2010 Winter Olympics Hand Guide

Smothered! I’m being smothered by the Winter Olympics. I don't need to be caught in an actual avalanche of cascading snow, instead I've been overwhelmed with imagery. The marketing saturation is complete.


Mission accomplished Madison Avenue. You've successfully followed the roadmap of the Tootsie Roll campaign and everywhere I look I see five intertwined rings and hear that “waiting room to hell” music provided by John Tesh.

I tried to resist these external forces and my intentions are always to stay out of it, but it’s just not possible. My house is infected with Olympic fever and I worry it could eat away at me like the locust do our trees on their scheduled path of destruction.

Unfortunately, I do have respect for what these athletes put into their preparation and the danger that many of the events hold. Unlike the Miss America pageant, I don’t feel comfortable wishing for someone to fall off the stage or trip on their evening gown for my personal amusement. People could die while propelling themselves down the face of a mountain, I get that.

Since I’m not an Olympic purest, I’m basically watching with a rooting interest in my home country. In the past I’ve tried to become better informed and learn something about the teams that might be interesting (Lithuania in 1994) to cheer for or taken a genealogical approach and cheer for the country of my ancestors. No matter the choice, both left me longing for the end of the games and normalcy to resume.

I’m too young to remember the true country rivalries between Germany and the World in the 40s or the US vs. USSR in the 80s. These were times where the Olympics were more than a game, but a commentary on the fundamental believes of a society.

In the absence of a true rivalry, I’m creating a cheat sheet for everyone who wants a little help when watching non-US games. My approach is borrowed from the uninformed March Madness Tournament pool participant that watches zero college games but thinks they can beat the system. My selection is based solely on ascetic profiling of their country’s flag and translating that idea onto their country as a whole.

Flags that Suck = Counties that Suck:

Japan—A country with a rich history of Samurai Warriors should have something more menacing than a flag that looks like a gunshot exit wound. Shame on you and your ancestors.

Libya- Come on Libya, this flag says “We're not really trying.” You put in the minimum effort. Since white is the flag of surrender, you pick green? Your lack of originality shows a lack of commitment, only to be displayed on the filed of play.

Palua- Your flag looks incomplete, like you were going for a nice sunshine against a clear blue sky or possible a happy face? This effort shows a lack of planning and focus. No gold medals for you, just sad faces.

St. Peirre and Miquelon- When your country has a name as pretentious as St. Peirre and Miquelon you don’t need to over do you flag with a picture of your boat, family crests and royal lineage. Come on StP & M, your better than that—less is more.  Even OchoCinco thinks this is a little over the top and you don't want to know what John Mayer said about you. Let your results speak for themselves.

Flags the Style = Countries with Style: 

Norfolk Island- I like the Norfolk flag. These people know who they are and are proud of their surroundings. The didn’t go with crazy color combinations, but stuck to their theme. Focus like this will be rewarded with a bronze medal.

Nepal – Here is a country that that represented their rocky landscape with an appropriate geometric shape, while also symbolizing their transition into a new day from the overbearing pricks known as the Chinese. I predict a silver in some kind of snow boarding event.

Guam- Guam has the greatest all around flag of all time. It’s clear, without being overstated “We’ve got paradise everyday of the year”. The medal count isn’t important, they are going home to the beach.

Isle of Man- This is the greatest Olympic flag I’ve ever seen and I am 100% behind the Isle of Man winning every freaking gold medal. To design and approve a national flags that’s motto could be “Busier than a three legged man in an ass whipping contest” shows really balls. Big national balls, the kind that must sound like cannons exploding when they walk (metaphorically of course…as if an actual collection of citizens or a geographic location could move). This flag’s so high on the style meter that it supersedes the annoying fact that the country sounds like a all male review in Vegas and could be interpreted as a dance troop.

Today I can say with pride—I AM A MEMBER OF THE ISLE of MAN

**You too can play the home game of Your Flag and Your Country Suck. Just visit Cia.gov (who provided these flags) and pick your own set of global losers. 

Relics

Like many old relics that gradually migrate to some seldom used corner of a room and begin to collect dust after their careers have expired, my alarm clock’s time has passed. Without an examination of necessity or a conscious upgrade to an alternative solution, its service was unceremoniously displaced by the slap-slap-slap of little feet smacking against hardwood floors.

My days steadily transitioned from extended stretches of time casually flowing from one activity to another, to a controlled timeline that rewards precision and structure. It’s ironic that a life so heavily dependent on exactness no longer requires the trusted instrument of time that served for so many years as a daily starting pistol.

