Psychic Friends Network

If you’ve never heard of The Men Who Stare at Goats, consider putting it on your reading list. Actually, I haven’t read it either, but I heard Jon Ronson on Bob Edwards’ XM show and found the subject to be fascinating. Evidently, the Pentagon has put some effort into harnessing the powers of the Jedi, including feats of superhuman strength, walking through walls, out-of-body espionage, turning invisible and staring people to death. Sounds like Festivus gone horribly, horribly wrong.

The not-so-light side of all this is the innovation of things such as musical torture (for example, playing the theme to Barney the Dinosaur over and over until the subject cracks). All those tax dollars aren’t wasted as we employee these tactics from Guantanamo to Abu Gharib.

Austin Road Trip

Took the whole fandamly to Austin for the Longhorn National Championship Celebration Lovefest. We saw fireworks, confetti and photos of The Tower lit burnt orange (below) to commemorate the vanquishing of of our foes. Homecooking was consumed at Threadgill’s. Kolaches were purchased at Czech Stop in West. We covered all the bases.


Discovered a cool new Austin store – Austin Modern – on East 53rd. Great kitsch and mid-century modern. Ask for Elle. She’s way cool.

Escapism

Believe it or not, I have been spending my time hiding from politics as much as possible because the never-ending grind of bad news from the world weighs on me too much.

I’ve tried to spend more time reading poetry and soaking up the beauty. There’s a book -- Poems of the American West -- that I had been avoiding because I figured it wouldn’t amount to any more than Woody Guthrie songs and Indian chants. Well, it’s a little more expansive than that. I found a devastating group of poems from a poet named Joe Bolton that have stayed with me for weeks now. Here’s one:

The Lights at Newport Beach
If there were time for everything
(And there is); if that phosphorescent light
Stunning the Pacific meant anything
(And it does); if all this world of worlds might
Become something more than a museum for something
We have lost (and it will) … but not tonight.
Tonight, love, Newport Beach is simply on fire,
The buildings blazing up under the sky,
The streets running headlong into the sea.
If we were not more than the sum of our desire
(But we’re not); if there were a language I
Could find to get beyond the opacity
Of zero…. But I’m tired of words and all we turn
Away from. I just want to watch it burn.

Wishful thinking?

I’ve been reading Christopher Hitchens’ Letters to a Young Contrarian and I am fascinated with his writing and his positions. I stumbled across this article on Slate.com and I hope he’s right. But I’m not holding my breath.

Merry Christmas, Bedford Falls!

Washington Post columnist E.J. Dionne made the following observation in his year-end column when sifting through letters from irate conservative readers:

“A reader from San Diego offered a view that was repeated in many different forms: ``Most liberals and some Democrats hate this president and will do anything to bring him down, including siding with terrorists against the president.

''And here is where I start worrying about our national mood. I don't mind being assailed myself -- even by a theologically minded reader who called me a ‘badly catechized Catholic.’ (Blame me, not the nuns and priests who taught me!) But when big chunks of the country begin to view their political adversaries as something close to traitors, we have arrived at a very dangerous time. For this badly catechized Catholic, it's a reason to pray hard for something better next year.”

That sounds pretty accurate to me. So many people in our nation believe that failure to side with Dubya on little things like habeas corpus and wiretapping are the moral equivalent of tucking Osama bin Laden into your guestroom with milk and cookies and copy of The Anarchist’s Cookbook.

Like this guy. But if flawed logic weren’t bad enough, check out this downright stupid metaphor:

“For some liberals, E.J. Dionne notwithstanding, it follows that they must do nearly anything to bring the Republicans and their president down, and that accomplishing this constitutes a higher priority than combating terrorism.

“Many modern liberals seem unable to say what kind of country they live in. Most of the time, they speak as if they inhabit Frank Capra's Bedford Falls--a dull, nosy, and somewhat puritanical, but basically decent place where George Bailey and the forces of good fight to a stalemate with Mr. Potter and the forces of evil.

