollars
Maybe we could put like a little tiny fridge in there somewhere
You know, we could just go up there and hang out
Like open the fridge and stuff
There would already be laid out foods for us
Like little pre-wrapped sausages and things
They have pre-wrapped sausages but they don't have pre-wrapped bacon
Well, can you blame 'em
Uh, yeah
- Barenaked Ladies
Friday, February 02, 2007
Damage Assessment
In the quiet and relative calm that is Friday night, I can see the textbook psychology of the kids I work with unfold with ease. As I was cleaning my room this afternoon after a long week of fighting the good fight that is fourth grade, I happened on a piece of note paper face down on the floor. On it was scrawled the legend "What I Wanted," above a crooked house and a pair of stick figures labeled "Mom and Dad," and a smaller stick figure named "Me." There were a number of hearts floating in the air around this little family. Below this was another title: "What I Got." Here there was a fiercely drawn set of bars with "Dad" inside, this was "Prison." Outside, "Mom" and "Me" were crying. There were more tears below than hearts above.
I know who made the drawing, and I know that we make efforts to reach out to this girl at school, and have for as long as she has been with us. The challenge is trying to do anything that doesn't seem like a band-aid while I continue to try and teach pronouns and antecedents, fractions and decimals, California history and where to line up for lunch. I know how fragile this girl is, and there are moments when I forget to imagine how terrible the fear and sadness of a ten year old girl who misses her father. I want to take fifteen minutes and talk with her, to try and make her feel better, if only for a little while.
And the other twenty-three kids? What about them? What about their stories and their heartaches and woes? Fifteen minutes for every kid? That would be the six hours I get to see them every day. So I hold on to that scrap of paper to remind myself that they all have stories, and so do I. We'll get to them all, as we have time.
I know who made the drawing, and I know that we make efforts to reach out to this girl at school, and have for as long as she has been with us. The challenge is trying to do anything that doesn't seem like a band-aid while I continue to try and teach pronouns and antecedents, fractions and decimals, California history and where to line up for lunch. I know how fragile this girl is, and there are moments when I forget to imagine how terrible the fear and sadness of a ten year old girl who misses her father. I want to take fifteen minutes and talk with her, to try and make her feel better, if only for a little while.
And the other twenty-three kids? What about them? What about their stories and their heartaches and woes? Fifteen minutes for every kid? That would be the six hours I get to see them every day. So I hold on to that scrap of paper to remind myself that they all have stories, and so do I. We'll get to them all, as we have time.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Open Mouth, Insert Foot, Shoot Foot
Maybe Joe Biden had another brain aneurysm: "I mean, you got the first mainstream African-American who is articulate and bright and clean and a nice-looking guy. I mean, that's a storybook, man." Oh Joe - What exactly did you mean?
In the latest non-event to involve Democratic presidential hopeful Barack Obama, Senator Joe Biden referred to his junior colleague in terms that made all of us huddled around our radios lean forward in anticipation. Did he really say that? Bright and clean? Is he a candidate or a floor wax? Is he running against him or does he want to date him? "My mother has an expression: clean as a whistle, sharp as a tack," Biden said. Any guesses how many times mom used this in reference to her boy Joe?
Still, after all it's just another in what will no doubt be a long, two year span of politicians clarifying just exactly what they meant. "When I said that 'Senator Clinton had a pretty good arm for a girl.' I was merely suggesting that she would make one heck of a utility infielder - not that there's anything wrong with that." Those allegations that Barack Obama was educated in a radical Muslim school known as a "madrassa" are not accurate, according to CNN reporting. The key word here would be "reporting." Fox News was more than happy to play the "telephone game" by repeating opinions generated from hearing about an article in Insight magazine. Even Insight was more than happy (a week later) to back way off those claims. The junior senator from Illinois is not a one-man sleeper cell.
Meanwhile, back in the halls of the Capitol, one could probably slice up the tension between the Biden and Obama camps with a scimitar. "He called me," Obama said. "I told him it wasn't necessary. We have got more important things to worry about. We have got Iraq. We have got health care. We have got energy. This is low on the list." Maybe for you, but we've got twenty-four hours of cable news time to fill. Couldn't you be just a little more incensed - you know - for the viewers at home?
In the latest non-event to involve Democratic presidential hopeful Barack Obama, Senator Joe Biden referred to his junior colleague in terms that made all of us huddled around our radios lean forward in anticipation. Did he really say that? Bright and clean? Is he a candidate or a floor wax? Is he running against him or does he want to date him? "My mother has an expression: clean as a whistle, sharp as a tack," Biden said. Any guesses how many times mom used this in reference to her boy Joe?
Still, after all it's just another in what will no doubt be a long, two year span of politicians clarifying just exactly what they meant. "When I said that 'Senator Clinton had a pretty good arm for a girl.' I was merely suggesting that she would make one heck of a utility infielder - not that there's anything wrong with that." Those allegations that Barack Obama was educated in a radical Muslim school known as a "madrassa" are not accurate, according to CNN reporting. The key word here would be "reporting." Fox News was more than happy to play the "telephone game" by repeating opinions generated from hearing about an article in Insight magazine. Even Insight was more than happy (a week later) to back way off those claims. The junior senator from Illinois is not a one-man sleeper cell.
Meanwhile, back in the halls of the Capitol, one could probably slice up the tension between the Biden and Obama camps with a scimitar. "He called me," Obama said. "I told him it wasn't necessary. We have got more important things to worry about. We have got Iraq. We have got health care. We have got energy. This is low on the list." Maybe for you, but we've got twenty-four hours of cable news time to fill. Couldn't you be just a little more incensed - you know - for the viewers at home?
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