As my memory reached back into a time of casual weekend mornings, I tried to regain a portion of my yesterdays by introducing the snooze button concept to my new alarm clock.

Very early one morning I heard a soft voice, “Daddy, Daddy, I’m awake” from approximately 2.5 inches in front of my nose.

I responded with a mostly audible, “Son, it’s still the middle of the night” trying to convey enough legitimacy that the statement could be plausible. To a 2 year old, dark equates to the middle of the night and without his ability to read a clock, I felt that my explanation was believable.

“But I need you” whimpered my little friend with enough truth that I was compelled to investigate the degree of “need” and fulfill my paternal duty.

I seem to recall my relationship with the snooze button being much less complicated.

The shift from automated to personalized wake up has provided a welcome side effect that even my Soothing Sounds of Zen alarm failed to do for my morning disposition. My new 41 inch alarm clock does more than shove me from one state of consciousness to another; instead ushering in the pace for my awaking.

My morning schedule now includes a daily appointment for Boy’s Club- a quiet time comprised of silent bonding on a comfortable couch or chair, while we enjoy a beverage and watch the sunrise over the distant tree line. The rules of Boy’s Club are simple and sacred: Keep the light, the distractions and the fussing to a minimum (a rule applicable to all members). This session lasts until all internal systems have a chance to activate and we are prepared to introduce additional stimulus into our day.

I’ve come to appreciate and look forward to the personal nature of this morning ritual. I just wish there was a setting on my new alarm clock prohibiting any notification before 5:30 am.

Scenes from a Kitchen

ID: I was thinking of submitting it in that writing contest.

EGO: You should, it’s good.

ID: I’m not sure they’ll get it.

EGO: They will... its fine.

ID: Is it fine or is it good? You said it was good.

EGO: It’s both, it’s very clean.

ID: Clean? Because I didn’t include elevator based humping jokes?
EGO: Precisely!

ID: They say that I have to submit it under humor or human interest.
EGO: What’s the difference?

ID: Humor brings out the HA-HA. Human Emotion evokes an emotional response.
EGO: Well, what do you think?

ID: I think it contains an ideal balance of philosophical funny.
EGO: I wouldn’t do humor.

ID: You don’t think it’s funny do you?
EGO: I think it’s clever.

ID: Well did it evoke a deep emotion reaction.
EGO: In what way?

ID: Did it make you question your own existence or role in the universe?
EGO: I thought it was very clever.

ID: This would be a lot easier if they had a category for wise ass.

Oh, good morning Mr. Tyler……

I am equal parts captivated and confused by the thought process of other people. It’s the week to week real life interactions that make me question “What the fuck are these people thinking”. At a recent conference, I encounter another example of dubious social norms that further confirmed reality is better than fiction.

Late one evening I joined an unfamiliar group of conference attendees at the 2^nd floor elevator bay, each of us awaiting our final carriage of the evening. Maybe it was the long day of back to back industry sessions, marginal food served in rows of chaffing dishes or too many draft beers at the mixer that made the wait seem extensive. As the small UP arrow activated and sounded a small audible “ding” the doors opened to reveal an half dressed couple who had found a way to send a bland day out with a bang. This was a first for me. Since there isn’t an iPhone app that provides the proper social response when you encounter a middle aged woman giving head in an elevator, so I had to play this by instinct.

As the breath was sucked out of the group, some turned away as the rest of us tried to process what was transpiring. As the couple glanced back at us with a mixture annoyance and impatience, an invisible 10 second clock started the count down for these doors to be closed. My mind started to race through the options available with the current situation and my desire to make it to the 14^th floor.

-          Does this couple have some expectation to privacy that trumps our need for publicly available transportation?

-          Is there some kind of man code that takes precedence in these situations?

-          Who, if anyone, bares the burden of embarrassment in this situation?

-          Who should try to make the other party feel at ease?

-          Was it overwhelming passion that dictated this current location or was this space selected because they are ok with public blow jobs? There seems to be room on the other side.

-          Do you think she would reconsider this hook up with the knowledge that he’s wearing knee high socks, now plainly visible with his pants around his ankles?

As the questions and seconds ticked through my head and without additional debate, my desire to make it to my room propelled me into the other side of the elevator. As I turned around to face the front of the elevator, per social dictum, I saw the shocked look on the 5 faces staring at me. It’s not as if I dropped my pants and got in line to be serviced next or smacked the guy on the ass with a kink to say “Nice work partner”.  I want to go to my room. I patiently waited for the elevator that these two chose for foreplay, so let’s all continue with our evenings.  