“Deep down, though, they fear they live in Pottersville, minus the fun. The defense of Bedford Falls, for all of its flaws, would be a top priority; the primacy of defending Pottersville is less apparent.”

I mean, what the fuck? Did Mr. Gower blow up the World Trade Center? Did I miss that?

Let’s make it clear. I’m not fan of W, but let there be no mistake: I do not like terrorists. I fact, I think they suck. Wanna drop some bombs on ‘em? Great. Do it. Spend my tax dollars to do it. I’m happy to help. But here’s a hint: try Pakistan. Specifically up in the Northwest Tribal areas of Waziristan. He’s probably in a cave. He’s the 6-5 foot Arab dragging the dialysis machine and the AK.

Now go get him.

The Greatest Story Ever Told

I apologize for being away so long because there’s so much to discuss. The past week has been a blur, from the trip to California to the entire surreal Rose Bowl experience to the wonderful afterglow.

It may seem like tremendous overstatement, but I have waited my entire life to see this:

Now, the Texas Longhorns have won a National Championship trophy in football for the first time since 1970. As the same pundits who last week proclaimed the USC Trojans as The Greatest Football Team Ever now rush to call Vince Young The Greatest Football Player Ever and the Rose Bowl The Greatest Game Ever Played, I am bemused, bewildered and more than a little self satisfied.

I am just glad that I was there. It was pure spectacle and I had a ring side seat. Just how good was it? Well, check this shit out (I'm the chump in the yellow circle):


Pretty good seat, huh?

You have Sandra Day O’Connor conducting the opening coin flip, LeAnn Rimes singing the national anthem, Matthew McConaughey (Alright!, Alright! Alright!) stalking the sidelines, the Goodyear Blimp, parachutists, B-1 bombers, and – My, Oh, My! – Keith Jackson. Talk about the Granddaddy of Them All!

You know what happened and how it happened. Here are a few random thoughts:

The stadium wasn’t as loud as The Shoe was for the Ohio State game, but it was close. And the Texas fans were as geeked up as I have ever seen them. Every touchdown, turnover and defensive stand was cheered with more fervor than I imagined possible. And when Vince glided across the goal line for the game-winning TD, I nearly broke my leg celebrating. “The Eyes of Texas” has never been sung the way it was after the game.

Texas fans razzed Reggie Bush mercilessly. After his lateral attempt turned into a Texas scoring drive, Hornfans taunted him with a chorus of “REG-GIE! REG-GIE!” everytime he stood in the Texas endzone for a kickoff return. He was clearly uncomfortable. Then, after a dove into the endzone for a touchdown to cap his 26-yard TD run, he walked to the back of the endzone to strike a Superman pose directed at the Texas section. USC fans then began chanting “REG-GIE! REG-GIE!” on their own. If they only knew. After the game I yelled at him, "Hey, Reggie! Vince wants his Heisman back!" Yeah, I'm just a jackass that way sometimes.

Texas tight end David Thomas was nails – 10 catches for 88 yards and almost all of them clutch. I'll miss him as much as Vince.

LenDale White is a beast and the USC O-line were everything people said they were - big, nasty and disciplined.

Things I learned from t-shirts at the game: You can't spell suck without USC, O.J. Simpson is an example of Trojan pride, Trojans bust occasionally and VY is not from this planet, just visiting.

With six and a half minutes to play and down by 12, it seemed the Horns were done. I remember thinking, “OK, if they can score on this drive, then stop SC, they should get the ball back with enough time to score.” After Vince scored a few minutes later, I turned to Mike and said, “If we can stop them, we’ll win this game.” After they did stop them, I said, “We are going to win this game.” And then we won the game.

Former SMU Mustang Craig James flashed the Hook’em to Hornfans as he walked behind the endzone to the ABC booth during the game. And Mark May, USC’s main butt-boy at ESPN, got to hear 10,000 Hornfans chant “Mark May sucks!” as he took the Walk of Shame across the endzone after the game. That had to make Mark-e-Mark feel special.

