Thunderdome

I've been to a lot of college football stadiums in my life. Not as many as some. But a lot more than the average woman without a tattoo on her butt.

Michigan. Illinois. Montana State. Virginia Tech. Hamilton. Even Johns Hopkins, which wouldn't have a football field if it weren't for their Division I Lacrosse Team.

I've been to the Rose Bowl under the cloudless climes of a perfect 70 degree New Year's Day. I've prayed to Touchdown Jesus from the cold, damp confines of Notre Dame Stadium many times. I watched an All America running back score on an amazing punt return at NU's Dyche Stadium [now $$$ Ryan $$$ Field], years before I met him, married his college roommate, and he became my younger daughter's godfather. I've stood at the symbol of the Secret Seven in the grassy knoll above the field at UVA. I watched Cornell beat Princeton in the Tigers' old stadium and saw Harvard beat them in their new one. I enthusiastically cheered "GO TO HELL CAROLINA!" at Duke, back when the Blue Devils used to win the ACC title.

But I have never been to a University of Texas football game in Texas Stadium. Holy Mother of Pearl.

The Longhorns played the Aggies last Thursday, a rivalry of Biblical proportion, second only to Cain, Abel, and Oklahoma.

On a day already noted for its excess, replete with a 26+ pound turkey and six different pies, Thanksgiving night at Texas Stadium was the ultimate in gridiron gluttony. From the size of the Godzillatron, the largest HD screen in the known universe, to the just-wholesome-enough-not-to-be pornographic Chaps Girls on the sidelines, Texas football is an explosion of burnt orange humanity, juiced to the max by the sound of their own noise, which ricochets nonstop for three and a half hours from one side of the stadium to the other.

In Austin, like the rest of the state, size is everything. The UT band is bigger than a Macy's parade with a bass drum so large they named it Big Bertha. A WWII sized cannon, aptly named Smokey, seems to BOOM for anything and everything. A kick off. A touchdown. A point after. A first down. A timeout. An itch.

Then there's BEVO XIV, introduced to the insatiable crowd with his own music video on the 'tron. He lounges, lizardlike, near the endzone -- 1100 pounds of primetime beef, sporting horns as wide as goalposts, chewing his cud like it was a wad of tobacco, probably stoned on tranquilizers. Even half asleep he is one lean, mean mascot machine.

There are cameras everywhere. Nothing is left to the imagination. Field cameras. Handheld cameras. Fancam cameras. Highwire cameras. If you saw it on the field, you'll see it replayed larger and louder than life on the big screen. When you don't know what to do, look up for High Def instructions the size of boulders.

Everyone stands. No one sits. You can't talk over the noise unless you scream. Sponsor names surround the stadium with all the subtlety of a three ring circus, glowing with backlight or neon. Halftime is a marching band extravaganza, drilled to finetuned precision perfection.

You want scoring, you get scoring. Texas scored against A & M early and often, effectively ending the game before halftime. But no one left their seats until the game was over and the final rendition of the UT fight song was sung.

The eyes of Texas are upon you. . .

Then at an appointed time, the stadium announcer gave the order and all eyes looked southward toward the campus to watch the top of the UT Tower become bathed in orange light, a beacon to the world that once again the Longhorns had won the game.

I'm still vibrating.

Tripping and Falling Down Memory Lane

Lately people are sending me pictures from the way back machine. Wa-a-a-a-y back. Thank you, I think. This generosity usually happens after they've seen me in person recently.

On reflection, I'm thinking maybe this is not a good sign. It feels like someone is offering me a Tic Tac because I have bad breath.

Here's one of the photos. It's yours truly with a friend's son, posing before we [me, his parents and siblings] all went to a gallery opening in LA -- in the late eighties or early nineties. He, the son, sent it to me after the birthday party mentioned in the previous entry. One could suppose that he thinks I looked better then than I do now. Let's see, it's almost been twenty years.

So, duh.

On the other hand, maybe -- nope, there is no "other hand" or anything close to a "maybe." I suppose I could post a picture from today for comparison. In my sweats. With no makeup. And a nice juicy coldsore trying to get a good grip on my upper lip.

Like that's going to happen.

Headbanging in LA

I just got back from a birthday party in LA. I left Chicago wearing long underwear, under a turtleneck, under a sweatshirt, under a polar fleece vest, all under a windbreaker. A pair of attractive flannel lined slacks with matching wool socks helped to complete my outfit. On the jetway in LA, I was gleefully peeling off clothes faster than a stripper in a sauna. Ah, the joys of wearing sandals in November.

