On cripple rage and euthanasia

I am blessed. I am loved. I am happy.

But there are times in my mostly charmed life when a succession of events brought on by my paraplegia annoy me, then frustrate me, then anger me, then send me to the brink of despair. Maybe it's my feet swelling to the point I can barely tie my shoes. Maybe it's throwing myself from my bed to my wheelchair ... and missing. Maybe it's sending my chair to the shop for repairs for the third time in a year and wondering what in the world I'm doing wrong.

Whatever the causes, I'm lowered into something I've come to call "cripple rage." I despise it, because it involves my alternating between feeling sorry for myself and lashing out at those I love most and who love me unconditionally. Fortunately, these episodes never last long, and those who know me best understand if I tell them it's just cripple rage, that it wasn't me -- at least not the real me. And then, I'll have a moment like this, and I'll remember how blessed I truly am.

Here's the thing: as I grow older, I find my cripple rage striking a bit more frequently. I can sense that, even though it's happening at a glacial pace, I'm losing my fiercely held independence. It slips no more than a nanometer every day, to be sure. And not every day, at that. But it's happening. And every once in a while, I fear the time when my disability and my age combine to truly debilitate me. Will I still have the happy-go-lucky glint in my eyes that has forever defined me? Will I be a burden on those who have loved me and stood by me?

And then, abruptly, I am brought to face to face with my feelings on euthanasia. I have always been strongly opposed to it. As someone who has fought all my life to suck every bit of the marrow out of life , I could not fathom voluntarily ending it. I have viewed "death with dignity" as a cop-out. I have felt that if one had the right to end one's life because of physical suffering, why not have the freedom to end it because of emotional pain? In short, I thought suicide was suicide and tantamount to throwing the gift of life back into the face of the Creator.

("Oh crap," you're thinking. "Why doesn't he say something funny? This is awkward.")

So now, maybe you see where I'm going with this. Maybe my own encroaching mortality and the unique difficulties it could eventually pose have caused me to "review the situation," as Fagin sang. At the very least, I am admonished anew to have compassion toward those who feel differently than I on touchstones such as this.

Above all, my dear, dear ones, I want you not to worry. Even if it does happen a little more often than it once did, my cripple rage still only represents a tiny fraction of what is a beautiful life. And being able to talk about it openly, knowing my friends who read this will smile and nod sympathetically, only makes my blessed life even richer.

I had a dream. I had an awesome dream.

It is perhaps fitting that the night I renewed my commitment to writing, I had a fabulously detailed dream. In it, Adam Savage and Jamie Hyneman, TV’s “Mythbusters,” approached with the news they had developed a part-hovercraft, part-airboat specially designed to be wheelchair accessible. They added they wanted to film me and a group of my friends taking a water caravan of sorts down a river.

I assembled a group comprised of a great many “dream friends” – plus two actual friends (Ralph Shank and Emilie Pearl) to make the journey with me. I couldn’t tell you what the river was, but I know it was muddy and contained several stretches of rapids.

Though my craft was wheelchair accessible, my next memory is of sitting in it without my wheelchair … feeling an extraordinary sense of freedom as I drifted, then surged, down the river – always with my friends, and Adam and Jamie, beaming nearby. Then, it started to rain.

By this time, I was a drenched, muddy mess already, so the onset of showers didn’t dampen my mood. Quite the contrary: I opened my mouth and started to belt out Phil Collins’s “I Wish It Would Rain Down.” And my sailing companions sang the choral parts alongside me. And in that instant, I knew that, as the entire trip was being filmed, a video of my performance placed over the original instrumental track would soon appear on YouTube.

As I mentioned, the prevailing emotion I felt through the course of the dream was liberation. It was the perfect antidote for the funk I had been feeling for the day or so before (which I’ll write about soon). And is the case with all good dreams, it takes on an even more epic quality when remembered and shared.

Whatever happened to blogging?

Once upon a time, there was this thing called a blog.

Although still practiced by some of the more dedicated and better paid citizen journalists, blogging is, for many, a discarded literary form that could be spoken of in the same breath as the Smith Corona. There’s nothing inherently wrong with the medium, but at just about the time the popularity of the blog peaked, a new form of expression came along which even more perfectly captured the zeitgeist of self-expression.

