I Have Two Words for You: Plastic Surgery

You'd be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap!
--Dolly Parton

Put in its victory column the Obama Cult’s Visigoth-style race to sack and pillage the health care system’s bloated carcass. The parts that insurance industry greed and state regulatory incompetence haven’t already cratered, that is. I look forward to the eventual repetitive Social Security-like warnings that the system will collapse without major funding increases, rationing through tightened eligibility, and having to settle for whatever local University of Santiago-trained student health center goon that my local NHS Trust forces me to use. I am trying to look at the bright side—at least with the eventual relentlessly mediocre government care that federal budgetary needs will force upon us in the next 10-20 years, I won’t have to live long enough to suffer through the eventual Justin Bieber comeback.

But no matter how bleak the prospects now look for widespread access to anything but UK style, post office-esque, mediocre at best health care (can you say “hospital infection scandals”), things are looking up for at least one segment of the American health care industry: plastic surgery. These are sunny days indeed for the Nip/Tuck crowd. Everyone’s buying a boat and getting another girlfriend on the side.

Plastic surgery has caught a rip tide. According to the plastic surgeons themselves, surgical and non-surgical cosmetic procedures have increased by 162% since 1997. Despite the recession, plastic surgeries decreased by only two percent last year. Breast augmentation is the most popular surgical procedure; botox is the most popular non-surgical procedure. Even men are getting in on the act, accounting for nine percent of all procedures. For 2009, age-wise, 45% of all procedures were performed on persons aged 31-50, while 27% were performed on those aged 51-65. Procedures for those aged 19-30 was only 20% of the total (with breast augmentation being the most popular procedure).

More than that, popular opinions of plastic surgery and other “cosmetic procedures” has changed markedly. It started out as something you did only if you were on the FBI’s most wanted list, or a villain in a James Bond movie. Then in the 1960s, some actresses began getting face lifts to try to hang on in Hollywood (think Joan Crawford in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane), with fairly crude and pod people-looking results. But it did give Phyllis Diller a career. With advances in technique and the advent of botox, elective plastic surgery has gone from freak show to almost normal. Except for Michael Jackson. So-called health magazines prominently display plastic surgery ads. While some stars still deny obvious procedures, others openly acknowledge them and even boast about undergoing the knife. Kathy Griffin’s plastic surgery accounts for about half of her act now. Fox even developed a successful cable show, Nip/Tuck, about two sleazy plastic surgeons. Lipo, botox, and “some other work” has become a middle age rite of passage.

How did this happen? And what does it mean?

Not sure whether anyone’s noticed this or not, but we now live in a youth obsessed culture that routinely leaves the old out on ice floes to die, culture-wise. And by “old,” I mean 25. Has anyone heard from Justin Timberlake lately? Hollywood makes movies for teenagers and those in their early 20s; caring and sensitive portrayals of complicated and difficult themes may win Oscars, but they don’t make money. Hollywood makes money off explosion movies, body count movies, Pixar movies, vampire/date movies, and Miley Cyrus movies, all of which are focus group tested to induce kids to part with their allowance. Television has followed this trend, though maybe not to the same extent due to the proliferation of cable channels and corresponding development of niche programming. But American Idol, Dancing With the Stars, the Bachelor, Survivor, and a host of other shows all feature young, glamorous looking stars. Glenn Close may be on TV, but she’s like Ancient Peter Ustinov in Logan’s Run, living in the bombed out US Capitol with about a million cats, whom the rest of the cast regards as some bizarre freak. These kids don’t want to watch a bunch of corpse-like slugs sitting around complaining about their aches and pains and personal problems. That’s what “The View” is for. No, these kids want to see people their own age, or in the ballpark, working through challenging personal situations, like how to make the latest near androgynous pretty boy fall for them (for the girls), or how to blow away as many bad guys as possible in two hours (for guys). Jane Austen might make still make it on the big screen, but only if disguised in such forms as Clueless (Emma) or Bridget Jones’ Diary (Pride and Prejudice).

All that youth audience programming has to have young stars. So every couple of years or so, we must endure the latest crop of “talent” to grace the screens. Britney Spears, at 29, is over, beyond, and 20 miles down the road from the proverbial hill. Of course, that may be a bad example, based on the “its not the years it’s the mileage” theory. But she tends to prove the essential point that popular media images require young and virile looking stars to move product. Just the way print advertisements have long airbrushed photos to hide flaws, sometimes to such an extent the models look like pod people, implying you’ll look just like these preternatural beings if only you’ll buy their product. Even news and sports departments are getting in on the act, dumping women reporters and anchors as they near middle age in favor of Barbie with a Mike. Can you say “Erin Andrews”?