This guy in front of me brought his nephew’s Flat Stanley to the game to photograph. Actually, Flat Stanley was on a little bit of a bender. He hooked up with Flat Stacey in Vegas and got married by Flat Elvis at a wedding chapel off the Strip.

And when it was over, we were champions. Here I am with my homeboy Mike:


What can I say? I have a new thing at the top of my list of Coolest Things I Ever Did.

After the game, Colorado Boulevard in Old Town Pasadena was like Sixth Street in Austin after a home game. We ate at as nice little Italian spot called Mi Piaci where everyone dining inside and everyone walking by outside was wearing the Burnt Orange. We sang “The Eyes” in the middle of dinner. It was great.

OK, good times but – so what? I know that the anguish of the Longhorn fans pales in comparison to the long-suffering Red Sox or Cubs fans, but 36 years is a long freaking time. And I’m not exactly a t-shirt fan either. My first UT home game was 16-12 loss to Joe Paterno’s Penn State team at Memorial Stadium during my sophomore year in 1989. Those weren’t exactly the glory days.

The Horns had their moments – I was there when Peter Gardere found Tony Jones for a late TD to upset OU later in the fall of 1989 and then the next year when Butch Hadnot helped steamroll No. 3-ranked UH. But for every stunning victory, there was always an inexplicable defeat – like this ass-whipping Miami gave us in the ’91 Cotton Bowl or losses to Rice and TCU. Even the stunning victory in the 1996 Big 12 title game was followed up by the utter humiliation of the Rout 66 game to UCLA. Every step forward was followed with a step back.

But being a true fan is like a marriage – you gotta be there for better or worse. I stood in the rain at the Cotton Bowl in 2000 and watched every minute of the 63-14 drubbing OU hung on us. I watched the other Debacle in Dallas – the 2001 Big 12 title loss to CU – as a conference championship and BCS title game berth slipped away in a bizarre litany of mistakes and Mike and I sat stunned in the aftermath. And then I watched the Debacle in Dallas, Part 3 – when Bob Stoops hung 60-something on us – as my father lay dying in the bed beside me.

And I suppose that is what makes the victory that much sweeter. I didn’t just show up for the party. I know how hard the journey was to get there. And I know it’s about enjoying the moment.


It’s thrilling to watch VY cross the goal line to win The Greatest Game Ever Played, but it’s also over so quickly. The Moment is ephemeral. Already Vince is cashing in his chips and heading the NFL – and rightfully so. Already fans are looking forward to next year. Like a wonderful meal with people you love or standing in front of a work of art at a museum in a city you may never visit again, you have to savor the moment because it is gone too quickly. And, believe me, I’m savoring it.

Thanks for the memories, Vince. We’ll always have Pasadena.

Unknown soldier

Two years since my father has been gone and I probably understand less about him now than ever. There is so much I feel and could say, but none of it comes to me now. All I can say is I love you and miss you.

Trojan farce?

An interesting perspective on USC from Slate about why the 2005 Trojans are overrated. But mostly it pokes fun at the 24-hour non-stop lovefest that ESPN (or as some wags call it USCPN) has become. Regarding the highly-flawed methodology of the USC vs. greatest teams of all-time analysis:

The ESPNers also entertained the thought of this year's Trojans facing off against great powers from a generation ago. May noted that the 1969 Texas Longhorns ("the size of the players ... forget it, they're gonna roll over them") and the 1955 Oklahoma Sooners ("Not even close, and I look at the size of the players … their starting center was 5-8, a sophomore, and 158 pounds") would both be overwhelmed by today's Trojans. Which is probably true, though one could use this method to prove that the 2005 Temple Owls were the greatest team of all time. Fielding H. Yost's 1901 Michigan team trampled opponents by a cumulative score of 550-0. But, hey, the forward pass wasn't legal then, and those guys didn't even wear helmets. The concussions alone would make this a huge Temple blowout.