The microblog.

With the emergence of Twitter and Facebook, millions learned that they could say everything they wanted to say in 140 characters or less, In fact, fashioning a pithy turn of phrase that was so much cyber snack food became an art form in itself. And it is still skillfully practiced by many today (and not so skillfully by millions more).

I, too, fell under the spell of the hipness that was Twitter and Facebook. And so it was that, about three years ago, my blogstream dried up into a trickle, and then silence. That is a piteous fate which, thankfully, I can reverse. So I’m taking my blog, Graduate Level Sykesology, out of mothballs and putting it back on the road (to horribly mash up two dusty metaphors). Why?

I miss long-form writing. Or at least longer than 140 characters. I have found that, even though I enjoy writing immensely, I am less and less inclined to do it when I’m off the clock. But a blog can be of some assistance here, by installing a layer of accountability. There is a sense that “I owe it to my readers to write faithfully!”

Now, I’m not kidding myself. There are a handful of human beings who have ever read Graduate Level Sykesology. The only person I have currently listed as a follower passed away six months ago, God rest her soul. There is not exactly a clamor for the continued essays of Stephen Sykes.

However, the chance that rebooting this blog brings with it the possibility of renewed and greater readership carries with it a responsibility, and a darn good reason to write again with regularity. And if I satisfy myself alone by filling a screen with more than insurance-speak, well that is one more person satisfied than if I left well enough alone.

I hope you, whoever you may be, enjoy this blog. I will post links to it on Twitter and Facebook. And if you crave more bite-sized musings, you may also follow me at twitter.com/drastrozoom.

Thanks for reading.

What I didn't do this summer

Gather ‘round, children, and I will share with you a cautionary tale of the dangers of pride, unbounded optimism and an overdeveloped sense of ethics.

As those of you who have stuck with the blog from the beginning know, March is the traditional time I and other Springfield theater types typically engage in the ritual of The Muni Audition. Earlier this year, I had pretty much made up my mind to audition for a season of shows which included plenty of good, wheelchair-accessible roles.

As March approached, however, I felt an odd complacency creeping in. I couldn’t get excited about a Muni audition; in fact, I couldn’t get excited about auditioning at all. I mention this because the other audition opportunity that had appeared on the horizon was a cattle call in Chicago for “America’s Got Talent.”

Ever since this reality show debuted two summers ago, Mrs. Z has urged me to audition. And it did seem to offer a unique opportunity to someone like me who has a decent amount of singing talent but some marketability challenges (to wit, my age and my disability). But, as I have mentioned, I really wasn’t feeling like auditioning at all when the calendar flipped. Nevertheless, I took the first step toward an “America’s Got Talent” audition by filling out an online form.

Fast forward to two weekends ago, when I received an e-mail invitation to the 3-6 p.m. March 17 audition session. For some reason, getting this invite brought back a measure of audition excitement. But now, I had (I thought) a dilemma. In order to make the A.G.T. audition, I would have to leave Springfield for Chicago on March 16, thus missing Muni’s callback day. Furthermore, there was the possibility that if I were cast in a Muni show and chosen for A.G.T., I might have to drop the Muni show – something I really didn’t want to do, as I try to avoid dropping show at all costs.

For those of you slapping your heads and saying, “Man, did you outthink yourself,” you are most definitely right. And for those saying, “My don’t we have a high opinion of ourself,” you are correct as well. For me to assume both the Muni and A.G.T. would be clamoring for my services was, at best, ridiculously optimistic and, at worst, laughably egotistical. Nevertheless, I had convinced myself I had to make a choice, and I did.

So it was with wide eyes and an eager heart I loaded into the car with Mrs. Z and Mama Z bound for the A.G.T. cattle call at Navy Pier in Chicago.

First, the cool stuff. We stayed at the fabulous Hard Rock Hotel Chicago. This is a shot of its lobby.

This is the view getting out of the elevator on our floor.

This is one side of a hallway in our room.

And this is the other.

These cell phone pictures do it no justice, but it was the most spectacular hotel room in which I have ever stayed. And the bed … my, my, my … such luxurious comfort.