Making things worse, we now have an ever-growing celebrity media keeping close tabs on every celebrity body and face, grading actresses like prize heifers at the livestock show. Far more people know Jessica Simpson’s current weight or whether Demi Moore has had “work” done than know the names of any Supreme Court justices (or senators or congressmen). Banks can crash and burn, Congress can fundamentally change our health care system, and war can break out in half the Middle East without most people noticing. But let that zombie Katie Holmes display the slightest hint of cellulite and it’s a national scandal. Actually, I really worry about poor Katie. Being married to Maverick, King of the Scientologist Cult, must be like starring in your own personal version of Not Without My Daughter, or being spirited away to Dubai on the promise of landing enough high paying modeling gigs to pay your way through college only to find out that the “modeling gigs” involve being locked away in an interior room in some faux-palace being forced to serve 12 guys wearing robes, gold chains and Drakkar Noir. Except the 12 guys in Katie’s case are the Scientologists, who’ve got her kids (and Nicole’s kids too). We need to get Stallone to put together a rescue team and break her out of that compound. The kids are a lost cause.

High definition only makes it worse. It reveals every little flaw—chicken pox scars, freckles, acne, that mystery blotch that looks like Abraham Lincoln’s beard…the camera really does now show everything. All those crystal clear tight shots now bring enormous risk, and scrutiny. Only this kind of bizarro world would regard Julianne Moore or Diane Lane as “old.”

To hang on, desperate actresses (and actors too) addicted to the spotlight have gone under the knife, usually with disastrous results. The roster of such plastic surgery freaks goes on and on: Priscilla Presley, Jennifer Gray, Farrah Fawcett, Cher, Burt Reynolds, Joan Rivers, Barry Manilow, Tara Reid, Janice Dickinson, Lisa Rinna, Bruce Jenner, Kathy Griffin, Melanie Griffith, and of course, the poster child for mutilation by cosmetic surgery, King of the Freaks, Michael Jackson. Botox, nose jobs, boob jobs, lip collagen injections, facelifts, chemical peels. The plastic surgery menu grows ever longer, with nary an amuse bouche in sight. But have these procedures, ever growing in Hollywood popularity, ever made the difference in whether one gets a role or not? Though a boob job may conceivably extend an actress’ career by a couple of years, when has it stemmed the tide of aging? In some cases (Jennifer Gray or Rupert Everett), even if the surgery doesn’t make things worse, it so radically changes the person’s appearance that they don’t even look like themselves anymore.

Faced with all this, my generation, instead of staging a fight back and retaking popular culture, has done what it does best—caved in and given up like the shrinking weasels that we are. For men, keeping up with youth culture has foisted upon us the bizarre spectacle of the buddy movie come to life. Lawyers and accountants in their late 40s and 50s are becoming “guys” who go on adventure outings and play pick-up basketball. Who go bungee jumping and white river rafting. And who go to clubs (where they stand out like the high school principal at the sweetheart dance) and date girls in their 20s (who either work at their company, or if you’re a PGA star, who grew up next door or were your babysitter). This latter predilection requires them to follow such inanities as the Kardashians or Entourage just to carry on a near-conversation, and to wear a goatee and untucked designer dress shirts. Beer drinking. Hell raising. Good times. Ick. They can’t just grow old; they have to retain some perpetual appearance of youth. A Portrait of Dorian Gray for the Decline and Fall of the American Empire. A nation full of Matthew McConaughey wanna-bes. Why these guys can’t just buy a Corvette and be done with it is beyond me.

With women, it’s a slightly different story. Now, this may seem brutal, but tell me you haven’t seen this story like a million times. Think of the woman who as a young girl in school was really cute. The girl all the other girls hated and all the guys wanted to date. Maybe she played volleyball or was a cheerleader. That girl probably worked hard on her tan, probably took up smoking at some point too. As she took a job she may have found herself pressed for time and eaten a lot of Jack in the Box. For fun, she’d cut loose with the girls for Margarita Wednesdays, or Champagne Thursdays, and every weekend was devoted to clubbing. Then she found and married an awesome guy at one of those clubs, had three kids in five years, quit her job and stayed home to take care of them. Life became running kids around town in the mini-van to school, lessons, practices, doctors, and tutors. In between that and her part time job as a bookkeeper, time for exercise or watching her diet was non-existent. Over these years, her dress size increased, her face has dropped, and her last proper hair appointment was 15 years ago. Life seems like a forced march. The bright eyes and smile of her high school years have long since given way to a world-weary gaze. Meanwhile, she’s noticed that at her husband’s company, there’s a lot of twenty-something little girls running around in short skirts, seemingly flirting with the managers (of whose number includes her now balding and doughy husband). She notices he seems to attend a lot of happy hours with the fellas, or goes on a lot of “adventure trips.” With images of young, athletic, and attractive women bombarding her in every magazine, TV show, shopping mall, and at parties, she begins to wonder, what can she do? That’s where plastic surgery comes in. Then, realizing everyone else is getting work done, its just a short drive down to the block to Cougar Town. Or to becoming the Octo Mom.

What’s wrong with that?

Remember that celebrity list from earlier? Which one of them looks better after plastic surgery? For that matter, who’s ever looked better after plastic surgery? Turning your real head into a construction zone, for all the so-called “advances” these last 30 years, really doesn’t work. And by “work” I mean make you look better than you would have looked without the surgery. No surgeon or doctor can make you look better than God can. The way you were made always looks better than the overhaul. Some of these people hardly resemble human beings when they’re done. These procedures just don’t work; you just look like you had something done.