I guess we'll find out how good they are on January 4. But clearly nothing will be settled until they take on Temple.

In case you missed it

Foreign Policy magazine published its 10 stories you might have missed in 2005 and its quite an eye-opener. Among the findings:

Europe has a zombie constitution. Yikes!

The War on Drugs wasn’t a complete failure. We trained lots of South American mercenaries who can now help us fight in Iraq. And the best part is that no one in the U.S. notices or cares if they die.

The possible successor to North Korea’s dictator is a huge NBA fan. Can anybody say Ambassador Michael Jordan? Who needs missile defense when you have a shyhook jump shot?

Blame Canada and their 24 percent increase in Greenhouse gas emissions for global warming. Stick that in your Kyoto Protocol and smoke it!

You can say anything you want at a Pentagon press briefing on Friday afternoon and no one gives a ripshit.

Terrorists like to play volleyball.

Something is happening in India.

Missile defense wasn’t a COMPLETE waste of $92 billion.

Buying oil futures for 2030 might be a good idea.

119,247 veterans of operations in Iraq and Afghanistan have sought VA healthcare. But why don’t we report more good news out of Iraq?

Random thoughts on fandom and sport

I’ve got the Rose Bowl fever. I’ve consumed the Burnt Orange Kool-Aid and I have to say that it tastes great. I’ve spent more time (and money) on eBay chasing tickets over the past two days than I would care to admit. But we Texas Longhorns have spent a lot of time wandering in the wilderness over the past couple of decades and now find ourselves looking into the promised land. The thought of not being there to see with my own eyes what could be the culmination of that journey was too much to bear.

What does it mean to be a fan? It may seem silly to anyone who doesn’t feel passionately about a sports team, but being a true fan becomes part of your identity. Look at the fans of the Cubs or the Red Sox or the Yankees. Their passions run deep, and their allegiance to their team is a part of their identity and it determines who they are as much as anything in their DNA.

Really being a fan has a lot to do with a sense of place. I think a lot of it has do with saying, “I am proud of where I am from and my team is going to show you just how great we are.” If you live in Manchester and pull for Man U or in St. Louis and root for the Cards, a lot of it has do with pride in where you live.

Sometimes it’s more about reminding you of another time in your life. I know lots of people who root for the Cardinals or the Yankees because those were the only teams they were exposed to on the radio or TV in the little town where they lived. And certainly that’s true about college teams. It’s easy to feel like you are still a student when your rooting for your team. It’s like Garrison Keillor once said about classical music: he loves it because it stays the same no matter how old you get. It’s the same with Texas or Oklahoma or Ohio State. That’s still your school and your team no matter what else changes.

But I’m also thinking about sport itself right now. Thinking about sport paid my mortgage for a lot a years and I was always puzzled by people who took the thing too seriously. In part, sport is an extension of celebrity culture in the U.S. We are fascinated with how much A-Rod makes or who is dating the whom or who is taking steroids. But many sports fans are rabid about the numbers – the batting averages and quarterback ratings and plus/minus percentages. My mind could never hold all those numbers. They hold no fascination for me.

And I also think too much is made about The Significance of Sports. Life Freud said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Most of the time, sport is just a guy chasing a ball.

But sometimes, it’s more than that. When Joe Louis knocked out Max Schmeling in 1938 and Jackie Robinson broke the color barrier in baseball, these events were more than just a moment in a sport. They became transcendent moments and symbols of larger cultural shifts. They also became great stories.

So I guess I’m more interested in the stories and the themes than the stats. Kirk Bohls wrote today about who was the greater Texas coach: Mack Brown or Darrell Royal. An interesting question for the Orangebloods to ponder, but what struck me was this:

But Royal's flair for the dramatic is what truly separated the charismatic coach, whether it was his speech-making or play-calling. He had the Wow Factor. With an innate sense for the moment, he knew what to say at every turn, and he knew when to call 53 Veer Pass to tight end Randy Peschel in the Big Shootout in 1969.