The ride up 12 floors was nothing to write to Penthouse Forum about. I tried to keep my eyes on the ascending numbers and no small talk took place. I did sense a degree of tension in the elevator, but isn’t there always a little awkwardness when 66% or a group have exposed genitals?  I’m not sure what the right thing to say would be and honestly my mind went blank as my inner wise-ass just soaked up the moment. As I made it back to my room and started to brush my teeth I kicked myself for not delivering a comment like “$10 for whoever gets off first”.

Who says passion in America is dead?

New Years Resolution

More like a delayed reaction resolution. Technically I guess it would be classified as a semi-resolved, loosely held objective, only to be accomplished with divine intervention or extended trips to remote places in Georgia.

What is it-- WRITE IN 2010.

If anyone was around for the 2008 Resolution I decided to slim down my areas of focus. Well last year, reading and investing were turned up and writing went to the wayside. This year, I’m going to lessen the investing (gambling driven) focus and try to find a creative center. As a side note, I did dump 99% of the talk radio and went to NPR or books on tape. I will say that was a positive turn in my psyche. 

Anyone want to take the over/under on April 1st? I’ve giving 3:2 odds.

Die You Little Bastards

One of my friends has cancer. I’m sure there is never a good time to get this news, but being young and having small children seems like the shittiest possible time to take this kind of challenge head on.

Anyways, I made the mistake of reading their update before I attempted to go to bed for the night, but only accomplished a mixture of cursing my pillow and making lists in my head.

The thing about a new disease is that sports metaphors surface as an analogy for the treatment. These metaphors might be needed to help us wrap our minds around an invisible “them” that only surfaces in test results or reports.

Since I have no medical knowledge and limited magical ability (none of which is applicable in this situation), I do have a suggestion that make the Man vs. Cancer easier to conceptualize….The Cancer needs a characterization. In sports, there is always a THEM.

In this case, since my friend is an OSU fan, I suggest that we call this cancer MICHIGAN. (I would call my cancer "Phil Collins" and I bet his wife would call her cancer "driving the speed limit")

Let the doctors use their fancy medical terms, we can show our support by saying:

“Hope you kick Michigan’s ass this week”

“Remember, only John Cooper let’s Michigan get him down”

“Yeah, Michigan does suck”

Again, I got nothing here of tangible value, just suggestions to kick around while your sitting in the hospital going through treatment. If there is any good news, this is not a great time for the state of Michigan or their famed football program. I guess if you have to fight Michigan, this is the time to do it. There is something to be said for good timing.

Since this is the extent of my contributions, I will just say “Good luck against Michigan this week!!!!”

Holy Shit

Do you ever have one of those moments where two separate and seemingly benign events merge in your head, creating a juxtaposition that makes the world a little bit clearer? I had one of these moments yesterday as an outcome of the most unlikely of daily chores--- a dirty diaper.
For those of you that are in the process of snacking and are members of the Too Much Bodily Information Society (my old crew), I’ll sanitize this version and only say that my boy Q had a blowout. For the most part, blowouts are not that uncommon of events, but they still leave me in a state of shock when they turn up. Being an old pro at this daddy gig, I do my fatherly chore of ½ cleaning and ½ calf roping with the minimal level of swearing, while mixing in my rendition of Elmo’s world.

As we returned to the living room, I found my corner of the couch and Q returned to playing with his “Life in the Manger- Baby Jesus Action Figure Set”. As my head tipped back and I watched my boys replicate battle between the Wise Men and some random Smurf figures (yes, we add a few new adoring figures to compliment the set) my mind was flooded with some new Christmas questions:

Did Baby Jesus have monster blowouts that made Joseph look to the heavens in bewilderment?

Since Jesus was born long before Pampers, what did they use as diapers in 0 HN and what long term damage did these occurrences’ cause?(Speaking of which, what is the proper calendar reference for the time Jesus had taking the human form? It’s no longer B.C and not yet A.D. In the absence of an answer, I’ll just call it HN- Here Now).

Was a monster blowout the origin for the phrase JESUS CHRIST!!!!!?
This expression is quickly followed by the question—What is your mother feeding you?

Did Jesus ever get in trouble at family gathering for horseplay (camel play?) with his cousin John the Baptist?

Was it impossible to get the family together for holiday gatherings since John’s family was Baptist and celebrated Christmas, while Jesus’ family was Jewish and observed Hanukah?

