No Sleep 'Til...The East Village? OR Please do not try this trip without proper supervision

Washington Square Park...fortunately pre-apocalypse (the yellow really makes me stand out).

Eight days in Washington for training...I didn't snap a single picture of the beauty of our nation's capital. Sixteen hours in New York City--Manhattan specifically--and I am a shutterbug.

Allow me to reset the story for those I have yet to bother to tell (because I am terrible with phone calls). I was enrolled with the SEC504 class in Washington, DC as a part of SANSFIRE. Six days of hard-core exploit training and tactics. It was good. I always appreciate the fact that I can get out of town and immerse myself in training and networking. As I have mentioned before, I work in a neat field of employment that never lacks in excitement and novelty. So, my last week was cool.

But sometimes, it's not about the sundae. It's about the whipped cream with the cherry on top. This dessert topping was one evil cherry and the whipped cream was produced by the devil himself.

Because DC was just not enough, we decided to venture to The City. When I mentioned 16 hours in New York City, I am being specific. It's not like The Lovely and I were awake for 16 hours that day and slept it off at a buddy's apartment in the Lower East Side. No-no! I mean, we were out of the DC area for 24 hours so we can hang out in NYC for 16 hours. Where's the other eight hours, you ask? It's called a train. And for a Texas kid like me we might as well have been traveling by unicorn because this was all foreign to me.

The arrival wasn't bad. Three and a half hours of legroom and townships buzzing by so fast your eyes had a difficult time refreshing the images (or maybe I was just sleepy and cranky due to the 0730 train on Saturday morning). I can now claim I have "seen" New Jersey. Not really sure how I can insert that into normal conversation. But technically, with help from a train, I saw Eastern Maryland, extreme Northern Delaware and Eastern New Jersey before parking it at Penn Station.

McSorley's Old Ale House--where they have both kinds of beer, light and dark ale.

We go topside. I have never seen The Lovely so percolated and geeked-out. It was like it was her Christmas morning, you know, if she believed in that kind of stuff. The smile got bigger when we were on 7th Ave and W 31st St. The hustle and exhaust of Gotham was finally a tangible description in my brain and my senses. I get why The Lovely missed this place the moment we took the correct turn away from Madison Square Garden. Sometimes you really, really, REALLY have to be there.

So, we set out. Go underground again to get to 14th Street via subway and we are back topside at Union Square Park. We were in search for Acme Bar and Grill, but alas it was "closed for renovations", which is code for "yeah, we didn't have the heart to tell you, so we are going to pussy-foot this one and sneak out in the dark of night". This would be one of three strikeouts The Lovely experienced while were were jogging through her old haunts (Mars Bar being the second, pictured below).

But not to worry, apparently this city doesn't have the three places. Reversing our trajectory, we hit McSorley's Old Ale House for a couple of half-pints and a sandwich. This place is so old (how old is it!) that Rutherford B. Hayes is still persona non grata for stiffing one of the bartenders (insert laughter here). Pretty cool for a reconstruction era joint to be still around and accepting credit cards.

Onward for more walking to Tompkins Square Park bordering on Alphabet City. We shifted once again back to 2nd Ave for some shade and a beverage at Demsey's. This is where my awareness of walking long distances and the similarities of long-distance running should (mind you, should) have kicked in. At that point, we may have logged 3-5 miles of walking, which is no big deal for native and acclimated New Yorkers. However, it still was nearly 100 degrees in The City. The formula should read:

Heat(Distance + Sweat(friction coefficient))Fatigue = Deterioration of Shorts.

Yeah, I should have "prepared" better than I did. More on that later.

Mars Bar--now closed, mainly because of general poor hygiene. Apparently slackers and goths are pissed.

Refreshed, we crossed Houston (HAUW-ston) Street to check out why Julian Casablancas sang a song about Ludlow Street. Confused, we double-backed to Houston now working our way through Bowery to the Puck Building. The Puck Building used to house Pratt Manhattan campus and was true stomping ground of The Lovely. We could not go without having a pint at her after-class/before-class bar. Pretty damn cool.

We whip in back up Lafayette Street and W 3rd Street to walk through the amoeba-like campus of NYU. It's like every other building has a purple flag on it. C'mon guys, Imperialism is over. Then through Washington Square Park we traveled. Remember that formula I just made up a couple of paragraphs ago? Yeah, my inner legs were burning through my boxers. If milk was a bad choice on a hot day, my lack of preparation for miles of walking on the same hot day was a worse choice. There's no way you can fake discomfort when you have to walk everywhere. So, I did what any other man in my position would do...I walked to the closest familiar bar with The Lovely and tried to gently "medicate" the pain.

The fun part was that we had a 6pm reservation for dinner and drinks with Goose and Emily...seven blocks away. I guess you could describe my gait as injured thoroughbred meets guy who looks like he needs to find a toilet as soon as possible. What can you do? We finished our beers at Reservoir and hiked it once again.

So, when you Google the phrase "Please Don't Tell NYC", you land on certain related entries pointing to the same thing. I don't feel comfortable talking about a speakeasy that we may or may not have had reservations for a booth. But if it's on Google, isn't the cat already out of the bag? That's like talking about Fight Club. Anyway, if you want to ask me about it offline, you may have to waterboard me because they said "please".

A badger wearing a bowtie. I'm not supposed to say where I'm at.