I am fascinated with that sense of the moment – the patience required and the instinct involved in choosing the right time to speak or act. Don’t we all wish we knew how to do this in our own lives?

Another thing I have pondered was a question someone once asked Vince Young about the Horns comeback in the Rose Bowl last season, and he said that Coach Brown told them to expect bad things to happen and not let them get you down – just go out and play your game. That’s some pretty good advice for life, I think.

Anyway, I don’t want to overthink this too much. Reggie Bush sucks and we will destroy USC like the insignificant ants that they are. After all, like Walter Cronkite says, “We’re Texas.”

There. I feel better now.

Hook’em!

Alabama modern

Yes, I am one of those people who gets all their news from the New York Times. Actually not all of it. Just most of it. The rest comes from NPR and the Daily Show.

Here's what I found today. Evidently, Hale County in Alabama -- where James Agee and Walker Evans chronicled the plight of Depression-era sharecroppers in their classic Let Us Know Praise Famous Men is now a hotbed of modern architecture thanks to some help from a Auburn University program.

It's nice to see modern architecture, which was meant to offer decent, affordable housing to the masses, actually do just that.

At gloaming

There are things I understand and things I believe. I understand that happiness is like the tide that ebbs and flows but I still believe that it is more like a summit that can be attained.

I know that life is filled with struggle and difficulty and those are the things that ultimately build our character and make us human. But I am always searching for evidence to the contrary. And when you are looking for something you can usually find it. I had one of those moments when the tumblers of the universe fall into place -- everything clicks and time falls away and all that is left is happiness and magic captured in a perfect yet fleeting moment.

My daughter and I went to shoot hoops at the park yesterday. It was getting late and I knew that we would have only an hour before sundown. I was in a shitty mood because the day had gotten away from me and I hadn’t done any of the things that I had wanted to (isn’t this always the case?) Finding that our two favorite basketball courts were occupied soured my mood even further.

We discussed the characteristics of a good climbing tree. I explained to her the importance of low branches and knobs for getting a good start and rough bark to get a good footing. I told her about the old tree in the vacant lot next door to the house where I grew up and how I loved climbing that tree. I would scale to its top-most limbs and feel the tree sway and hear its leaves rattle in the breeze. Those moments were about as one with nature as I have ever been.

All of this talk fueled her desire to climb a tree. So off we went in search of a good climbing tree.

We found that most of the trees in Overton Park and Foster Park we not of the climbing variety. You find lots of cypress along the dry creek bed, but these really don’t make good climbing trees because the low branches have been cut away and the bark is too smooth to generate much traction. Still, we tried to climb a few only to see our attempts foiled.

After a short walk, we found a Live Oak at one end of the park near the tennis courts. I boosted my daughter into the tree and then tried to lift my rather un-nimble 36-year-old self into the tree with no luck. Thanks, tree, for making me feel so decrepit. However, I kept trying and thanks to an old branch that my daughter had been using as a walking stick, I was able to get enough a boost to grab a branch and swing into the tree.

Truth be told, we didn’t climb very high. My daughter wasn’t confident enough in her tree climbing abilities and my desire to climb high higher was tempered by my wish not to have this know as the Christmas that Dad fell out of a tree. But I would have thrown myself to my doom before I would suffer the humiliation of having the Fire Department rescue me.

We sat and talked for 10 or 15 minutes before we climbed down in the golden light of the fading day. We walked and talked some more. My daughter climbed on tree stumps and postured like King Kong on the Empire State Building. We reached our car but decided to walk a little longer. We strolled a little farther down the park. In the twilight we spoke of the trees and the colors of the sunset – the soft clear blues and the ever-changing oranges, pinks, purples and yellows. I told her that nature can teach you all you need to know about which colors work well together. I showed her silhouettes of trees against the sky and we rolled down hills into piles of leaves until we stood up dizzy and laughing.