Between the hotel, a couple of wonderful meals and the enjoyable company (!) of my mother, the trip was already a success. And it’s a good thing, because the audition was not to be.

We arrived at Navy Pier at approximately 1 p.m. After running all through the audition site and being redirected several times by some not-so-helpful audition staff, we finally found the initial registration line, in which we waited for about a half hour before I was photographed and processed. Then, it was into a giant holding area (the Lakeview Terrace, for anyone who’s ever been to Navy Pier) with what I reckon were about 200 other auditioners. Keep in mind this was for one three-hour block, and the auditions ran from 7 a.m. to 9 p.m. for two days.

Audition numbers (I was #731999) were called in groups of 10 for an initial screening. Once my group was called, I were led into a hallway that housed about six audition rooms, which all had auditions running in concurrent 15-minute blocks. Once auditioners entered the room, they introduced themselves one at a time, sang 90 seconds of a song a capella and fell back into line.

Considering we were surrounded by noisy auditions on either side, grabbing a pitch was a challenge, but when my turn came, I belted out the highlights of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” in what I thought was a decent fashion. Once our group was finished, the two twentysomething staff members had us wait outside, where we would presently find out whether we had made it to the next step – an actual videotaped audition for the senior production staff. (Those who passed this step would advance to a recording of the actual first televised round of auditions.)

Within about 30 seconds, the audition herder came out and told the first auditioner (who had driven to Chicago from Arkansas to perform a serviceable rendition of Travis Tritt’s “I Smell T-R-O-U-B-L-E” ) to go back inside. She informed the rest of us that the two twentysomethings were passing on the rest of us. We barely had time to absorb this news before the Travis Tritt wannabe emerged – also a reject.

We subsequently found out that the rate of people making it past this initial screening was roughly 12 in 800. Long odds, indeed.

Immediately, Mrs. And Mama Z went into damage control, but truthfully, I wasn’t close to crushed. I had survived my first (and last?) true cattle call audition, and it had been a fascinating experience. If anything, I was ruing my folly at throwing all my proverbial eggs in one proverbial basket. There would have been absolutely nothing wrong with my auditioning for both the Muni and A.G.T., and who knows what the results may have been.

That said, it was a wonderful trip. I’ve found a new favorite hotel, and we enjoyed some fantastic food (including this charming little Midwestern chain we’d never been to before).

Perhaps nicest of all, I’ve ensured a spring and summer of free nights. And with Mrs. Z having been on the road so much this winter and with two more heavy months of toil on the road in store, that time together will be priceless.

Gratitude is my anti-drug

I had a sweetheart of a “railing against society” post ready to roll — and I still will be rolling it out in the next few days. But a funny thing happened on the way to the righteous indignation entry.

I had the occasion to thank two people today. Each deserved special thanks: my boss, who was instrumental in my getting promoted to a new position in which she will, sadly, no longer be my boss; and a co-worker who helped me pack my desk as our entire division moved back into the main building across the street. Verbal kudos didn’t seem to cut it, so I bought each a thank-you card on my lunch hour.

As I headed back to the office, I had a curious rush. I was incredibly excited at the prospect of brightening both ladies’ days. It occurred to me that I needed to find more reasons to thank people.

There is a totally unique feel-good vibe to sincerely thanking someone. More often than not, it catches people by surprise, and there’s something deliriously gratifying about ambushing someone with unexpected appreciation. It causes a smile in them that can’t be elicited any other way.

Beyond the selfish motivation of the gratitude rush, there’s another reason thanking people is more important now than ever. We live in a troubled world filled with troubled people. So many around us have psyches on the brink of shattering. At the risk of being overly dramatic, feeding someone’s soul with a well-timed thank-you could literally save lives. Of course, you’ll never know.

But you’ll still get That Smile.

Skipping past work on a snowy evening

My deepest apologies to Robert Frost.

We're expected to get 5 to 8 inches of snow tonight, so I decided to beat the worst of the accumulation by taking off work early. That plus my flex day off tomorrow will allow me to hide from the white stuff until Sunday.

It is my purest intention to do some quality blogging in the next few days. But tonight, the world must cease its revolutions until the shock waves from the fourth season premiere of Lost have subsided.