But philosophically, there’s something even more objectionable about this rush to carve up and inject poison into our faces. It confirms this obnoxious idea that the “normal” look is about 25, and that aging represents some hideous fate cursing us eventually to resemble the Wicked Witch of the West (or Sarah Jessica Parker). Thanks to this despicable hatred of the normal human aging process, we now must endure such spectacles as the Real Housewives of Orange County. People can be beautiful at any age, and are much more likely to remain beautiful by healthy living habits than by turning themselves into Mr. Potato Head. Some people look markedly more beautiful as they grow older. The aforementioned Ms. Lane and Ms. Moore come to mind. Diane Keaton is far more attractive today than in her 1970s heyday. As are Candace Bergen, Jaclyn Smith, Sela Ward, and many others who have grown older naturally. This youth obsession we currently endure effectively nullifies the worth of older age living. It preaches that for most of your life, you'll have to look back in time for the good old days. That you're only desirable and attractive for a short window in your life, which happens to correspond to the time of your life when you're at your most stupid and ridiculous. That's foolish. Let's reject that. Let's reclaim the entirety of our lives as meaningful and rewarding, and not spend the last 50 years of our lives trying to relive the first 20.

Really, the most objectionable thing about plastic surgery—you risk becoming Bruce Jenner.

Next-things are looking up. No, really.

Happy 70th, Mom

Today would have been my mother's 70th birthday. Not that you'd have ever suspected it were she still with us. Measured by sheer energy and vitality, she was about 32. She grew busier and stronger as she grew older. Many of her hundreds of friends were more than half her age.

I still can't really bear to write or talk much more about Mom than I did last March 28th. But on this her 70th birthday, let me again thank the many of you who've helped us in so many ways since her passing. So many of her friends have done so many incredible things for our family, all of which testifies to your love for her. So many people have said such kind things to me and my Dad and brothers and sister in law about her, and shared your many memories of her with us. This has lifted our spirits and helped us cope with the difficult times.

I sometimes forget that we shared Mom with so many others. Its no exaggeration at all to recall that Miss Birdie was beloved not only in Kingwood, but everywhere in the world she visited and loved children deprived of affection and care.

To all of you who still hold her dear in your hearts or who feel her loss along with us, thanks and we're with you too.

Plan B for Brilliant

The first rule of holes: when you're
in one, stop digging."

--Molly Ivins


Not everything goes according to plan. Trust me. If it had, I’d have driven a cement mixer for TXI and lived in Pasadena. Or become a Rice-educated oil and gas lawyer living in Dallas, or an admiralty lawyer living in New Orleans (if I hadn’t been murdered after returning post-Katrina). And I’d have been divorced with two kids, having near constant battles with the ex-wife that would have come very close to bankrupting me in the late 1990s [sorry, because we’re getting along so well now, I must refuse to disclose the identity of my Alternate Universe Ex-Wife; I’d rather not have my head caved in over a silly misunderstanding like me writing “if I’d married you I’d have been divorced, broke and miserable.” Some people can be so touchy.].

But in each case, sensing that what I was doing wasn’t making it, I looked around, assessed my options, and decided there had to be a better way. In other words, I went with Plan B. What resulted was my life. A life in which I’m writing a blog about Plan B on Friday night, alone, in my extremely small house. But my house is in Central Austin and its all paid off, there’s a sweet car in the garage and nearly all my stalkers have moved on to something more interesting, so back off.

Most people find themselves incapable of dealing with drastic change and simultaneously unable to extract themselves from the dire straits in which they occasionally find themselves not because they face such limited options, but because they haven’t taken the time to come up with Plan B. “Always have a Plan B” occupies a prominent place on the Daily Affirmations Rules for Life. When your world comes crashing down around you, have something else cued up and ready to go. So many people have no backup plan in case things go wrong.

People look down on “B” because its not “A.” No one buys Grade B beef. No one congratulates you for making straight B’s in school. Its incredibly difficult to win a silver medal, but it doesn’t get you on a lot of Wheaties boxes (does it, Nancy Kerrigan?). Its safe to say, in America, no one likes to settle for second best (except when you’re on the verge of receiving the Democratic Party’s Presidential nomination, and you select Crazy Joe Biden as your running mate).

The reality, however, is that people go with their next best alternative all the time. You think anyone really wants to go to law school? If everyone did what they wanted, everyone would be an astronaut or quarterback, or a princess or ballerina. But the world needs roofers and data reduction clerks too. Not everyone can be the World’s Most Interesting Man, you know, like me. Not everyone can marry exactly who they were looking for. Not everyone can live somewhere cool. Would anyone voluntarily live in Oklahoma or Waco (except the bitter human husks who occupy the place, hanging on grimly to that last flicker of light once known as their “dreams”) if they could avoid it? Feh! I-35 would be a parking lot if those people had realistic alternatives.