As the twosome became a foursome with Goose, Emily and The Lovely, then the tour was really on. The ladies, obviously New York veterans, we playing "Is This Bar Open?" while Goose and I were creating our own conspiracies. The evening run was on after the speakeasy as we hit Veselka Restaurant, Decibel, Big Bar and Tile Bar. The final six-hour blitz was damn-near epic. Sure, my wounded horse walk-step was damaging, but no one cares how you look or walk in large metropolitan areas, especially if you are not in their way.

Two AM came way too soon. And off we were catching a cab back to Penn Station. Limping, sweat encrusted and maybe a little drunk, we push forward back to DC. I can state that I know how a zombie feels and I would never want to be one. But three huge objectives were established: I got to see (a portion) of New York, I know what a train looks like and The Lovely got what she has been wanting for the last five years. As all married men know, when she's happy... No, that's silly. This blitz was for the both of us. We needed to experience The City. So we did. I wouldn't change a single minute. But we should sleep over next time.

Lessons Learned, my three things (DC to NY to DC edition).
1) Don't assume that the 0300 train from NYC to DC will be empty. It isn't. With all the sprawled bodies that have been passengers since Vermont at 9PM, a couple would be lucky to find two seats together.
2) I understand lots of famous people call New York home, but how is it that I could only cross paths with Todd Barry? Eh, I will take what I can get, even if The Lovely finds him "random".
3) I was fearing the smell of the hot old city but it was really not that bad. It can't be any worse than a hot younger city where people still don't pick up after their pets. I'm talking to you, Dallas!

As I try to get my head on straight from time zone changes, training and re-acclimation of 100-plus temperatures, I will try to focus for the new cert attempt before falling prey to yet another football season. I need a small victory before other smaller soul-crushing defeats. Talk later.

The Importance of Saying, "You're Fired"

Yup, it's time for that mid-summer stretch.

This might be the most insensitive post I have composed in a while with the poor timing of the title and the national economic woes reported last week. But I am going to allow it. It's really not about people getting fired because there is only a small percentage in the world that actually have the balls to say that.

The angle I am pointing to is more on the service economy that we currently live in. It's a consistent complaint from POTUS to the old crazy guy standing on the corner of Lane and Jackson. We don't make anything anymore, but we sure as hell can find someone to help you find it.

My primary exhibit in my case regards health care. No, no, I am not stirring that hornet's nest. I have had the worst bout of "what the hell is wrong with my left eye" for about...oh, a year and a half. It started with my first trip to Boston when my left eye flared into one of Kypton's red suns while our CIO was chatting up my team. And it hasn't let up. I went to my optometrist with lacking results. So, naturally, I bump it up to a specialists. My new GP gave me the recommendation and I moved on that data. Now, I should have been a bit skeptical because it was a doc only three floors below his office is one of these lovely North Texas medical super-centers where you can break your hip and have a stroke and get them fix in the same building.

Anywho, I am not going to release this ophthalmologist's name. If you want my personal evaluation, I can discuss this offline. So, I go in. I say I have a stye, some extra eye mucus build-up on and around my eye when I wake up and my left eye shifts from pink to red constantly. What I thought was temporarily odd was they went through a full eye exam. I didn't object because I was a new patient and I guess they needed a baseline. Okay, let's do that. But when I wrapped up with the exam and got to qualify time with the real doc (not the techs, which I will address other issues with shortly) and ask why is wrong with my eye, I get the following answer:

"I don't know."

I don't care if you are a horse doctor, hearing "I don't know" from anyone called "doctor" is not a very good answer. So, the doc gives me the exact same prescription as my optometrist. To me, on a definitional level, there is something very wrong with an ophthalmologist and an optometrist performing the exact same remedy. But whatever, this person is a professional and I will go with their recommendation.

A week and a half passed. I magically receive new contacts and get a follow up. Right eye: 20/20. Left eye: 20/fucked up. I have no idea what is going on because my stye wasn't addressed, I still wake up with build-in from Slimer of Ghostbusters fame and, now, I can't see clearly. In my year and a half the vision in my left eye deteriorated. Lovely. So, let's do another eye exam--because that's exactly why I came to the office in the first place???--and see what we see...again. Go figure my prescription would change because they used my glasses as a vision baseline as the baseline has obviously changed. To sum up, second trip to the doc: second different prescription, no solution for my red eye ("I think it's just irritated"), my stye or my gross eye extract.

Two and a half weeks pass. I receive my second set of contacts. Once again, epic fail. 20/20 on the right but the 20/25 on the left causes even more eye fatigue and irritation. Left eye is still red. Stye is still there. I have to wake up flaking off more grossness from my eyes. The doc offers one more solution: hard gas perm contacts. Well, those would be great if I didn't have eyes that were still changing. But I was desperate.

Fourth trip: this one was the kicker. For those blessed with 20/20 vision and that never have to deal with hard lenses, let me see if I can describe the sensation. Have you ever installed plexi-glass panels in preparation for a hockey game? Yeah, it's like that, but put the plexi-glass in your eye. And let that installation swim in your eye for 10-12 hours a day. Go figure my red left eye would turn florescent red. And yes, I still have the stye and I still wake up with garbage caking my eyelids and lashes.