Did Jesus ever feel resentful that only got presents once a year- Birthday and Christmas on the same day? I think this might have been overshadowed by the fact that his biological father sent him to be beaten, dragged through street while being ridiculed and then nailed to a large wooden structure?

Did Mary ever have to have the following conversation when dealing with Jesus’ and his toddler siblings James or Jude?

"Push, Me” announces little James
“Who pushed you son? Asks his concerned mother.
“Jesus” replies a crying sibling.
“Jesus, what have I told you about doing unto others?”
“He took my sandal” Jesus explains.
“Come on son, you are the Prince of Peace. Stop shoving your brothers”

In retrospect, maybe these thoughts brought out more questions than revelations. I do feel a new bond with Joseph, as a member of some Dad’s Club. According to the tale, Jesus took the human form for his 33 years, so I guess the real moral to the story is that child rearing is difficult whether you are raising the Messiah or your own brood. In the end, everyone has to deal with some degree of Shit!

WHAT DID I MISS?

Where the Hell have you been?

Ok, Ok. I’ll admit that I’ve most likely violated some level of implied pact between writer and reader. In said relationship, I agree to write things that are humorous and in general don’t suck, while you dear reader are morally obligated to faithfully read each essay with a sense of amusement while withholding any comment about my many typographical errors.

Over the past few months I’ve frequently heard the question, “Why aren’t you writing?” This is a fair question and I’ve attempted to answer it myself. From time to time I’ve even found myself checking this site myself, hoping to see something new posted. I too feel a little twinge of disappointment when I have to see the same old Mother’s Day Card Post. (It doesn’t escape me that this is totally irrational behavior since I am the sole contributor to this site, yet it has happened multiple times). On the surface, I wasn’t writing anything fresh. But there was a deeper subconscious reason that I came to realize my lack of writing.

The real reason I haven’t been posting……….. I didn’t want to die!!!!!!!

I read an article a few months ago about technology Bloggers who were keeling over dead from the continuous stress of posting. Not from mainlining heroin or eating too much of that delicious port wine cheese spread….from blogging. I lay in bed at night wondering:

Can Blogs Kill?

I’d heard that Woodie’s guitar killed fascists and the pen was mightier than the sword, but were blogs a loaded gun pointed at a writers head? What have I gotten myself into?

As the winter weather broke into spring, I closed my laptop and decided to refill the place in my head where good writing originates. Since then, I’ve been spending my free time either reading and studying, trying to see things from a different perspective. For the first three quarters of my life, I’ve measured years on a rolling calendar of August to June. The few summer months in between were used to slow down and look around (sage advice borrowed from Mr. Ferris Bueller), take a swim and read about whatever interested me for that day. My calendar is now synced with Corporate America, which runs on a calendar of budget cycle to budget cycle without a break for individual discovery. This summer, I’m trying to relive that summer of investigation.

Then a few days ago, I heard a news report about an 108 year old blogger. Like the previous bloggers, she had also assumed room temperature. Making it to 108 made me wonder if blogging was the death sentence that I earlier suspected. Up to this point I’d never heard of Ms. Olive or her site. With no previous frame of reference I’m left to wonder if her long life was a by product of her dedicated blogging, her strong genetic constitution, or maybe the fact that she was writing geriatric erotica while maintaining a diet high in vegemite. Whatever her secret to a long life was, she made it to 108 and I began looking for the right time to revive the WhiteBoard.

Just as my search began for a sign, the universe complied.

For my money, there is no better spectator entertainment than human acts of vanity gone wrong…..well, other than police car chases broadcast live from a news helicopter.

My sole purpose for watching pageants, award shows or high school plays is to see someone trip and fall down. It is not that I wish life altering harm to anyone; I just want to see how they are going to react when the unexpected happens. I take full responsibility for this deviant joy and fully expect the karma of the universe to extract revenge at some point in my life. This is why I try to be very mindful of being in front of large groups. In my heart I know someone, somewhere is silently wishing “Fall, Fall, Fall”. Judge if you wish, but what is your reaction when you see this? (If you are using a reader, you have to visit the site for full effect)








I got you universe----I’m getting back to it.

OPEN NOTE TO HOLLYWOOD:

If there were some way to combine police chases and people falling, I would be hooked. I don’t think I’m the only one. I believe there is an untapped demographic of reality/trauma based viewer that is willing to invest more of their leisure time given the right opportunity. And by the way, if there is any way you could sprinkle in trivia questions or those little factoid bubbles from VH-1’s Pop Up Video, I might never leave the house again.