A bunch of us flew in from the Chicago area to celebrate. I got in early last week so I could load up on sushi and imported Australian yogurt ahead of time. Because so many party-goers were from the Midwest, the birthday girl went old school with her cuisine the night the remaining Chicago contingent got there. She invited everyone over for pot roast with carrots, potatoes and gravy, a perfect menu, since raw fish is considered bait by a lot of Windy City types. I managed to polish off a good portion or two, topped with ice cream and a cookie for dessert.

The birthday party was held the next day at the swank Manhattan Beach Badminton Club in, of all places, Manhattan Beach. It sits in the middle of a neighborhood which wasn't there when the club was built in a big empty field sixty years ago. "Oh, look, everybody, there's a perfect place to put a huge building where we can play badminton."

Do you have a badminton club in your town? I think not. Bowling yes. Badminton, not so much. Only in California. The party girl has played well enough over the years to be ranked nationally at one time. She's also in the volleyball hall of fame. Biking. Hiking. Swimming. Softball. You name it. She's done it. Still works out at "the Nautilus" a couple of times a week.

The next day, after entertaining three houseguests, she wanted to come along to help set up for the party with the rest of us. But you don't have to; you're the birthday girl. She was coming anyway.

Unfortunately, after everybody loaded up and the car was about to leave for the venue, she got knocked on the head by her automatic garage door. This occurred as she pushed the button to close the door and run under it -- like everyone does -- but this time, this once, she didn't duck far enough.

Along with the consternation on the faces of those who witnessed the accident, there was a fair amount of blood gushing from a head wound and some serious damage to her party hairdo. Along with a reminder from her daughter, "I told you to stop doing that!!!"

Luckily there was a doctor in the group who kept pressure on the hole in her head and said she was still good to go. Not that something like a possible concussion would have kept her away. By party time, you couldn't tell she had been attacked by a rogue garage door. With the blood wiped off, her hair fluffed up quite nicely. No one would guess she almost landed in the emergency room as you watched her helping with the flowers and the tablecloths.

"Sit down, take it easy."

"No."

The party started at 4:30. Hors d'oeuvres. Dinner. Libations. Two birthday cakes. Every arriving guest got a picture taken with the party girl. Printed out and framed as a souvenir. A videocam captured well wishes from almost everyone.

We all sang Happy Birthday. Once for practice. Twice for the video. "You have to do it for the video!!" One of the little kids also sang Happy Birthday in Japanese.

The party ended around 9:00. And for the first time since she got there around 2:00, I saw the party girl finally sit down. With almost a hundred people to meet and greet, she was kept busy going from table to table saying hello to everyone.

Even at the end she was making sure everyone got a picture, had enough food, got enough cake, and took home some flowers.

Whew. That was some party.

Happy 90th birthday, Bertha.

SHOUT: To raise one's voice above room temperature

I'm a little freaked out. Wedding Crashers is on. I've never seen the movie before, because, to be honest, I'd rather have food poisoning. But it's on CBS tonight and I can't reach the remote, so in lieu of a real life and, while checking my email, I started watching it.

However, it's not the movie itself that got my freak on. Or Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn, who are pretty damn funny actually. And kinda cute in a far-too-young-for-me-anymore so-give-it-a-rest way.

Nope, I'm freaked because Owen and Vince are in the movie at a reception they've crashed, dancing with a hundred other people to SHOUT. Holy crap?!! to quote syndicated television icon, Frank Barone. SHOUT -- the national anthem of weddings, bar mitzvahs, frat parties, oldies stations, drunken sex, and kaoroke bars just before closing.

SHOUT was the soundtrack of my early college years.The soundtrack of my post college years. The soundtrack of the stain remover I used during my childraising years. The soundtrack of every Christmas party at every job I had. The soundtrack of summers on the beach. The actual soundtrack of the Animal House soundtrack.

That tune has had more lives than Regis Philbin. Here it is, November, 2008 and I'm hearing it again. Do the math. It's been forty-seven years. And tonight, for some reason, it's giving me flashbacks.

Fall of 1961, I'm twisting to SHOUT at a freshman college mixer in the Delta Tau Delta quad, when, suddenly, all eyes are looking way up at something behind me. I turn, mid-twist, and see my very first hairy arsed moon with full cheeks flapping out of somebody's dorm window.

You make me wanna SHOUT.