Plan B often works out just great. Ringo Starr was Plan B, after Pete Best wasn’t working out. Lyndon Johnson was a Plan B. Uh, bad example. Harry Truman was Plan B. Ol’ Harry was really more like Plan D, as in Do Not tell Harry anything. The problem with that strategy is that when you elect an already-dying man as President, you probably need to at least take down the Vice President’s phone number. Houston was a Plan B, a necessary Yellow Fever-infested evil of last resort after Galveston was blown off the map in 1900. Michael Corleone was the next best alternative to lead the Corleone Family after Sonny was shot on the Causeway. Kurt Warner was a career backup who was never going to do anything except carry a clipboard until Rodney Harrison blew out Trent Green’s knee. Ditto for Matinee Idol Tom Brady, notable fifth round draft choice out of that cradle of quarterbacks, Michigan, who was languishing behind the Statue, Drew Bledsoe, in New England until Bledsoe got lit up against the Jets. Law schools are filled with people working on their second choice in life. Just like the Coast Guard. Florida State and Texas Tech wouldn’t exist if kids didn’t need “safety schools.” Kirstie Alley was the next best thing after Shelley Long left Cheers. Ok, that may be another bad example. It’s hard to remember, but there once was a time when Kirstie Alley wasn’t trying to outduel Sally Struthers for the title of Most Ready to Hibernate. Kirstie Alley was actually quite attractive and funny. Fergie looks a little like vintage Kirstie Alley. Marrying a Hardy Boy and becoming a cokehead didn’t really result in a great career plan.

Having a realistic, well thought out Plan B in life has two distinct advantages. Initially, having a planned out, ready to roll alternative protects you from unexpected changes not of your choosing. The problem with losing your job, your wife walking out on you, a tree falling on your house, and so many other surprises is that most people don’t have any idea what to do next. Everyone talks about planning for retirement, but no one talks about planning for premature retirement or your present plans failing miserably. People go through a shock phase, then a drawing a blank phase before they can begin to deal rationally with their predicament. Having a Plan B, much like a disaster plan, eliminates some of the shock and helps you make the transition. Instead of spending weeks and months wallowing in stunned paralysis over the unfortunate change of events, you can just implement Plan B. Some people call this a contingency plan.

That’s like on Gilligan’s Island. While all the poor passengers prepared only for a three hour tour, the Howells and Ginger wisely anticipated disaster and brought a wardrobe sufficient to last three seasons (lounge wear too, for the humid climate). They prepared for the tour to go wrong, and had something to change into while the others had to clean their clothes every day at the lagoon (though for some odd reason, Mary Ann somehow found a way to make a bikini).

A well-established Plan B also fulfills another important function entirely removed from catastrophes and other unexpected events—it acts as a barometer on your own life. Its easy to conclude you’ve screwed the pooch during those moments when you’re surveying the wreckage on the beach and the resulting oil spill your life has become, wondering how it could have gone so horribly wrong. Other life failures resist detection more readily. Some people glumly live life as if though on some forced march through the desert, unaware that Plan A simply isn’t making it. So your Plan B provides a life measuring stick. When your Plan B is better than Plan A, maybe its time to switch to Plan B. Having a “next best thing” helps you know whether you’re on the right track.

This is like in Top Gun, after Goose dies, when Maverick can go back to his old squadron as the baddest pilot on ship, or he can pick up a new navigator and get in on the Top Gun strike force going after Generic Hostile Arab Country MIGs. Maverick chooses Plan B, being Iceman’s wing man, instead of going back to his squadron and leading them.

Now this isn’t code for “leave your wife the moment you find someone prettier or nicer.” Or to quit your job of 25 years when you find something that pays even slightly more. Everyone has to consider the big picture and the long-term. That Victoria Secret model who inexplicably seems interested in you may at some level seem like a better deal, but chances are she’s totally crazy (someone once told me one sign of a crazy woman is if she’s way out of your league but still interested in you. I’m not so sure that’s true; at some level, they’re all out of our league). That lingerie model won’t tolerate your predilection for spending weekends on your couch watching football and eating cheese. She’ll want to club hop until 4 a.m. every night in places where everyone’s clad in black and named Gunter or Fabian. Guys who are “just friends” will call all day for her. And she’ll subsist on celery, water and cigarettes. Then when she's done with you she'll steal your identity and run up thousands of dollars of charges on your American Express card, and send emasculating text messages about you to all your friends. If you're lucky. If you're not, she'll stay with you and stick you with all her plastic surgery bills and her trips to places like Hawaii and Spain (with her girlfriends, not you, where they'll coincidentally meet up with Gunter and Fabian). Uh, I've heard. Not like your wife, who’ll make you chicken and rice soup when you’re sick and cheese dip on game days, give you a hug and kiss when you come home after a bad day, and overlook the later-in-life shrubbery you have growing out of your ears and on your eyebrows.

So everyone needs to start living life with one, or ideally, several Plan Bs ready to go. Always have a backup, you just may need it soon.

How Have I Never Been on The Bachelor?