But that wasn't the best part...the best part was when one of the techs gave me soft lens solution instead of hard lens lubricant drops. You work at an ophthalmologist! How the hell do you not know the difference. Throughout the repeated trips, the techs were either ignorant of the hardware, ignorant of the patient or stretched thin because they were the only two that knew what was going on in the place. I spent 90% of my time with the techs than the actual doctor-doctor. This is the same with most medical experiences since 1978. But damn, come on now!

Why am I beating up a doctor's office that is prominently featured in D Magazines Best Docs in Dallas (still not releasing the name)? Because. If I was a five year-old or stuck in college I would not have done what I did a couple of weeks ago. I fired that doctor.

As an adult, I have to remember that my choices are not only tempered by education and influence, but EXPERIENCE. If I had a poor experience at a restaurant, I have a rule that I give that place one more shot (with exceptions). Everything else, I have to man-up, go with what I know and make a decision. I almost forgot that in dealing with my fired doctor. If I am merely going by a CV or resume from a recommendation from another doctor, I would still be stuck in that cold waiting room looking at a Sports Illustrated from 2009 and ushered by some tech that might screw something big up the next time.

We have to remember this because we have this power in our daily lives. Don't like what you are reading? Fire them. Don't like the news you are watching? Fire them. Don't like how your representatives are representing you? Fire them (next time the chance comes around). Don't like the people you are associating yourself with? Fire them. And if someone doubles-back and takes it personally, then they need to grow up.

Just think if I had this power when I was twelve. No, don't think that. Because you can't fire people until you have the education, influence and experience to back up your choice. Simple as that. It was about time I fired this doc. Another couple of weeks, my left eye would have been mistaken for stigmata.

Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) Looks like the collective caught a big fish. I'm sure we will know all the details in about a month or so.
2) There is nothing wrong with the word "bum". Jesus, can we ease up on the PC for two seconds?
3) Doesn't matter how free is, there is always a cost involved.

As much as I would like to get back to the "NFL is dead" series, I have some much important work to do and some hard core playing to do as well. I smell back-to-back posts (that will be separated by two months, but I will try to be better than that). DC and NYC await. Film...when I get it. Talk later.

Wedding Blog, Pt. III - Houston, you are the problem

Sábado! Sábado! Sábado! Ver como una mujer se casa con un idiota! Este sábado!

And again, in my ongoing quest to somehow make the best night in a couple's lives all about me, I procrastinate to present part three of my four-part series on weddings and how they are ruining my social graces. As the two previous weddings completely understand, I unfairly compare the festivities and ceremony I was invited to the unfair disadvantage of my super-nuptials (because everyone wore capes). In the span of 14 days, I have tasted four cakes, witnessed two awkward kisses ordered by officiants and watched the Mavericks have a parade. Only one of the previous listed events I watched in my boxers. As this series is three-quarters done, I keep the same hypothesis that we as grown-ups do this to ourselves/we do/we and no one else/we do it to ourselves. So, moving forward from the demonstrative setup, let's have Kristi Garsee and Jeff Garner get married, shall we?

As two weeks ago where lack of planning and general disorganization was the order of the day, the Garner/Garsee affair was saturated in planning. Emails from three months out noting proper behavior at the church, itineraries broken down by quarter-hours and tuxedo fittings with alerts pointing to stragglers that have not yet been measured by a really gorgeous black woman...oh, wait, that last part only happened to me. Well...okay, then. So, I ask you, good readers of the blogging blog, is it better to be the freewheeling participant or the rigid clockwatcher, slave to the seating chart?

My answer to the rhetorical: they both suck. That's why variance is the spice of life...unless you are doing something that demands precision.

Speaking of precision, my timing was impeccable to where I totally missed the setup of the chapel. I didn't have to line up any of the 3000 chairs that faced the already-built arbor. I am seeing a disturbing trend that all weddings somehow have manual labor involved in them now. I thought you just showed up, the chairs were set, the Chuppah was built, the food was on the way and the bride and groom don't have to do a damn thing except choose to get a good night's rest. The only fair review time for this wedding would be the magical day in question. No day minus one activities for me. We (The Lovely and I) are there for the mission-critical day at hand.

Mira como estos hombres tratan de crear una foto divertida, sin hacerse daño. Este sábado!

As mentioned in part II, travel always seems to be a necessary evil to partake in weddings unless everyone you know and love is embedded in the same township. So, there's no real reason to complain about something that is inevitable...

...unless it's in Houston.

To carry the same torch of many Dallasites before me, I am going to bang on that city like a kettle drum. I. Hate. Houston. I know it's silly to throw out the word "hate" to a city that has a sub-par football franchise that has the same geographical construct as the metropolitan neighbor to the north. But damn-it-all, I can't stand that town. It consists of 95% roads. Traffic is the official city hobby. Their city flag features two cars bumper to bumper. They shut down AstroWorld because they needed another park and ride (that no one uses). Houston is not Houston unless you are going seven miles an hour on an interstate highway. I hate it.

I know it is completely unfair to judge a wedding based on the city where the event takes place, but Houston is just one big demerit. Besides, it's the point of this exercise is to bash all weddings other than mine. Try to keep up, folks.

After the longest 4 hour drive ever, we hit the hotel and take one big sigh of relief that Houston traffic was not our demise today. Not today, Houston traffic, not today. After a nice hour break of watching my nephew avoid me, it was time to gear up. What's the gear, you ask? Brown tux, pink vest and tie, brown cowboy boots.