Talk to you tomorrow.

Nothing to see here ... not for a while, anyway

So I'm reading MSNBC.com's Cosmic Log today when I come across this bit of news:

A colossal cloud of gas is racing toward a collision with our galaxy, and when it hits, the crash could trigger an intense burst of star formation.

Now, this is really cool. Obviously, it's not going to happen anytime soon, or else the world would be in chaos. But I am interested to hear when exactly the galactic shit is due to hit the fan, so I read on:

The collision and stellar light show will occur in 20 million to 40 million years, an astronomer announced today at a meeting of the American Astronomical Society.

What?!? 20 to 40 million years? That's just too much to wrap my brain around. Why are astronomers even telling us this stuff? I have trouble getting worked up over climate change that could doom us by 2050, much less devastation that isn't due for 20 to 40 million years!

Turns out there's not even going to be any devastation then.

See that? The gas clous is headed for the other side of our galaxy! So the most that's going to happen is a little bit of a fireworks show. But don't get excited, humanity, because it's not even happening for another 20 to 40 million years!

Talk about a slow news day.

Well, hello there. My, it's been a long, long time.

The obvious question – particularly to those who only know me through this blog, and I imagine that may be one or two of you – is where the hell have I been?

Just to give you a recap, since the date of my last post, I've been in the hospital, gotten out of the hospital, quit smoking, been diagnosed with diabetes, started a diet, added three medicines to my daily routine, gotten a new computer, started an additional blog, stepped up my freelance writing, shaved my goatee and grown a full beard.

Now that that's out of the way, let's get back to the business of the blog: stream-of-consciousness ramblings presented in what I hope is a palatable style.

As the presidential campaign starts to ramp up in earnest, I must ask why the news networks seem so anxious for it to be over. In the days leading up to the start of primary season, the theme of Hillary Clinton's candidacy throughout the media was inevitability. Then came Iowa, and the Clinton bandwagon was hastily papered over with the beaming junior senator from Illinois who was presented breathlessly to America as the second coming of RFK and MLK all rolled up in one. Suddenly, Hillary was one loss away from being eliminated from the race altogether.

Then came New Hampshire.

Now, the networks are grudgingly admitting nothing is decided, though one almost gets the sense they're desperate to paint this as a tipping point for a return to dominance for the Clinton campaign. I just don't understand why there's such a reluctance to embrace a wide-open free-for-all. And for those who counter the media is happy to tout the unpredictability of the Republican race: that doesn't count, seeing as how the GOP is the National Football Conference of the political world right now. (No one knows who'll win, but it doesn't matter, as they seemingly don't have a chance in November.)

One more thing on political coverage, and then I'll let us all catch our collective breath. I know it would eliminate half the TV news content, but could we please ban interviews with campaign representatives and party officials? We know what they're going to say! These intersnooze ... err ... interviews just ends up being boring, free commercials.

Broadening my blogizons

Ok, so I decided not to change the format of this blog, but to open up another one instead. It's called "The Perfect Headline," and I already have a healthy number of posts. So check it out!

The premise: some headlines are so great, you don't want to read the story because it will wreck the image that has formed in your head.

I'll get back to regular bloggy goodness here soon.

Hello! Where have I been?

I thought my blogging output would increase when I finally had a PC at home. Unfortunately, the opposite has been the case. I have several legitimate excuses: longer work hours, busier after-work schedule, spending my after-work wiritng time on actual paying gigs, etc. But that's not fair to you, my loyal reader(s).

So here's what we're going to do. At least for the immediate feature, we're undergoing a format change here at GLS. Details to follow.

I am sick of this namby-pamby world

Yes, it's been three months since I posted. I haven't been particularly inspired to foist my opinions on the world -- mainly because I haven't had any really strong ones. But boy, am I coming back swinging.

It seems a newspaper reporter has been chastened and compelled to apologize for comments he made on a sports talk show regarding Michael Vick. Here's a snippet of the Associated Press article on it.

