A Spike Lee Joint...

When the Levees Broke is currently making its way through the 17 HBO channels on my television. I watched the first two hours of the four-hour documentary last night, and was (and am) devastated (again) by Katrina.

But not really. I'm not really devastated. I'm not really affected by the aftershock of the storm or the govenment's failure to respond as "we" should've. I'm not really blown away to see new images and hear new testimonials and revisit the emotions I almost felt almost a year ago.

I have no idea. And niether do you. We had and have and will never have an understanding of what really happened (and didn't happen) in New Orleans and along the Gulf Coast last year.

God willing.

More than anything, Spike Lee's new joint pissed me off. Not because of what people say or feel or confess or blame. But because it's true. It's real. It's not agitated or inspired or scripted or made up or embellished.

It may not be a "truth" that "Bush just don't give a f*$&! about black folks and he couldn't care less about helping nobody but those who can help him..."

But it is true. On a human level... to all those thousands of people who sat hungry, thirsty, dead and dying for days and days without "our" help... or hope... it's as true as any statement I've heard in a long, long time.

Watch the rest of this documentary tonight. See for yourself the things we'll never really see. If you can't (or don't) get HBO, I'm sure you can get more information here.

Gut check...

What’s important to you? What makes you happy? What makes you yearn?

Have you ever been passionate – I mean really passionate – about something? Anything? I’ve said before that I am passionate about writing, but I don’t think that’s true. I don’t think I’ve ever even come close.

There’s a story I’ve heard told about Socrates. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but here goes:

A young man approaches Socrates and says, “Socrates, I want knowledge.”

Socrates looks at the guy and replies, “Follow me.”

They walk down to the seashore and into the water. Socrates asks, “OK, now what did you want?”

“I want knowledge,” the guy says, nonchalantly. Socrates then plunges the man into the water and holds him there for 30 seconds. He pulls the guy out and asks, “Now, what did you want again?” The young man sputtered a little and then said, “I want knowledge.”

Socrates again dunks the guy – this time holding him under the water for 45 seconds. He pulled him up and says, “Tell me, what do you want?”

“Knowledge! I want knowledge!” The man was surprised, and becoming frustrated when Socrates pushed him under the water yet again. This time, he held the man under for a minute… and then two minutes. The man began to struggle and fight and finally he came up gasping and coughing.

Socrates asked: “What do you want?”

Without pause, the man screamed, “AIR! I WANT AIR! Please, just let me have air!”

Socrates looked at him and said, quietly, “When you long for knowledge the way that you were just desperate for air… then you’ll be ready to find it.”

My pastor said this the other day: Passion cannot dwell in us until we become fully aware of our soul’s desperate neediness.

I do not have any answers. Just questions. Just… challenges as you sit at your desk, in your office, at home, on the couch, in bed or even in your car on the way to lunch…

What’s important to you? What makes you happy? What makes you yearn?

Have you ever come face to face with passion? Have you ever been made fully aware of your soul’s desperate neediness?

Go 'Dores!

Football season starts in a couple of weeks. There's nothing I love more. Sex and beer rank near the top, but football season has got to beat all. One time, I enjoyed all three at the same time and my head nearly popped off. Too much of a good thing can do that, you know.

Anyway, I love football season. And I'm here now... in front of God and everyone (that'd be all 4 of you) to claim once again that I am a Vanderbilt football fan.

My father played Tight End for the Commodores in the mid-Sixties, so I’m kind of obligated. I go to the games. I have several programs - including one from the 1982 Hall of Fame Bowl - on my coffee table. There is a “V” bumper sticker in the back window of my Honda Accord. And I even have a black and gold shaker in a vase on the desk in my office.

I grew up at Dudley Field: Section B, Row 9, Seat 2. I was 7-years old when George MacIntyre took over head coaching duties from Fred Pancoast. My all-time favorite player is Boo Mitchell. I know stats; like the fact that the ‘Dores made 185 first downs in 1999 and that Allama Matthews had 152 receiving yards against the Alabama Crimson Tide in September of 1982 - I was 10, and he was my hero.

I am a Vanderbilt fan. I always have been (except for maybe during the Rod Dowhower era… I was trying to “find myself” in Europe, and I believe Rod was trying to find himself on the sidelines). But the fact of the matter is that I 'show my gold' every chance I get.

I admit that without shame or reservation.

Perhaps because my loyalty is so genuine, I am often forced to defend it along ideological lines. I readily admit that I enjoy attending games “between the hedges” or amidst a deafening “Good Ole’ Rocky Top” wearing my number 6, Jay Cutler jersey and being looked at as if my head were on fire. I kind of like the way it makes me feel when I am the only Commodore fan who cheers when we stop Miami of Ohio on second down and inches.

But the disdain for the Commodores is so great throughout college football culture that everyone just assumes I am a glutton for punishment by singing “Dynamite” at the top of my lungs.

My college buddies think I don’t understand what real football is all about. Even my wife, a University of Alabama graduate, rolls her eyes and snickers when I talk about my favorite team.

So, bear with me for a moment as I idealize Vanderbilt football: America’s Team.

This country was founded on the ideals of great men for the common good. An extraordinary few working with the ordinary lot. Vanderbilt University is a bright, shining beacon of education and class in a sea of drunken frat parties and General Studies degrees. I challenge you to find on the VU campus a bumper sticker that reads, “My Blood Runs Black and Gold.” We are better than that. An extraordinary few working with the ordinary lot.