Yeah, let's re-examine that. I understand the wedding colors were pink and brown. Okay. But they are real sticklers to the scheme. This concept is lost on me because we didn't have colors at my kickass wedding. Colors for the wedding seems like one of those details that could turn your average, easy-going, reasonable human being into a maniacal, blood-thirsty, hulk-like smashing machine with the strength of 12 evil monkeys.

But the kicker--pun intended--was the elusive chocolate brown cowboy boots. I haven't ridden a horse since I was in Costa Rica (where horses are pretty solid methods of transportation). Even then, I was in my Vibrams. So, cowboy boots aren't vital to my wardrobe. I have a pair of black, soft leather ropers just in case President Perry relinquishes the federal mandate. But now I have to find and purchase brown boots to match the tuxedo? One would not think it would be difficult to find a pair of brown boots in Dallas, but Dallas isn't Fort Worth (thank God or whatever entity separated the two). I would have had an easier time finding an illegal underground unicorn fighting ring. But I found some. They are pretty nice. If ever I could force the excuse to wear them, I think I can try to slip them on once in a while. But damn, I didn't put this much effort into my own wedding.

I will be honest...I have no earthly clue as to what is going on other than Houston gang signs.

So, there we were. Three hours early and suiting up for the event in what looked to be a day-care facility within the church. So, here come three photographers that looked like they just got out of a Yearbook layout meeting. "Okay guys, let's go outside." Eight guys in boots and tuxes...brown boots and tuxes...standing in crematorium heat. Blast furnace wouldn't begin to describe the absence of comfort. And I have to stand there in un-broken-in boots and "act like you are talking to each other"? I was talking to all of them before you kicked us out of the air conditioning.

I think what it all boils down to is comfort. Was I comfortable in my tuxedo? No. I am 35 pounds overweight wearing an effed-up cotton-poly blend that wasn't supposed to wrinkle in 102 degree heat. Was I comfortable in my boots. No? I felt like I was about to tip over with the stupid, stupid heels while I am waiting for my Palomino to whisk me away. Was I comfortable in the church? No. For some non-religious reason, they didn't believe in turning the thermostat down another five degrees. Hell, I would have pitched in for the electric bill for the month if that was the case. Was I comfortable at the dessert reception? No. Ceiling to floor panel windows had a western exposure and they had an espresso bar. Fighting heat with heat doesn't work for me.

But three things trumped the whole batch of discomfort. One, my family was there. It's kinda a kick to the pants when you realize you haven't seen your parents in over a year, but that is forgotten the first hug you get from Mama. Second, The Lovely was there. No matter how my feet ached or my sweat streamed or my temperament tested, she was there to catch me or back me up. Three, Jeffery looks genuinely happy. For the first time in a while, the smile is there, the spring of step is bouncing and the wit is sharp as ever. It's amazing how a person emits negative signals when he's down in the dumps. But when there is happiness, you can't keep a good man down. And I blame that on Kristi.

To the happy couple, Houston would have not stopped me from this wonderful occasion. I speak for The Lovely when I say the ceremony was gorgeous and the prettiest flower in the whole bloom was the one walking down the aisle (not you, Jeff). I apologize for ripping on your color schemes, but the luchador masks clashed beautifully with the brown and pink. No disrespect, but my wedding was cooler. Literally, you could have walked outside without thinking you lost all your breath from the heat evaporating it. We are here if you need anything (including a baby sitter if you want to take the drive to Dallas). Good luck to the both of you.

Wedding Blog series disclaimer - if you haven't figured it out by now, I am going to be an a-hole about your wedding because my wedding was the best. See paragraph one again or just don't read my blog.

Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) Second wedding in a row where a ring bearer/flower girl completely stole the show. Way to go, August. I hope someone was rolling video on that. What is the saying about working with animals and children?
2) Nobody, and I mean no one, thinks you are cool if you are playing drums on your steering wheel with actual drum sticks while going 80 MPH. Houston drivers are a bunch of jaggoffs.
3) Swallowing your pride and saving 60 bucks on gas is worth it. Three cheers for the Corolla! The FJ is not a road-tripper, just an urban assault vehicle.

Three down. One to go. But there's a lot of other nonsense to get through, such as training in DC, the 24-hour blitz of NYC, the Rahr and Sons brewery tour, the loss of the NFL, an underachieving college football season, TX-OU weekend and my dog's birthday. Summer time/and the livin' is easy. Talk later.

Garbage Time - Sports are great until television ruins it

How the hell did Brian Cardinal get back to Dallas so soon after the game?

I called Mavs in 7. I was wrong. Oh well. Once again the sports spotlight is focused on the fair city of Dallas (not Arlington, thankfully). I am happy for the Mavs and all of their devoted fans. I am pleased to see the city in sports euphoria. What I was not pleased about was the NBA coverage ABC served on a cold plate of LeBron James.

As a small placation from the four-letter network (you know, the guys that run the sports operations at ABC since the mid-nineties—Disney), they have instituted an ombudsman…of sorts. In years past, they have employed journalistic hard hitters to show their teeth to what is wrong with ESPN and what they are doing right. This seems to alleviate the “too big to fail” axiom of “hey, we have a watchdog…see?” Now, they don’t call it an ombudsman anymore. ESPN pulled a Dell and has just outsourced to a media analysis team that yield not-as-impressive credentials as some of the previous Knights of the Veil.