The Perfect Card

I'm always ready for a good quest. By quest I mean any expiditon that doesn't involve extended time (read--more than 15 mintues) inside a major retail establishment, require me to speak with more than 3 people in a 12 hour peroid of time, or any activity that might require shaving or a tie. Yeah, I love a good quest.

This week, I decided to put Hallmark’s reputation to the test and to see if they really did have a greeting card for any occasion. With Mother’s day around the corner, I was in search of the perfect card to say “ To my wife--in spite of it almost killing you (literally) twice, thanks for the two great boys and have a Happy Mother’s Day”. I figured there must be one or two card options with colorful, non-cartoon options, out there for just this type of circumstance.

As I was reading though the available cards, I was distracted by the message printed on a light coral green card displayed in the Mother’s Day Card section. “To My Dad’s Wife, Thanks for Making Dad so Happy”. It took a minute for my mind to digest this statement. I needed a minute to analyze the situation,“If it’s Dad’s wife, wouldn’t that be their Mom…ah, step-mom…oh, step-mom that is not highly regarded…ah ha, welcome to reality”.

I was then distracted by one of the boys or some shiny object inside the store, so I failed to look inside the card to see the rest of the greeting. Ever since then, I’ve been creating my own insert to the card. Here are a few of the possible options:

To My Dad’s Wife, Thanks for Making Dad so Happy…..

… I’m still not going to call you Mom.

… It’s still creepy that your 10 years younger than me.

… FYI, a bikini top is not acceptable to wear to a 5 year-old’s birthday party (did you notice the absence of a pool).

… But please stop telling people we look alike.

… Although I still think you are a gold digging bitch.

I never did find the card for my wife that I was looking for, so I instead opted to focus on a more traditional card to express my love while apologizing for wrecking cars. It’s always harder around the holidays to be on the fringe of the general population.

Happy Mother’s Day to everyone who played the role of human incubation machine.

Back and Refreshed??

I have a very clear memory of being 9 years old and wondering if I would always have to vacation with my parents or if I would someday take a trip on my own. At the age of 9, I had financial standing, no ability to venture beyond the limited distances available to my BMX, and no idea where the roads lead beyond my town. As I sat in our southbound van, I tried to understand how grown ups knew where to go, what to do, and questioned whether I would someday be able to travel independent of them.

As I grew older, I found a source of income and discovered where the roads lead…..to adulthood. I can officially say that I’ve completed my first vacation where I served as one of the “Adults”. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve traveled a lot since turning 18, but the trips were never as structured or choreographed as the family vacation, where I’m playing the role of the Dad. Trips to this point consisted of a duffle bag of random clothes, a search for a truck stop when hungry, and filling a day of napping, reading and drinking a beer or two. Oh, how the agenda has changed.

On this trip, I was able to spend quality time with the family and show the boys the ocean as I had planned. We were also able to see the sunset on the beach a few times and I witnessed my first shooting star while sitting outside watching the stars come on in the sky. My little Q slowly discovered that I was correct in my warning not to eat the sand, but not until he had his second handful. My objective of reading multiple books was reduced to my week long attempt to finish one Rolling Stone Magazine in between the coming and going of events.

Deep down, I wanted to use this hiatus as a time to listen to what the universe was trying to tell me. I was able to do this and the message that I heard was “NEVER BUY A MINI-VAN”. That’s right, the universe and some higher power is anti Mini-Vans. The great Mini-Van debate has been raging in our house for some time now. We decided to test drive the idea (see what I did there?) and see how family mobile would work while on vacation. Captaining the Mini-Vessel was OK up to the point that I crashed the damn thing while trying to make a right hand turn on Tampa’s illogical, non-liner street system. (Side note: Never utter the phrase “I’m the greatest driver ever”, because you too could end up getting a ticket within 12 minutes. The universe does have a since of humor).

The damage was limited to the front section of the bright red chick magnet, so a little glue + amateur car repair on the front light allowed us to drive the dream machine home. It’s looked like something out of “Pimp my Ride” in an alternate reality where masking tape is the new chrome. I guess if I’m truly listening to the Universe, it also doesn’t want me to own a Lexus—since that is what I hit.

As I drove home in the wee hours of the morning, the vacation turned into a weeklong blur of feedings, changing, baths, and the other normal events of life that don’t go away just because you are sleeping on someone else’s sheets. What stood out were the little moments of ice cream cone runs after dinner, sitting outside under a blanket in the dark, the phrase “there is sand on my toe” uttered 100 times by a little mouth, and the enduring knowledge that these car seats are headed for a Jeep.

It’s time to start resting for the next vacation.