Spring of 1962, I'm twisting to SHOUT again because I have yet to realize that this tune is the only one I'm going to hear for the next forty years. Meanwhile, I'm out with a guy who ends up dating my roommate at the same time he's going out with me, then dumps me and marries her for 25 years.

You make me wanna SHOUT.

Summer of 1978. Animal House is at the local cinema in Rehobeth Beach, Delaware. I'm fresh off the divorce wagon with two kids and no job. My first pair of Nike waffle trainers is giving me shin splints, and I voluntarily pay two bucks to see the Isley Brothers preserved forever on celluloid along with John Belushi's acting.

You make me wanna SHOUT.

Sometime in the 90's. I am working at an ad agency. A creative director gives me an assignment to come up with ways to freshen the campaign for SHOUT stain remover. Clearly I'm being used as a test case for "bad karma."

You make me wanna SHOUT.

November, 2008. Despite all my efforts to never watch the Wedding Crashers, it manages to worm its way into my home, only to suddenly surprise me in a bad way with a bigass singing and dancing number to -- OH NO!!! SHOUT.

Has my life come full circle? Or is it just circling the drain?

This makes me wanna puke.

One forty year observation: nobody dances to SHOUT doing the twist anymore. Not because the twist isn't a perfectly acceptable dance at a middle class white high school reunion. But these days the movement of choice is performed by having all present stand together hip to hip, sweating profusely with arms raised, while jumping up and down higher and higher during the song, until someone falls and gets stomped to death.

I can hope, can't I?

I'm From The Government and I'm Here To Help

You know all those ads they keep running about how we're switching to digital transmission in February? How your analog TV will be toast unless you get a converter box or hook up to cable or a dish? How TV as you know it will be changed forever?

Speaking of change, I've noticed, after watching a few plasma screens, that the shift to digital simply means the actors will look much wider, although extremely colorful.

Meanwhile, in a magnanimous gesture that will ease the pain of making the switch, the same government that brought you the bailout is offering to send you a coupon toward the purchase of a converter box, should you happen to need one.

Sounds easy enough. But, in the back of my mind, I have always known there had to be a catch somewhere. There is.

One of my TV's is hooked to cable. The other one isn't. I used to say it wasn't hooked up because I like to move it around, but it's been sitting in my bedroom long enough to leave TV stains on top of my dresser. However, since I already have ugly coaxial cable poking out of the walls in three other locations, I decided just to opt for rabbit ears in my room.

For some reason, entirely out of character for me, I jumped on the conversion to digital bandwagon last spring, almost a year ahead of time. Since I could be the poster child for procrastination, it is astonishing, in retrospect, that I became one of the first in line to request a coupon for a converter box.

The envelope arrived a mere three weeks later. And it's been sitting here unopened, waiting for me to decide it was time, finally, to go get that box.

The procrastinator in me says it's only November. I've got until February to use the coupon.

I thought.

Big mistake.

Last week, I heard a commercial that ended with an ominous message, "Don't forget, your coupon is only good for 90 days." I literally stopped what I was doing and said, "Are you shitting me?"

Ninety days? Why only ninety days? My coupon is way over ninety days old. Why are they just telling us about this now? For what it's worth, I haven't heard that message since. But I should have known there would be a government gotcha for this.

I'm sure the FCC just assumed that when I got my envelope containing the coupon, I would be so thrilled, I would tear it open and dance around, waving it in the air like a dervish. After experiencing the overwhelming joy, I could sit down to read the fine print and discover the "Oh by the way" part: use it or lose it -- you've got ninety days.

From when? The date it was sent? The date it arrived? The date I decided to open it up?

But, I had no plans to open the envelope until I was ready to use it for my purchase. Which I kept putting off, because that's what I do.

I'm being way too logical here, which never makes sense when the government is involved, but shouldn't the coupon be good until the big day in February? At least?

Of course, once you get your box [with or without a coupon] you have to follow the instructions to hook it up. Haaaaaaa. On reflection I think this has all been a conspiracy to get people so stressed out that they kill someone, thereby improving the economy by lowering the number of hedge fund managers and, in the end, making the world a better place.

Would You Like Ze Zoup, Madame?

I did something I never do. In a lapse of judgment on the order of the Renee Zellwegger/Kenny Chesney nuptials, I ordered French onion soup for lunch. What was I thinking? I was at home standing over the sink?

With a grand flourish, the server set down a brown tureen the size of a gut bucket in front of me. Unlike easy soups, say Chicken n Stars or Bean with Bacon, French onion isn't considered authentic unless it's buried under a load of soggy bread and generously topped with a wad of cheese the size and consistency of elephant snot.