Here now is my open letter to ESPN, ABC Sports and the Internet as a whole as three talking heads and a production truck tried to ruin my good time. I don’t know if they read it. Actually, I don’t care. ESPN has just gotten so damn big that I am the skull that the Skynet machines run over and turn to dust on a daily basis. But hey, at least it makes me feel better.

I'm confused. I thought Tyson Chandler was taller...and less female?

To the Poynter Review Project (via ESPN.com)

Unfortunately, my complaint and observations may seem biased due to my geographical location. However, I would like to disclaim any sort of presuppositions with a bit of background as you did with your Poyinter Review Project mini-biography. And I have had a couple of days to think about it.

As a lifelong Spurs fan, I have enjoyed a good streak of fandom from 1987 (when David Robinson was drafted), to the new awareness of playoff basketball, to a renaissance in 1997 (when Tim Duncan was drafted), to the championship runs in starting in 1999 and, most recently, in 2007. With that, I have watched hours of NBA coverage with all the networks. When ABC took over the Finals telecasts in 2002, ABC and ESPN brought a superior production value covering my beloved Spurs three times as they would reach their championship goal. The Finals series matchup between the two conference champs were the focus with ABC/ESPN coverage as the athletes and team personalities were featured in a secondary light. The game on the court was the most important storyline with the professionals broadcasting the game.

Due to previous commitments made with ESPN in the previous free agent season, this year’s Finals coverage made an erroneous left turn into a brick wall.

I guess ESPN/ABC sports had to continue the failed path of “The Decision” all the way to the end. It was obviously good television as the ratings windfall for Mavs/Heat hit highs not reached since 2002. People did want to see LeBron James, in whatever capacity “The King” would display his South Beach talents—to fail or succeed. However, your broadcast team completely forgot 1) there was another 12 players in away jerseys defending against the Heat and 2) there were four other Heat players on the court handling the ball.

The broadcast team of Mike Breen, Jeff Van Gundy and Mark Jackson were incorrigible in their blatant disregard and non-attempt of objectivity with their play-by-play and commentary throughout games 1-5 of the NBA Finals with a complicit production team. It’s as if the other team (the champion Dallas Mavericks) was transparent in their eyes of LeBronVision. In Game 6, the booth and the production truck started to turn a corner as the momentum was too difficult to ignore, but only marginally as they both continued to focus on replayed missed jumpers and hot-potato passes by James. Never have I watched such a broadcast where the primary objective was to follow James on his solitary quest from the May 2010 announcement to the coronation of the King ESPN always wanted to crown.

It would take a massive amount of naiveté and blind faith in objective broadcast journalism to think ESPN/ABC would not be tainted by “The Decision”. The fingerprints were everywhere as SportsCenter devoted 35 minutes on an inadvertent shoulder bump from James to coach Erik Spolestra—in December. I should be giving credit instead of rendering shame for the stick-to-itiveness of the story, which is one man in a team sport with 30 other teams vying for the same goal. However, this strikes a negative cord in one of the primary tenets of journalism: do not make the byline writer the story. Every nudge toward James smacked of the spin being performed, either purposefully within production or unconsciously with editorial. But again, naïve thoughts like this do not compose the national collective of broadcast journalism.

I also understand the broadcast team has to give the fans what they want. However, the execution was completely off target that is ruined the actual play on the court. Finals MVP Dirk Nowitzki would shoot a 15-footer in the second period of Game 2 with the broadcast collective continuing their discussion of how great James has been on defense. If the viewing is disconnected from the broadcast, that is a failure of the broadcast. Sure, fans listen to sports pundits such as Charles Barkley, but that sort of braggadocio is better reserved for the halftime, post-game or pre-game show. Van Gundy and Jackson (and unfortunately in certain points, Breen) have that flare for confliction and aggravation. Again, this is what our current sports broadcasting construct consists of. But it was as if the other team (the Mavs) was an absolute afterthought. By halftime of Game 3, I had the play-by-play on mute opting for the Mike Tirico and Hubie Brown radio broadcast.

Is there a “fix” for this? Partially, Mark Jackson is departing for the Golden State Warriors. But that is only a personification of the bigger problem. The following season will allow for incomplete story lines striving for closure. SportsCenter will once again follow training camp of the Heat and all 82 games will have the microscope set to 100x. The only “wish” I have for the next time the Finals roll around is that there is a certain amount of cognizance when broadcasting the next two teams, as opposed to the solitary chess piece that should be the sum of their parts.

Thank you for allowing this platform of critical analysis of the ESPN/ABC Sports product. This is a great evolution of understanding sports fans have evolved from the weekend watchers to the sharper eyes and ears that need to be heard to continue to (try to) enjoy the every-expanding ESPN product. Who knows, this Finals broadcast could be a successful spinoff to the ESPN original series featuring James and his exploits.

So...for what it's worth...

Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) Hey, Houston Rockets fans...calm down. You have two, the Spurs have four. Can't the Mavs have this one? One? Good gravy.
2) There should be something about planning a parade BEFORE the champ is crowned.
3) No, I have not been converted, thank you for asking.

Thursday's the parade. It's in the neighborhood, so why not? Kinda cool. Then to a wedding, in Houston. I will review the coolness of that next post. Talk later.