I remember very clearly a Saturday night spent at my Grandmother’s house with several of my older girl cousins. They were watching the Miss America pageant. It was around 1971 or 1972 or so, back when the Miss America pageant was a really big deal. My cousins were older teenagers or in their twenties. I recall how they were critiquing every little detail about these women: their clothes, talent, appearance, poise…no detail escaped their notice. My cousins were at times effusive in praise but often scathing in criticism. What would they think of The Bachelor, ABC’s “reality” show where 25 NFL cheerleaders, lingerie models and kindergarten teachers/former Miss Hawaiian Tropic swimsuit contest semi-finalists compete against one another to find Mr. Right? Men watch football and baseball to watch competition; these are the activities at which men excel. Women, however, excel at relationships, and for women, now that beauty pageants have fallen out of favor, televised relationships make up their competitive sport and the Bachelor final is their Super Bowl.

What follows below is far more thought than anyone has ever given to one of the shows driving American culture into Trotsky's dustbin of history—The Bachelor. More thought even than its producers. Which is odd, because all total, I’ve seen about 30 minutes’ worth of this show. But it only takes one sip to know if the wine is good. Or takes like head cheese. By the way, Miss Birdie loved watching this show, to my chagrin. She’d talk to my sister-in-law on the phone throughout. Now my little nieces watch.

This show takes spectacularly beautiful women, who for some reason have never been able to find the right special guy, and pits them against one another for the chance to win the heart of some purportedly fantastic guy. Who knew these women had so much trouble finding a good man? Oh, and they go Whatever Happened to Baby Jane on one another, which is pretty much the whole point and makes for entertaining viewing for women 14-48 (and every gay man on the planet). Its like Survivor, but with adapted old Dynasty scripts and costumes.

Dating shows, of course, are nothing new. The Dating Game pioneered the genre in the 1960s. Like every other Chuck Barris show, it was awesome. One bachelor got to question three bachelorettes anonymously, and got to pick his favorite for a fun-filled weekend date. The questions were provocative for the time. The show made for occasional fun by throwing in some nerd contestant, or some midget or toad. Then again, Tom Selleck was on and he never got picked. But you never got to see the dates though. After they gave the audience a big kiss, that was the last you ever saw these people. I always wondered what happened on the date. The show would send them to places like Las Vegas, Santa Barbara, or Taos. You knew the show was going down the tubes when they started sending couples to Galveston. Generally, finding yourself moving to Galveston is a sure sign you need to reevaluate your life choices, because yours have been dreadfully unimaginative. You never knew what would happen on the date, but the guy's 1973 Magnum PI mustache, Members’ Only jacket, and gold chains dangling in his shaved chest hair said “you’re getting in the clothing optional hot tub and taking the high hard one” within 10 minutes of arriving. Cheers!

The 80s saw a new kind of dating show, Love Connection. This was a fairly innocuous show, and actually kind of dull. It gave contestants a chance at a date with one of three people based on profiles. It was a little more complicated, but essentially the show paired people together for dates, then they’d come back on the show later and talk about how it went. Generally these were ordinary people, not glamorous or special. Goofball Chuck Woolery would ask each participant questions on the date and get wacky answers. The contestant could either have another date with the first person, or go out with whoever the audience selected for them. Hilarity ensued. Generally questions focused on the weird things the guys would do to interest the women, and how dull as dirt Chuck would blush in embarrassment.

The 1990s ushered in a more contest-oriented show, Singled Out. This provided for the rise of Jenny McCarthy, tomboyish, teasing, taunting coquette just a few months off of achieving “stardom” as Playboy’s Playmate of the Year. Later replaced by Carmen Electra. Singled out featured one young woman selecting from among 50 men, and then vice versa. The show would ask questions about various dating traits to the contestant, who would answer. Everyone not possessing the trait given in the answer would be forced off, though the contestant could exercise some sort of call-back option (sort of an NFL free agency “franchise tag” that keeps someone from leaving your team). As the field of 50 was narrowed down, the contestant got to ask a couple of their own questions until a final match resulted. Noted tool Chris Hardwick, a poor man’s Craig Kilborn without the charm hosted. Hardwick asked wacky questions and made wacky zingers, McCarthy flirted and teased, and hilarity ensued. But still no one saw the actual date that the show ostensibly arranged.

Blind Date, of the early 2000s, solved what we thought was the problem of not seeing what happened on the date. Unfortunately, it proved that watching two people on a date is more of a problem than not seeing them. Watching people with whom you have no connection go out on a date is much less entertaining than prior date-arranging shows. Blind Date was a cross between Pop Up Videos and being forced to watch every one of the worst dates you’ve ever been on in your life. The show actually filmed relatively average people on dates arranged by show producers. The matches appeared designed to give the daters what they wanted but also in creating a match designed to get a good match. By “match” I mean a complete train wreck. Sarcastic little comments were superimposed on screen, pop up video style, over the daters as the date progressed and the conversation became more agonizing. Finally, the audience saw just how dreadful the dating process can be. These little vignettes showed us the guardedness, over eagerness, goofiness, craziness, and outright awkwardness that exists on dates. It was like watching a recreation of the car wreck you were in once, but this time you weren’t actually in it even though it had that feel. You know how when you watch a tape of yourself speaking or performing and notice all kinds of mistakes you don’t notice when you’re actually doing the activity? That’s what watching Blind Date was like. All those lines you think are so great? Uh, not so much. Your sweet dance moves that never fail to charm the ladies? The ladies aren’t charmed after all. Entreaties to “loosen up,” do shots, or engage in other party-time activity that so many of us have committed on dates just look plain ridiculous when you see others doing it. For me, Blind Date was a half-hour cringe fest through my past. My heart always said “please God, tell me I’m not that bad on a date,” and my mind always answered, “Sorry, you’re at least this bad, and generally worse.”