In that respect my serving did not disappoint.

Unfortunately, it took considerable effort just to break through the packyderm fromage, using every utensil I had available. I required both a knife and a fork to crack open the top snot layer only to hit the second tier of stringy slime underneath. Just imagine the taste thrill of finally reaching the soggy bread below. What a triumph!!!

My efforts had taken up so much time and energy that I was unable to contribute to the lively conversation around me, which stopped suddenly, just as I sent a final globule of cheesy effluence tumbling down the front of my shirt.

But now I could finally slurp, unencumbered, on the onions in the soup. Except I was getting tired by this time, so I just picked up the tureen and drank the rest.

On a happier note, McRibs are making their annual appearance on the McDonald's menu. For a mere $2.19, you can feast on a bun full of freshly pressed pork slathered in the world's drippiest barbecue sauce and topped with pickles and onions. Is there anything tastier from a drive thru?

I think not.

Six Degrees of Barack & Rahm, etc., etc.

I just realized that I am this close to knowing someone important. So close, and yet, so not close. 

For instance, what do Donald Rumsfeld and Rahm Emanuel have in common with me?

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Yes, we're all from the Chicago area. But one of us is a Republican; one is a Democrat. And I'm an agnostic. One is a WASPY swell; another is a first generation Jewish American by way of Israel. And my relatives still raise chickens and watermelons in southern Delaware. 

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Give up? We all went to the same high school. So did Ann Margret [who taught me the cheer for our school song] and Rock Hudson [who grew up around the corner]. You might want to keep track of these things. You know that actor Rainn what's-his-face on The Office? Graduated from my high school. Ashlee Simpson's husband? Him, too. But I digress.

Today I had lunch with a woman whose son was offered an internship at the White House if Rahm Emanuel went to Washington. Are you green with envy yet? My proximity to power simply boggles. Back in the day, my stepmother was friends with Rumsfeld's sister, don't you know. That's gotta be good for something. She also roomed with General Norman Swartzkopf's sister in college and called him "Normy."

Meanwhile, the current communications director at our collective high school is being inundated with requests for Rahm's high school yearbook. You know you've made it when the British tabloids are writing up your bio and come looking for those early photos.

The Emanuel boys were just featured on Charlie Rose [did I mention that Charlie was a year ahead of me at Duke?]. The Josh Lyman character on The West Wing was modeled after Rahm. His brother Ari, a talent agent, is the role model for Jeremy Piven's character on Entourage. [FYI: I knew Jeremy's dad, Byrne.] Rahm's other brother, Zeke, is a noted oncologist who writes essays on bioethics. Can you imagine what dinnertime was like growing up in that house?

Supremely unimpressed? Okay, here's my big finish -- I am not too many degrees away from Barack Obama, either. So there. Any guesses how close I am?

Tick tock. Tick tock.

Yeah, yeah, we're both Chicagoans. But that's not it. [Although, never underestimate the bond Chicagoans have with one another. For example, there is an enormous group of Chicagoans living in LA that get together and party every year. They drink Chicago beer and wash off the dust of earthquakes, the soot of fires and the gunk from mudslides. I think they even play some sixteen inch softball and have stuffed pizza airlifted in].

Better than just being fellow Chicagoans, Barack and I are also White Sox fans. Is that incredible or what? Turns out, I spent the first ten years of my life growing up in his neighborhood, just a few blocks from the Obamas' current polling place. The Hyde Park/Kenwood area is very liberal and very tight knit. It's anchored by the University of Chicago and remains one of the few stable, integrated neighborhoods in the city. My family moved to the northern suburbs anyway. Where they bleed Cubs blue. However, in Chicago your baseball allegiance is forever determined by the neighborhood where you were born -- tattooed indelibly on your soul, no matter where else you may move in the city.  

Am I connected or what? But wait, there's more, she continued, annoyingly. 

At one time Barack and Michelle both worked as attorneys at my grandfather's swank law firm, the bonds of which are often as sacred as initiation into a secret society. Or as long as you make partner. Later Michelle became a college dean and Barack taught constitutional law -- ta-da!! -- both at the same university my father attended. I can feel our DNA intertwining even as I type.

 
Okay, I've never actually met Rahm or Barack or Michelle. They sure as heck don't know me from a run of the mill stalker.