PITTSBURGH (AP) -- A newspaper reporter who said Atlanta Falcons quarterback Michael Vick would have been "better off raping a woman" than being charged with dogfighting has apologized and will no longer appear on the local sports panel TV show where he made the remark. Pittsburgh Post-Gazette reporter Paul Zeise made the comments Sunday night on the Sports Showdown show on KDKA-TV, a CBS affiliate. He was disagreeing with another panelist who said NFL commissioner Roger Goodell should suspend Vick for the rest of the season because he was indicted on federal dogfighting charges July 17. "It's really a sad day in this country when somehow ... Michael Vick would have been better off raping a woman if you look at the outcry of what happened," Zeise said. "Had he done that, he probably would have been suspended for four games and he'd be back on the field. But because this has become a political issue, all of a sudden the commissioner has lost his stomach for it."

***

"I regret the poor choice of analogies I used to characterize a professional athlete's legal situation," Zeise said. KDKA apologized on its Monday newscasts and said Zeise, one of a group of rotating panelists on the show, will not be invited back. Zeise's "insensitive and offensive" remarks "do not represent the view of the Post-Gazette," the newspaper said in a statement Monday.

Insensitive? Offensive? How, exactly? I mean, is there anyone out there so monumentally thick-headed he or she actually thinks Zeise was saying raping a woman is a good thing? Is that whose sensibilities we are looking to protect? I'm not even convinced that's the angle, but I'll be damned if I can figure out exactly what else it could be.

I want to live in a world where analogies and hyperbole are permitted. I want to live in a world where an unpopular opinion can be voiced without its originator fearing for his or her job.

I know freedom of speech doesn't apply in this situation. How about the freedom to have an adult discussion? Maybe it's worse for me because I'm a writer, but I'm almost physically ill right now.

'Concentrate on the moment'

Hmmmm ... it's been a while, hasn't it? Let's eas back into this blogging thing.

Mueller’s 'slash and burn' could make Dolphins more productive

If you're not a Dolphin fan, you may want to stop reading. But I am, and today was a rather significant day for the franchise. (Please note: the following essay assumes the reported release of Randy McMichael is a done deal.

***

First it was Jeno James, Kevin Carter, Seth McKinney and Kevin Vickerson. Then it was Damian McIntosh and Sammy Morris. Now, the list of ex-Dolphins has expanded to include tight end Randy McMichael, wide receiver Wes Welker and quarterback Joey Harrington.

“The woods are burning,” as Willy Loman said so famously, and many Dolphin fans are smelling the smoke and pulling the nearest alarm. My first thought was to envision General Manager Randy Mueller as a reincarnated William Tecumseh Sherman, the Civil War general who burned everything in sight as he marched to the ocean. But the more research I’ve done, the more Mueller’s approach reminds me of the agricultural technique known as “slash and burn.” More on that in a moment.

First of all, let me say how good it feels to write about a general manager calling the shots for the Dolphins — and not a hybrid general manager/coach so desperate to prove he does one job well that he completely screws up the other. That’s not to say first-year Head Coach Cam Cameron won’t have some input in personnel, but his main job is to design an offense that will score points, and it is Mueller’s job to get him the components that fit that design.

Now, back to this business of slashing and burning. The idea (and this is grossly oversimplifying things) is to take old crops, bind them together, let them dry out, then burn them — thereby enriching the soil for more productive future crops. In fact, the very chemical nature of the solid changes as a result.

And this is what the Dolphins front office is trying to do: change the very chemistry of the team. Goodness knows the current team composition has only resulted in disappointment. And so, the offseason started with the somewhat expected and (mostly uncontroversial) releases of James, McKinney, Carter and Vickerson. Then, McIntosh and Morris got their walking papers, and a few sets of eyebrows went up. This is principally because there are no apparent replacements for these players in the wings ready to take over.

Then today, all hell broke loose. After searching unsuccessfully for a trade partner, the Dolphins released McMichael. Then the team traded fan favorite and poster boy for overachievement Wes Welker go to the hated Patriots for a second and a seventh round pick in the same draft. Harrington's release, though expected, was no less significant in terms of financial savings.

That clicking sound you’re hearing is a sizable chunk of the Dolphin fan base repeatedly mashing the panic button. As is the case with McIntosh and Morris, it doesn’t help that there are no immediate replacements coming in the revolving door as McMichael and Welker head out. Well, you could count oft-injured Green Bay tight end David Martin and former Tennessee Volunteer standout Kelley Washington. (Martin has actually been signed; Washington has not, as of press time.) Or not.