The Bachelor combines contest and date elements with a beauty pageant and cat fight. Was there any chance it would not have wildly succeeded? The women compete with one another even as they go on dream dates with some good-on-paper, touch of grayish dolt. It stars with 25 and is quickly narrowed to 12 who live in a house while they all fight for their Mr. Right through a series of group and individual dates. Along the way, said dolt gradually narrows the field while getting cozy with as many of the contestants as possible until two are left for the final round where he selects his one and true soul mate. Right. Some one always gets kicked off on each show, so for the women its survive and advance. Its like March Madness but with cocktail dresses and dream dates.

But these aren’t just dates, they’re nuclear explosions. They’re the Big Bang of dates (metaphorically speaking). These people don’t go to Red Lobster and then to the latest Hugh Grant chick flick. No sir. They go hang gliding. In Maui. Then have dinner. Under a canopy. On the beach. By candlelight (which somehow doesn’t get blown out despite being at the beach…maybe it’s a CGI thing). There’s even an episode where they fly out to whatever backwater each woman is from just to meet her family. These episodes contrast the family’s stultifying ordinariness with the woman’s Maxim Super Bowl Party Hostess action. Why the guys never think to ask “why are you not like anyone in your family at all” is beyond me.

The show devotes a lot of time to showing the girls’ relationships and interaction during “down time” when dates aren’t happening, which of course is most of the time. We get to meet these ladies, find out their history and interests, and see how they play the game. Every one of these women of course have exactly the same history (some college, quit to follow career as dancer/actress/model) and interests (settling down with the perfect man and having a family, by which they mean landing a role on a soap or a hosting job on the E! Network). That’s appropriate because its very clear from the fact that after all these years exactly one couple have actually gone on to get and stay married that from the contestants’ perspective, this show is about getting publicity. Getting the guy, or fooling him long enough for him to keep you around so you can get more exposure, is only a means to that end. So in a sense, the dolt plays the same role as the judge on other dating and game shows. (Want to increase ratings? Have an audience call-in vote, like on American Idol, and the winner gets to stay no matter what the bachelor himself wants. That’s no way to match couples, but neither is this show). Its not clear why contestants would still think scoring big on The Bachelor will result in that Eve Harrington-like push over the top. Which Bachelor contestant has gone on to star on Broadway or in the movies, even with an “as seen on TV’s ‘The Bachelor’” title? Being on this show can’t even get you on basic cable, or even a recurring role on Two and a Half Men as one of Charlie’s daddy-issues-having girlfriends. That’s quite remarkable, because if winning The Bachelor doesn’t convince producers you’re good Sheen material, I don’t know what will. About the best any of these girls could possibly hope for is the role of traffic girl on Good Morning Birmingham. Or a six month run on the covers of Us and People, which Andy Warhol would find richly ironic.

But the ladies play on, God love ‘em, using their finely honed “backstabbing them with kindness” skills learned in sororities, cheerleading squads, and Kings of Leon backstage parties near and far. Watching the game reveals two dynamics playing out: besting the other contestants and interesting the sap long enough to stay around (and hence on TV).

Besting the other girls has two dimensions: psychological ops and using them with the sap. Psychological ops is fascinating. Watching the Bachelor for five minutes is like watching an MI6 interrogation video. Subtle digs, casual asides, outright insults, abuse, self-effacing statements which camouflage insidious cut-downs (“oh, I’d love to have your full figure, clothes just tend to hang on my frame”). Langley should really send some of these girls down to Guantánamo to help break al Queda. The other is digging up and using dirt on the other girls to stay alive. Put 12 women used to being the center of attention in a house for several weeks, and if backstory-revealing drama doesn’t break out, you’re just not trying. Even without there being an actual contest. (Hey, back off, I’ve seen “The Women” and “Mean Girls,” so I know how this works). One girl has a child she inexplicably forgot to reveal to producers. Another has a secret boyfriend. Still another was in jail. Sweating the secrets out is never a problem—left with plenty of time for nothing but talk, drinking wine, doing pilates, and getting in the hot tub, secrets are bound to spill like jello shots on the white carpet at the last party these girls attended before coming on the show. That said, the contestants can’t really blackmail each other or drive someone away directly, so it’s a matter of knowing when and how to use the information with the dude. Or, as the Wicked Witch of the West put it, “these things must be done delicately.”