Imagine going to class every day to work on the human DNA genome project with expert scientists from all over the world, and then having to line-up across from an angry 380-pound sasquatch on Saturday afternoons. These players averaged well above 1300 on their SAT’s. We have an Offensive Lineman who was the Valedictorian of his high school a couple of years ago. These are football players with real-people goals and dreams for their futures... for THE future of us, the ordinary lot.

My father left Vanderbilt with 70-something catches, a few touchdowns, a couple of broken bones and an education like none other. He then went on to establish an international marketing firm with offices in 13 countries worldwide.

But the reality remains that the Vanderbilt Commodores are not very good in the eyes of most football-loving Americans.

But what a history! Dan McGugin coached the Commodores for thirty seasons. 271 games. He won 197 of them. Incidentally, Dan McGugin was a part of the extraordinary few who fought for our country during World War I. There have been 15 coaches since the great McGugin. Names like Red Sanders, Bill Pace, George MacIntyre and Watson Brown. Great men working for the common good of America’s Team, the Vanderbilt Commodores.

Throughout its 112-year history to date, the Commodores have won more games than they’ve lost and lost more games than they care to remember. But that’s America! The good outweighs the bad, and we are always looking for a better tomorrow.


But, win or lose, The Fates will choose,
And Vandy's game will be the same.
Dynamite, Dynamite,
When Vandy starts to fight!

(Excerpt from “Dynamite.” Vanderbilt’s fight song written by Francis Craig in 1924.)

Greatest Sports Moments

Chills. I have chills...



Most of you (maybe that should read "BOTH of you"... whatever) have probably seen this. It's several years old. But does it get any better than Steven Tyler singing over Ali standing over Sonny Liston's lifeless, cold-cocked body?

Seriously... if this don't light your fire, your wood's wet.*

*(Grandfather, Thomas Oscar Norton, from the pulpit, circa 1980)

A Family (rough draft)

If I were to script a family... I mean write a story in which the characters formed a group of - let's say - 5.325 people who love each other despite their differences, shortcomings and all the other reasons they shouldn't get along... I'd construct the tale from right here at my kitchen table.

The disarmingly charming dad would be a better than average-looking hero in his mid-thirties who – despite his fight against self absorbency – thinks rather highly of himself, but has a hard time dealing with his internal demons.

The mom would be a beautiful woman – younger, but much more mature than the father – who takes not even a single breath without determining how it will affect the rest of her family... her life. She's the backbone. The glue.

The eldest child is a beauty, like her mother, with a servant’s heart and a passion for making other people happy. She’s the Pleaser. She has Attention Deficit Disorder, so her daily battles become unfair fodder for the rest of the family to create blame…

The son is tough as nails, cute as a puppy and inquisitive to a fault. His daily quests bring spankings and screams and time alone in a corner that would completely destroy a lesser soul. He continues with the determination of a seasoned soldier…

Then there’s the baby. She is loved because she is Love itself. She is beautiful, sweet, innocent and playful. She is the heart of the family and the single reason "the fetus" is not a hated creature upon which all discontent – prior, current and yon – will fall.

The fetus resides comfortably within the matriarch. It will play an integral role throughout the rest of the story…

My waistline and he-teats... redux

A friend asked that I re-post something from 17 months ago. Here it is, with a few (very few) updates. It's remarkable how nothing's changed. Even down to the pregnant wife-thing. I hate you, Trojan.

*****

I'm getting fat. Not like obese or disgusting-fat. More like doughy. A little flabby and plump.

I just look lazy. I used to look active, even when I wasn't. Now? Not so much.

I'm 34 years old, and I look like a sixty-year-old truck driver when I'm shirtless. There's hair now where there used to be "shine." I have boobs. I used to have pectoral muscles you could see bustling under my t-shirt. Now, it looks like I have dollops up something drooping from my man-breasts.

Gross, right? Don't I know it.

My wife just sort of glances over and smirks when I'm getting dressed in the mornings. Arms crossed. Hand to the side of her face. Mouth gaping. There she goes again with the combo: exhale-head shake. It makes me want to throw a shoe at her.

But I'm not mad at her, really. I'm frustrated at myself. With myself. Both.

It's hard, though, to eat right, exercise and not drink beer. My wife says all I need to do is practice a little more self control and I'd probably lose 10 or 12 pounds. My internal response to that is, "Oh, yeah? Well, you try living with a pregnant woman and three spoiled rotten kids and see if you don't glutton a little, too!"

She likes to smock baby clothes and "scrapbook." I like to Tap the Rockies and dip Nilla Wafers in peanut butter. To each his own.

I guess I could start getting up early and jogging. I could stop watching re-runs of The West Wing at 12 AM... hit the sack an hour early... get up and get outside and run. I could also dress up like a gorilla and prounce about my office every day, but it ain't happenin'. My filter tells me where to draw the line. How's that for self control, sweetheart!

I really do need to do something about my waistline and He-teats. I want my kids to be proud of their dad. I want them to want me to be the guy who takes them to the swimming pool and who plays with them on the beach. I want to not feel obligated to put on a shirt before walking into my kitchen for a glass of water. I want for my 2-year-old to not feel compelled to stick his pointer finger in my belly button because it's fun to watch it "disappear."

I want to be able to see my whole... you know... my feet when I look straight down. I want my wife to sleep facing me and not turned, clinging to the edge of her side of the bed for fear I might get a "big idea."

I want to be healthy and vibrant and less... doughy.

I also want chocolate chip cookies and Twizzlers for lunch. You know what? I've seen tonight's West Wing rerun no fewer than three times. Maybe I'll go to bed early and start over in the morning.

"Somewhere in the Middle"

This song was written on my back porch in Greenville, SC. I like it a lot.

I hate Trojan, but I like this song.

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