Assuming both transactions occur, fans would have some right to cry foul. After all, even though the offense was stagnant last year, McMichael and Welker were two of the bright spots, right? Why get rid of two of the few players who actually produced?

Resurrection vs. recreation

The answer lies in what one has to assume is Mueller’s goal for the offense, if not the whole team. It is apparent the unit has gone from merely needing a few holes plugged to requiring a total overhaul. To make an analogy with just as many holes: a rusted-out Lamborghini that happens to have some perfectly fine performance tires is still no good. Even if you resurrected the current incarnation of the Dolphins offense to perfect health, it would not get the job done.

That’s because ever since Dan Marino’s retirement, the Dolphins offense has been constructed with the goal of holding on to the ball long enough to keep the defense fresh enough to eventually win games. That’s why Jay Fiedler at his best managed a game rather than leading the offense. Even the wildly popular Wes Welker is known for picking up key first downs, not scoring touchdowns.

But the times, they are a-changin’. As Cam Cameron said during his introductory press conference, “You got to score. That's the oldest principle in this game … That's the way it works.” Randy Mueller seems committed to building a new Dolphins offense in Cam Cameron’s image, and that involves a complete overhaul. That’s why players like McMichael and Welker may be more valuable to the Dolphins for the resources they can yield, not the developed weapons they are.

But that’s also where the slash-and-burn technique is problematic. In the agricultural world, it takes several seasons to evaluate how successful a slash-and-burn approach has been. Mueller and Cameron may not have several seasons. In today’s NFL, especially last year’s ridiculously atypical turnaround of the New Orleans Saints, building Rome in a day seems completely reasonable. And while such a quick turnaround is possible for the Dolphins, it seems unlikely. Thus, the weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth that goes up from South Florida as the woods burn.

I’m withholding judgment on the front office purge to see how the offseason plays out. I’ll admit once word broke as I wrote this column that McMichael would be released rather than traded, my optimism waned a bit. That said, it is still encouraging to see an aggressive course being charted. That the destination is obscured at the moment is troubling, but having offense as a priority is a refreshing change. Now, it’s just time to see what fresh crops are grown.

Don't you "sweetheart" me!

Sorry for my autobiographical constipation, dear readers. I'm about to let my vowels loose to try and make up for it.

First-up, as a public service, I present my "American Idol" Bottom-Line Recap for Feb. 20, 2007. It was the first Guys' Night Out, and it proceeded thusly:

Rudy Cardenas — Suck.
Brandon Rogers — Suck.
Sundance Head — Suck.
Paul Kim — Suckie suckie.
Chris Richardson — Suck.
Nick Pedro — Suck.
Blake Lewis — Cool.
Sanjaya Malakar — Suck.
Chris Sligh — Cool.
Jared Cotter — Suck.
AJ Tabaldo — Suck.
Phil Stacey — Cool.

What? Not meaty enough for you? I'm just keeping it real, dog. If you want more details on the singers, check out the deliciously snarky Average Jane or the "Wait Until I see a Whole Episode and THEN I'll Really Get Started" Sassy.

Actually, the most entertaining/uncomfortable moments of the night were provided by host Ryan Seacrest and embittered Brit Simon Cowell. After an evening in which Cowell was crankier than usual, Seacrest took him to task for his general grumpiness, to which Cowell responded, "I'm just trying to be honest, sweetheart."

“Don’t call me sweetheart. ... We don’t have that kind of relationship,” Seacrest said. “I don’t want that kind of relationship.”

“I don’t want that kind of relationship,” repeated Cowell, to which Seacrest replied: “Exactly. We’ll just work together, that’s fine with me.”

Eegads. If I didn't know better, I'd say Seacrest was auditioning for a murderous redneck in "The Laramie Project." But "Idol" noob that I am, I was informed the dueling duo are actually good friends in "real life." So it seems more likely this was just a good-natured queen-fight.

It's a good thing, too. I was halfway expecting one or the other to call in these guys for reinforcements.