But then there’s the dating aspect of this dating show. This is where what little humor this show possesses comes out. Because, and I hate to say this because I love all of you, but most women just don’t know how to pursue a man. I know that’s sexist. I know its 2010 and y’all can do anything a man can...but most of you can’t. Not pursuing men at least. Especially beautiful girls used to men lining up outside their door and down the block. Faced with the shoe being on the other foot, its interesting to see these ladies’ approaches. Some are open to anything (“fun girls”). Some are kittenish and bratty. Others come off as three minutes to desperate. Some try to be the “best friend,” while others just go man-style and jump right into the hot tub. All the while, these women sport an “I’m not really sure what to do next” look which usually clashes with their Revlon makeup. The problem is, none of these people have a Plan B (the subject of my next post, by the way…everyone needs a viable, well-devised Plan B). All overplay their various roles, and when they don’t immediately gain their ephemeral goal, they often descend into pleading or blatant self-hucksterism. But before they abandon ship and swim toward Desperation Island, its easy to see the calculation, diagnoses, probing, parry, and counter going on. The constant re-evaluation and over thought, with the ladies often punching at shadows and phantoms they perceive in the Bachelor. Consider the following remark:

Man: “I’m hungry, let’s go somewhere to eat.”

What do these woman hear:

“You’re fat so I know you must want something to eat.”
“I’m tired of listening to you.”
“You’re boring so I want to be around other people.”

And so on.

Maybe, but usually it just means the guy is hungry and wants to go eat. Women are complicated. One often must listen to a woman extremely carefully for the subtle nuance in her utterances. Men, however, are not so disposed. If a man says something that on its face is innocuous, he usually means it literally; there’s generally no fiendishly clever hidden meanings, and therefore no implied, passive aggressive messages signalling that the woman should adjust her approach. Which leaves a lot of these women wrongfooted more often than not.

There’s at least one exception to the mind numbing interaction that precedes hot tub time—the razor-like line of questioning that precedes the reveal of their rival's secret. These women, most of whom count reading Vanity Fair as a major intellectual achievement, all of the sudden become F. Lee Bailey cross-examining Mark Fuhrman when working up to this point. A proto-typical roll-through: “You’re honest, that’s what I like about you. I’ve tried to be honest too. Do you think so? You would want that from anyone you’re with, right? Because a relationship with lies at the start can never succeed, right? Have you been with a dishonest woman? It’s terrible, isn’t it? I’ve been with dishonest men, and it’s heartbreaking. So you want all of us to be honest with you, right? And you would want to know if someone here wasn’t being honest with you, wouldn’t you? Because that’s just wasting your time, and could hurt you if you had a relationship with someone who’s not honest with you. So if I knew someone wasn’t being honest with you, you’d want me to tell you, wouldn’t you?” Magnificent. And so, with inquisitive skills normally reserved for Suspected Cheating Boyfriend, the girl leads the dolt down the path and gets him to ask her what she knows. Blurting it out is for amateurs. Bring that weak game on over to Rock of Love Bus. On The Bachelor, we’re playing for keeps. Even if ratting out these other women is a punk ass move.

Which leads us to the putative prize at the end of the rose-lined rainbow: the man. Generally, he’s very good looking and possesses a title (“prince” or “Captain”) or money (“heir to the Firestone fortune”). A cool job could suffice too (we know that being David Carr’s backup in the NFL means you’re holding a clipboard and running the scout team, but not these ladies. Jesse got out of the League though, which was inevitable. When you find yourself behind the Two Glove Warrior on the depth chart, you probably need to give that old friend who owns an insurance agency a call). Once they let a normal guy be the Bachelor, but he immediately turned into a douche upon becoming the object of female attention. Which demonstrates the conundrum for the man. In real life, even these guys have to take steps that all the rest of us do to get women. As are we all, these guys are used to having to (1) single out the desired target, (2) separate her from the herd, i.e. the girl posse with which she constantly surrounds herself (whose main function appears to be driving away eligible male suitors with biting remarks like “you can do so much better,” or “ he’s such a jerk,” or “he’s too short,” or “he’ll only date you a couple of months and then move on,” or so I’ve heard), and (3) work your action. Men not named McConaughey or Pitt aren’t used to the line of hot babes following their every move and laying it down like a wet tarp during a Camden Yards rain delay. In the animal kingdom, the baby ducks always swim away from the alligators, not right to them. To the actual Bachelor, the game must seem like being Albert Pujols and seeing nothing but hanging 80 mph sliders (i.e. always batting against Brad Lidge). It’s comical watching these guys, faced with such a bounty, blow it when cast in the role of prey rather than hunter. That’s why Rock of Love is so awesome. Bret Michaels is the ultimate mating shark—always moving forward.

Given the inherent awkwardness of having a date while one or more cameras film everything, the conversation (or at least, the part you see that isn’t clipped to enhance the drama) becomes incredibly stilted. If you think a Harlequin Romance sets the standard for great dialogue, you’ll feel right at home. “I want a man with feelings, who cares for me as a person.” “I want a woman who can be my best friend.” This is the dating equivalent of a politician promising “good jobs at good wages”; how do you argue against it? Ordinarily these statements might mean the woman wants a man who cares for her, and not her chemically processed hair, photochemically enhanced tan, and surgically enhanced rack. On this show, that just means “can we make some bubbles in the hot tub now?” For though these people have the apparent conversational skills of two 16 year olds who’ve borrowed an older brother’s 1985 IROC Z to go make out at the park, the inevitable point is that the bolder play results in more dramatic tension, and therefore higher ratings. At one level, its hard to fault these people; you try doing anything on camera. On the other hand, are these people really that boring?