But in Chicago, when you share history from the same neighborhood, the same college, the same law firm, and even follow the same baseball team, you will greet each other like family. If you should ever meet. No, really, it could happen.  

Just in case, I'm picking out a dress for the inaugural ball. For those who are wondering, I'm thinking something understated, perhaps a simple polar fleece. 

Happy Veterans' Day to You-u-u-u-u, Happy Veterans' Day to YOU!

I was trying to figure out how to celebrate Veterans' Day today. After deciding against a parade [too rainy] and a 21-gun salute [too noisy] I briefly considered offering "aid and comfort" to the platoon of military men I've consorted with over the years. Despite my willingness to skip down memory lane, I realized my generosity would also require several exhumations, so I decided just to call up any survivors with my personal thank you.

Easier said than done. According to my Google searches, Bill was arrested for terrorist threats against his wife, so, apparently life after S.E.A.L. Team One hasn't been a bed of roses. Ever the optimist, I pressed on, only to discover that Peter ["Captain Midnight" in Vietnam, Marine I-Corps] punched out another lawyer in court, according to one account. Unfortunately, he's been disbarred. Think I'll pass. Sounds like Fred is putting his Green Beret training to good use and living a survivalist's life somewhere in Montana, according to his ex, who says his children haven't heard from him in years. Mike, who was a jet jockey on a carrier, retired as a two-star admiral, but I napalmed that relationship years ago, so I settled for reading about his latest career as a motivational speaker. My search was not going well.

Until I remembered someone I've known since we were in our early twenties. After graduating from college, he got a low number in the draft lottery. Seeing the handwriting on the wall, he enlisted in the Navy. After OCS he went to Vietnam to be a Sitting Duck, more commonly known as a Swift Boat Commander, driving tin cans up and down the Mekong Delta for Charlie to shoot at. He came back, began his career, got married, had kids, got divorced, the same stuff the rest of us do. Vietnam lay dormant for forty years. Then, two years ago, I was astonished to learn that he had won a Bronze star and several commendations. I believe our conversation went something like, "How come you never told me?" "You never asked."

Twice bullets left skidmarks as they whizzed by his head. Twice he could have flown home in a body bag.

Talking to other women, I've heard about decorated soldiers who haven't told their wives about the medals they've received. I used to think it was because they were humble heroes. But lately I think that they simply refuse to relive those moments of terror again, which would surely be required if they were to show us their hard earned hardware.

So I called up my forty year friend, who had originally returned from Vietnam intending to write a book about his experiences over there, but put the project aside, deciding to let the luxury of having a life to live distract him from recording the memories of some very unpleasant times.

The subject of Vietnam has almost never come up. In fact, I rarely remember that he was ever in Southeast Asia.

I have never told him how much his safe return meant to me. I have never told him how much I appreciate the simple act of being able to call him whenever I feel like it to have a laugh, hear a good story, or just chat about our children.

At nine thirty this morning I rang him up.

"Hiya. I was wondering who I could call to wish a Happy Veterans' Day. And I realized I could call YOU!. Everyone else is dead. So Happy Veterans' Day!!"

"Well, thank you. I've been sitting around in my uniform just waiting for someone to call." Mr. Comedy.

We chatted for a good fifteen minutes. About everything and nothing, like friends do. I never got around to thanking him for being in my life for the last forty years. I never told him how glad I am that he came home. How much I would have missed him. How sad I would have been.

Or how hard it is to tell him. Especially on days like today.

Thank you, my longtime friend.

Ten Minute Post

Already it's starting. The comments about Michelle Obama's dress the night of the big win. Luckily she wore a different one to the White House.

Now we hear about an additional $40,000 spent on Alaska's first dude's wardrobe. [Although some radio jock here pointed out that snowmobile stuff is expensive.]

Not to mention the confusion about whether Africa is a country or a continent -- a conundrum experienced by the Dude's education-challenged wifey-poo. [The story is still considered true; the source is the hoax.]

In the midst of all this I caught a glimpse of a Rolling Thunder drive by, while out on a search for food. They're the biker boys who traverse our country, creating awareness of old men on Harleys. All the streets feeding into the main road through my town were blocked by the cops as hundreds of these geezers rode by in one, excruciatingly long vroom-vroom parade, heading for Wisconsin. I estimate that it took ten minutes for all of them to pass.

I wonder if they voted absentee.

One second-to-last thought: Barack is more than just the first African American president to be elected. He's the first White Sox fan.

Last thought -- is it a good thing that Rahm Emanuel is called Rahm-bo by people who have worked for him?