Wedding Blog, Pt. II - "You see that hill...that's Canada"

Congrats to Jenny and Bryan. This totally looks like a Chuppah. But apparently it's an arbor. Okay then.

Once again, in my ongoing quest to belittle everyone else’s “big day”, I intrepidly present part two of my four-part series on weddings and how they are ruining my liver and bank account. As you may already know (all four of you that read this drivel), I have unfairly compared one of the year’s four invited weddings with the camera obscura of my awesome nuptials (beef wellington, anyone?). The second wedding, one of the three in which I actually had to dress up for, will be no different. And yes, I keep the same mental tenant that we as grown-ups don’t need the trouble, but will gladly go through the trouble of getting hitched. So, without any more needful explanation, I give you Jennifer Murphy and Bryan Pena.

I think it is more the norm than the exception that most people invited to a wedding have to travel. It was the case for my folks recently departing Corpus that they had to drive in from Laredo. Some of my side drove in from as far as Columbus, Ohio (thank you, Matt) to get down with our festivities. So, me bitching about flying to beautiful and scenic Traverse City, Michigan is a non-factor. The trick was not to get hosed on the flight costs. To alleviate said financial beating, The Lovely stayed back in The D to look after our Tasmanian Devils while I report the scene.

And what a scene it was.

The spot was gorgeous. The town (can’t really call it a city) is right off Lake Michigan with golf courses, wineries and harbors peppered throughout. Everything was within a mile of base camp and there was literally no way of getting lost. So, my unwitting fear of foreign lands was quickly quelled. Too bad I couldn’t rent a Vespa for the weekend. It was aimed to be quite picturesque: ceremony on the beach, reception in the ballroom, post-party wherever you can stumble. Awesome, right? Right?

To the uninitiated, the devil is never in the general plan. The devil is in the details.

Victory cigars! Celebrating like they won something. Yay, winning!

So, Friday afternoon I touched down, sans The Lovely, with Bryan and Jenny and the wedding photog Janessa picking me up from the airport. After the free ride, I was finally afforded the pleasure of meeting Jenny’s parents Ray and Sue…while weaving around three active ironing boards. Mom-of-bride and two other ladies were ironing gentle fabrics that would be adorning the seat backs of the reception hall chairs (hot pink and blaze orange if anyone was curious of the color scheme, plus sea green). This was my first interaction with a furrowed brow.

Bah, no worries. Last minute heroics happen all the time at weddings. That’s what makes each wedding truly unique. So, of course I blew it off with par for the course.

Five o’clock hits (Eastern effing Daylight Time) and we are standing barefoot in the strip of beach outside the hotel and we are doing the walkthrough. Easy peasy. Wanna do it again just to make sure we’ve got it? Sure! We’ve got time. Run it again, no issues. Rehearsal dinner’s at seven…perfect. Go to a kickass brew pub for some din-din. Get some gifts, drink more beer, fill up on food. Good stuff.

So, the devil tapped James and me on the shoulder and gave us another pair of details…(Bill Lumbergh voice) Ummm, yeah, I’m going to need you to finish 60 wedding programs with bows and colored ribbons before you do anything else tonight, mmmkay? And while you’re at it, we are going to need help tomorrow morning building the arbor on the beach and decorating the seat and aisles for the ceremony, mmmkay? Thanks.

No, it's not the latest boy band. But if it is, I call dibs on the "angry but with a sensitive side" boy band member.

There is no room for complaining during a wedding, especially if it’s the night before…but goddamn! Really? We have to finish wedding programs and help out Bob Villa with “This Old Arbor”? It would be tantamount if I went to Scott, Michael and Matt to say: “So did you guys have plenty to eat and drink? Excellent. Okay, let’s get crackin’. The Chuppah isn’t going to build itself.”

Call me a punk, but I merely assumed that my only responsibilities were 1) make Bryan’s life easier, 2) hang out and give advice when needed and 3) run interference with the bride to prevent any pre-ceremony sightings. That’s it. Granted, they don’t make a contract for these types of things, but that was what I thought I was there for…along with moral support since there was only about eight Texans in the whole wedding party.

But there we were. Bryan, James and I were making bows out of ribbon of hot pink and blaze orange on programs while a small parade of people jumped in and out of our hotel room. Not the “last night of freedom” I was thinking for my man, Bry-Bry. We gutted it out and made one more run at the bars downtown.

The next day, there was an itinerary that was apparently created and floating somewhere around the hotel for the participants…but it never got to room 330, where the groom and two groomsmen were trying to get wrinkles out of 100% cotton. So, of course the ceremony was late. Once the boutonnieres were installed and the ladies in pink were sequenced with the men in green, the temperature climbed to 85 degrees. The men were savvy enough to remember their sunglasses but the women too easily forfeited them as a wardrobe faux pas. So much for sun protection, the men lost that battle pretty quickly.

The sand was hot, the shirts were quickly swashed with sweat, James and I thought it was a terrible idea to go commando, my eyes were melting in my shitty new contacts and, to cap it, the flower girl had a straight up, “I don’t wanna do this” meltdown of a meltdown halting the ceremony at least another two minutes.

But none of it mattered when Jenny walked down the aisle.