Twilight is my favorite time of day. To be able to walk at the gloaming and share with my child the things that stir my soul was a perfect moment, an instant when time seems to stop and God whispers in your ear, “This is it. Don’t miss it.”

That’s when my daughter told me how much kids like to walk and talk in the evenings with their dads and their friends, talking about everything and nothing. It seemed unlike her to refer to the experience as if she was talking about someone else, as if she wasn’t comfortable sharing her feelings so candidly. But then she spoke about how she like walking with me after football games in Austin as we wandered the dusky streets from the stadium back to our car.

I hated for all of this to end. It never lasts and you have to savor it in the moment, appreciate at that very moment like when you are standing before a great work of art in a museum you know you may never visit again. However, these memories are like leaves that press in the pages of a book. You can go back and visit them and experience some of the lingering magic.

A Christmas story

Christmas stories are much like the day itself – filled with magic and possibility but ultimately a little disappointing. As a child you wait the whole year for that day and as it inches closer, you anticipation rises until you feel like you will burst by Christmas Eve. Then on Christmas Day, there’s that feeling of … well, not emptiness, but more “Is that it?”

Most Christmas stories are the same way. Unlike old George Bailey or Ebenezer Scrooge, most of us don’t experience a Christmas epiphany that leaves us glad to be alive and thankful for our time.

However, there is one story I know that captures this.

I met Karl King at an SPJ meeting a month or so after I lost my job a few years ago. I meant to do some networking after speaking on this panel about dot-coms and electronic media or something like that. But I already knew most of the people there and none had any job leads, so I ended up talking to this old guy who wanted to talk about his book. He had some interesting stories – he went into the Marines at 14 back in 1939 and ended up in a Japanese POW camp. He went back to school after he retired from years as a broadcaster and earned his Bachelor’s degree in his sixties. I thought I might be able to put together a story about him and sell it, something to pass the time and make a few bucks.

I met Karl at a coffee shop about a week later and spoke with him for two or three hours. And there he told me this story.

He told me many stories about his POW days – surrendering on Corregidor and going for days without food or water, burying the dead who had rotted for days under the merciless sun, beatings, malaria and living in the dark, hot hold of a freighter steaming from the Phillipines to Japan. However, when I asked him if he held any bitterness toward the Japanese about the way he was treated, he said no. Here’s why:

“A Japanese civilian. Mr. Miamoto, that I had worked under on several occasions, motioned for me to follow him. He led me to a corner of the shop behind some boxes. The little man had straight black hair and small moustache. His demeanor and body language reminded me of Charlie Chaplin without a cane. Squatting down on his haunches he wrote a little message using a piece of chalk. “12-24-42,” he wrote. Then he drew a Christian cross and box with a ribbon bow on top. With sign language and pointing to his writing on the shop floor, he had me understand that he was aware of our custom of giving a gift a Christmas time. With that, he produced a small paper sack and pressed into my hands his Christmas gift. It was a sack with about a teaspoon full of sugar. Mr. Miamoto indicated to me that I didn’t have to give anything in return. Back at camp that evening I heard several POWs recounting similar experiences, receiving gifts from cigarettes to candy. I later learned that Mr. Miamoto’s gift was his entire December ration of sugar.”

Karl explained that when people ask him if he was bitter because of the way he was treated by the Japanese, he would say no. He knew groups are capable of terrible things, but individuals like Mr. Miamoto were capable of great kindness.

Karl’s lack of bitterness is humbling. I’ve known people who have suffered far less and nurtured their anger and resentment far more. But not Karl. Instead he quotes Emerson’s essay on self-reliance. He doesn’t look at his life in terms of bad things that have happened to him, but instead in terms of his own strength and determination to overcome adversity. That is what I take from this Christmas story: many times you get what you are looking for out of life. We should all have the courage to find the joy and happiness in this word.

Merry Christmas.