***

In other news

I was able to roll through our alley without assistance today for the first time since the Great Snow of '07, which has been quickly followed by the Great Melt of '07. In fact, I was able to roll around with only a long-sleeved shirt this afternoon*, further evidence that when you mix Illinois's already-volatile weather with climatic change (nee "global warming) and shake well, you get Corn Belt End Times.

*In the spirit of full disclosure, I was in fact wearing pants along with my long-sleeved shirt.

Speaking of slush, I've discovered that my least productive window at work is from 1:30 to 3 p.m. It's like I'm stuck in cold gray stuff, and I have to rock my mind back and forth for about 90 minutes before rolling free of it.

A sure sign I'm getting old is that I've been spending more time on line playing Scrabble than surfing for porn. It's not just the gray creeping into my goatee that gives it away now.

Mrs. Z is on the road a lot these days selling class rings as a soldier in the Josten's army. She seems quite happy, and that makes The Good Doctor happy.

It also allows for White Castle (last night) and Jack in the Box (tonight) runs. Literally and figuratively.

It seems strange not to be banging our heads against a wall preparing a Muni audition. While it's a season that should sell well, there's absolutely nothing there for the missus or me, which gives us time to focus on our burgeoning TV watching:

• Grease: You're the One That I Want
• The Amazing Race: All-Star Edition
• Heroes
• 24
• Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip
• American Idol
• Jericho
• Lost
• Survivor: Fiji
• CSI

I'm not saying I'm turning into a couch potato, but that's only because I rarely sit on the couch.

Why is this man *not* smiling

I love watching politicians making fools of themselves.

Senator Joe Biden today showed why he is more renown for stealing others’ words than for the quality of his own because of comments he made to the New York Observer, in which he said Barack Obama: "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."

And this, on the day he announces his candidacy for president! Brilliant!

His spin jockey isn’t much smarter. "Clean is a synonym for fresh and new," Biden campaign spokesman said. "And if you look at the context of the quote it's obvious that's what he meant. And certainly anybody who knows Sen. Biden wouldn't question that."

Uh, no, Rasky. “Clean” doesn’t mean “new” or “fresh.” It would have been far easier to say "Obama is clean in the sense that he is -- to this point -- unbesmirched by scandal."

I’m not saying Joe Biden is racist. I’m saying he’s a stupid politician. Which is to say -- he’s a politician.

Hee hee.

The Good Son

Tonight, I am going to see this person in concert.



The reason for this is that my mother, whose birthday is in 13 days, is a huge fan of the aforementioned comic (in fact, I believe he is her favorite comedian), and I wanted to give her something nice for her birthday. So we will be dining and seeing the show together.

When you consider that my favorite comedian is this gentleman, my level of personal sacrifice becomes a bit clearer.


Of course, now that I’ve become a regular watcher of American Idol, I no longer have any justification in taking the cultural high ground. So tonight, we GIT-R-DONE.

*sigh*

My new crush

It's been awhile since I was this excited over a musical discovery. Ladies and gentlemen, Imogen Heap.



She's nominated for Best New Artist this year (though she hasn't a chance at winning, sadly). And she brings to the table a lot of my favorite musical elements (vocal harmony, synthesizer, thoughtful, lyrics, etc.)

I highly recommend checking out some of her work.

Who's a fat panda?

Ok, I promise you, dear readers that this is not turning into an all-pandas, all-the-time blog. But I had to chuckle at and share this item from MSNBC.com bemoaning the fate of poor Chuang Chuang.

It seems this male resident of Chiang Mai Zoo in northern Thailand has become, well, too fat to, well ... you know. Amusing alliteration aside, this has to be a demoralizing wake-up call to male pandas everywhere. No longer can you skate merely by being adorable; there comes a point at which your obesity kills your sex life, no matter how damn cute you are.

Chuang Chuang is going on a diet to remedy the problem. Let's hope other would-be panda playas out there take the hint. I'd hate to see this condition turn into a ... wait for it ... pandemic.

Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit!

Oh. My. God.

'24.'

Oh. My. God.

See link at right, fans. All others ... you can cope.

Panda-ering to my readers

This literally got me through the day. Enjoy.