It still didn’t matter afterwards when James and I showed up too early to the reception, or when the guests were fed out-of-order, or if I had to shell out 60 bucks to a cash bar on hotel well Scotch (bastards!), or if I had no one to dance with, or if I felt like one of the last fighters in the Alamo, or if everyone sounded like Sarah Palin, or if the event felt like a fire drill, or if I broke James with a Busch-league move on a scavenger hunt I would lose anyway, or if I was not having fun, or the cake was dry, or if I was missing my best friend at an event that I really, really wanted her to go, or if we missed last call at “Club Skittles”.

None of it mattered when Bryan said “you fit me like a stickshift” and Jenny said “I do”.

To the happy couple, Michigan was more beautiful than I thought. I absolutely appreciate the invite. For your first wedding on a shoestring budget, this was pretty damn beautiful. I apologize for being a punk but I was not the biggest fan of being “that other guy from Texas”. Eh, that’s okay. Everyone will figure out who I am eventually. No disrespect, but my wedding was cooler. Literally, it was an indoor wedding and no one sweat thought their clothes, especially the linen pants. Just like the wedding, it takes a village. Anytime you need some advice, just let me know. Good luck to the both of you.

Wedding Blog series disclaimer - I am going to be an absolute jerk about your wedding because my wedding was the best. See paragraph one, again.

Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) I hate voting for the guy that’s about to lose. It’s like Nader all over again.
2) If no one else wants to do “Hack of the Day”, I might have to do it myself.
3) It is surreal when a Spurs fan roots for the Mavs. Now I know how Katie Couric feels. Wait, wha?

We are coming in hot with the next installment as big brother @Garner_99 has his weddin’ day. If it wasn’t bad enough that I had to deal with some crazy accents, I am going to have to do it again. Three teasers: brown tuxes, dessert reception and luchador masks. Uh oh. Talk later.

City Politics Fever! Catch it!

Being a mayor is like racing a go-cart. You have to know your limitations.

One would think a relocation from a small town (for the lack of a better term) to a large metropolitan area, changes would be abound. In the big city, people do things differently than the small towns. It's a complete paradigm shift from closed-minded focus on a few menial facts to a large swath of complicated issues. With that thought ringing some truth, and the complexity of pleasing "approximately 1.2 million people" and 507,000 registered voters, the one-and-done bickering of the cosmetic issues do not raze my political curiosity anymore.

In the big city, my love/loathe/aggravation of local politics has been restored. Bless their crooked hearts, no matter what city you land in, the players try so hard to be relevant yet all of the other government constructs (state and federal) just make it a trickle-down action or a springboard to advance political stature. But they try. And sometimes they succeed. Cory Booker has made a second job out of finding common-sense improvements while every year upping the stakes for bigger, faster and stronger actions. Then again, I don't see either of the runoff candidates rolling out a night patrol in South Dallas.

It's down to two as David Kunkle and Mike Rawlings race to facilitate the wacky looking building that was used in Robocop. Lest we remember, it's Texas politics. And even though Dallas is 193 miles from the fracas--nay, fustercluck--of Austin, it is still Texas politics. The fun part about Texas politics is that you have to peel off the initial, shrink-wrapped layer to find out what the angle is. And yes, there is ALWAYS an angle.

Mike Rawlings had a $1.47 million layer to comb through...that's a lot of shrink-wrap. Along with being on the board of the Dallas Parks and Recreation department and Ace Cash Express and as a former CEO of Pizza Hut, it looks like his angle in to lure a Fortune 100 company to downtown, claim it as "business growth" and leave to serve as the that company's CEO or chairman. Or I could be wrong. He could be the agent of change that relocates the Rangers to South Dallas and boost their economy urging other neighborhoods to reconnect with South Dallas. At that point, he will vie for VP of player personnel. I'm sorry, I have my doubts with a guy that is a tad bit on the Kingfish side of politics.

David Kunkle is the former police chief during a down slope in crime within Dallas. Name recognition was his game as about 2/3 of the men in the city only really know of him through a poorly-planned interview on the Little Ticket. His name alone got him second place in the first mayoral election as he spent little to nothing on advertising. Seriously, his campaign banner looked like something out of a Microsoft Office template. But, the singular message of great neighborhoods equal a great city could push him over the top or push him to the wayside. His angle is that he is so bored that maintaining a city and 14 different egos every other Wednesday sounds more exciting that collecting a police pension. I'm sorry but I have my doubts about how one man can unify neighborhoods as distinctive as their citizens.

To continue the Debbie-Downerism, the city is broke. Just like the state is broke. Just like the US has raised the debt ceiling because they are in the red. How can you push pie-in-the-sky dreams when you can't afford the ready-made pie crust? Until a city representative (other than the City Manager) can come to grips with that reality, the rest of the talk is cheap. On the neighborhood front: you can't build great neighborhoods without fixing the street lights and paving the roads. On the business front: you can't lure a huge company to take over an empty skyscraper with the temptation of tax breaks. It's a chicken v. egg argument that I don't think either of these guys have come to grip.

And don't get me started on the "education" angle. Part of the $1.47 million within the Rawlings camp was devoted to television. It's a great message but when you see it next door to this commercial, it makes you cringe that some promises might be broken. At least Kunkle didn't burn money he didn't have to blow smoke up a lovely woman's skirt.

So, here we are again. I am stressing out about local politics with the writing on the walls. It's like I'm in Corpus again. But comparing Dr. Seuss with Homer is just not fair. Whomever the 13% (or less) of the registered voters select, I will be along for the ride...as I always am. And I wish the best for the victor. It's a monumental challenge. If my cynicism is killed by the new mayor's resolve and (more importantly) fulfillment of goals, then I will be the same citizen thankful that I had the right to vote. There's nothing wrong with the capability of being proven wrong.

Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) Priorities, people...
2) I mean, c'mon! Priorities, people!
3) Every time I think about work and the job I do, I always have this movie in my head..."Good for you, it's a growth industry."

The one cool thing about Dallas right now is that it is getting an awesome economic shot in the arm from the Mavs' deep dive into the playoffs. I have never been a Mavs fan, but the more money we can snake from those casino-loving sod dwellers north of the Red River, the happier I am. Mavs in seven! Talk later.

A Brave[r] New World

From Sunday morning to late night, nothing changed too drastically in the neighborhood...did it? (courtesy of Google Earth)

I will be honest (stupid phrase), I was going to attempt to write about the NFL draft. The Draft, seriously, was at the frontal lobe of my brain. An exercise so futile with unrealistic trajectories that gives one last polish of an ego that no 20-year-old can live up to...because he will soon get rocked by professionals that have been doing this football thing much longer than they have been getting kickbacks from alumni. Yeah, that was going to be brutal. Plus, it's all moot because there won't be an NFL season anyway. So, there.

No, I was saved (?...for lack of a better term) by a late-night presidential address. At 21:27 CDT, The Lovely sent me a text...

"Pres Obama is expected to make an important announcement shortly[.]"

Now, it's very difficult while I am at work for anyone to get the jump on me news-wise because we have a news feed (local and national) within the office and closed circuit television all around campus. So, when news breaks at work, we know. But The Lovely totally got the jump on me. That is rare.

Naturally, I kick it over to the national feed with CNN. Wolf Blitzer can probably tie a half-Windsor in his sleep. John King looked like he had a couple of cocktails before he rolled into the office. Ed Henry was hoarse from howling laughter at the Correspondent's Dinner the night before. They seemed like they didn't know what the hell was going on. Until someone--and I wonder who or what office--leaked the headline.

Osama bin Laden is dead.

Now, when it comes to news, there are very few times I react. The 2000 and 2008 election results solicited a reaction. But elections do that. And I wasn't in front of a feed during 9/11 because, interestingly enough, I was at work as well. I fortunately did not see that insanity when that was rolling live. Unfortunately, technology was matured enough to see replays and stuff you did not want to show on broadcasts.

But, at around 22:00 local, the haggard John King repeated: "bin Laden is dead...bin Laden is dead." Then it took about 40 minutes for POTUS to rally up an 11-minute speech that glossed the highlights like SportsCenter did with Celtics/Heat Game 1 of the East Semis.

It was a "where were you" moment when at the same time in Philadelphia, the crowd started checking their phones and read the same thing I heard, chanting following. With @KeithOlbermann tracking sources, @MrChuckD pissed off at the execution and @DonaldGlover tracking idiot celebrities not knowing what was happening, this was an event.

But that's exactly what it was...an event. Singular.

What now?

Granted, I am enjoying the news orgy where information is flying the moment it sees a clearing. From Navy leadership quarterbacking the op being a Texas Ex to recovered hard drives, computers and external media devices to Jon Stewart basking in the news as the Republican leadership invokes empty statements, this is a singular event that was anticipated but never predicted. That's why we have to be grown-ups and segregate the event to the strategy and the policy.

So, the head of the snake has been removed. Congratulations, you've made it. Now, what about the 21st century version of Vietnam? What about the millions of billions of dollars going to the failed state that harbored the head of the snake? What about Guantanamo? What about the shadow Guantanamo in Bagram? Hell, we haven't completely pulled out of Iraq? And don't get me started on air travel. The reasons are falling to the wayside as you have one singular event.

As everything is in the world we live in, it's complicated. We received intelligence from prisoners held at US-owned overseas locales. The argument of instability will be raised with Pakistan because Kashmir, Waziristan and Mumbai will tear that country a new orifice without support. And of course, some floppy argument about spreading democracy to Afghanistan via occupation will be thrown around, even though al Qaeda has flared out to other locations...but the Egypt, Tunisia and Syria counterargument will be ready for the parry-reposite.

I know it was welcome news for a grand amount of people. This symbolizes closure. It closes a loop--a story arch--if you will. But we are now two days separated from the pop of the story and the drop of the jaw. If this is going to be a braver new world for the States, we are going to have to put on our big boy pants and make some decision. By the way, the meter is running.

Lessons Learned, my three things.
1) You know, as much bagging I do on Microsoft products, at least they are doing something right...or not wrong, as illustrated by the PlayStation Network hack.
2) Come on people, let's quit being naïve. Before the GPS technology was installed, it was still A PHONE! Has no one heard of triangulation? No one cares about your location unless you are cheating on a spouse or if you are a criminal.
3) I can probably go another thirty years before another time waste like this. Thanks for all the useless information, American media.

If petrol would drop about 20 cents and schools can be funded without firing teachers and compromising quality...now that's a news cycle that is on a roll. A guy can dream, can't he? I will try to find a softball for next time. Until then, talk later.