I love the picks these guys make. Guys invariably profess throughout the entire run of the show to be looking for their soul mate and someone who will be their life partner. Who will support them emotionally and spiritually, who has the right values, and who wants a family. Apparently on this show that means “pick the hottest girl.” Actually, that’s unfair. They generally pick the second or third hottest girl, because invariably the hottest girl is excessively crazy or insufferable. (You see, Timmy, to increase rating and produce requisite drawing of sides, the producers invariably place one or more totally crazy chicks into the cast, thereby guaranteeing that the women will take sides to combat the villain. To ensure the villain sticks around, they make sure she’s the most smokin’ hot girl on the show. This perfectly illustrates the hotness-craziness scale in action: a woman can be crazy as long as she is at least equally hot.). So the second or third hottest will do. Oh, and each every time, its been some extremely white woman just off the bus from that fake town in The Truman Show. What message does this send to American women? I’ll answer that: “Get to the gym. Then swing by the plastic surgeon’s office.” You may be smart, dynamic, creative, caring, sweet, loyal and sensitive. But that muffin top says all those qualities better start running and doing dumbbell supersets or you’re spending another Saturday night with your best gal pals wondering where all the good men went. They’re wasting a third of their income chasing after cross-training bunnies who, unfortunately, have mastered the power of speech. My favorite was the guy who picked no one in the end. He didn’t want either of the final contestants, so he picked no one. At least that was honest. Albeit humiliating. But give me a break. Like none of those chicks had ever shot down a guy? Child please. I also loved the guy who proposed to the girl he picked, then later realized he loved the other girl that he dumped, so on an “after the show” special he dumped his fiancée and asked out the other girl, to whom he’s now married. That’s just what you call a sound hedging strategy. Well played, sir, well played.

I also like how they follow the girl who doesn’t get picked right out the door and into the limo, and go with her for a ride. She runs through the entire spectrum of emotions in one three minute monologue. First, she’s crying and professes to love the dolt. That first turns into cursing him for his poor choice. This gives way to pitying him for the pain he will suffer when he realizes what a mistake he made in letting her go, giving way to careful analytic reasoning that he will eventually contact her again but she’ll have moved on, concluding with a Gloria Gaynor-like burst of self-esteem as one can almost hear “I Will Survive” as a faint echo in the distance, confident that a better man is waiting just around the corner than the man who three minutes ago she was in tears over losing. In other words, this is her audition for daytime TV.

Lots to consider here in just one dating show. But it’s a dating show that reveals much not about ourselves, but what we’re offered as some idealized relationship reality. If this represents actual dating and relationships, we may be in trouble. But I think, through the mist of time, with the changes of the last 40 years, my girl cousins would have approved of The Bachelor. They’d have been huddled around Grandma’s TV watching it, cheering on their favorites, mercilessly excoriating those they found wanting.

Because winning the game is the American Way.

And to answer the title question, an old friend actually nominated me to be on the show, without my knowledge. Its plain shocking they didn’t at least contact me.

Great Writing, Part I: MacArthur's Telegram to Jacqueline Kennedy

Again putting off American Idol because something in USA Today, of all things, really caught my attention.

As you know, really great writing has largely dissappeared from our culture. No one knows how to write the english language. Every day I become Henry Higgins , recoiling in horror as I read page after page written by people with one, and sometimes many, advanced major American university degrees. Not that you could tell by reading their work, of course. The typical American lawyer writes about as well as the average molding cheese block left in a post-Katrina New Orleans abandoned refrigerator. Ok, maybe that's a bit harsh. Let's say the cheese was a really nice brie, or smoked gouda. Not that other professions can lord it over the attorneys. Reading most major American newspapers and magazines (those that haven't gone bankrupt or exclusively on line) is just like reading Shakespeare. Except exactly the opposite.

So those extremely rare occasions when I read some brilliant writing are thrilling. Well, interesting anyway. So much so that I've decided to pass them on to you, particularly to contrast with my own Top Gun-laced harangues and diatribes.

First up, a very brief contribution from an unlikely source: the telegram Gen. Douglas MacArthur sent to Mrs. Kennedy upon her husband's assasination.

Despite his brilliance and his towering list of achievements, MacArthur was also a giant enormous blowhard. Having advance warning of oncoming Japanese troops and doing nothing to safeguard the Phillipines against attack. Getting a Medal of Honor for essentially losing the Phillipines. Losing thousands of men through attacking dug in Japanese troops rather than bypassing their islands as Nimitz' naval forces were doing. Protecting the Emperor and other highly placed Japanese leaders from war crimes trials. Ignoring intelligence on Chinese troop movements into North Korea, and disobeying orders not to approach China or attack near the border. Attacking Truman to individual Senators and Congressmen. Coming home after getting fired and going on what was essentially a Zeppelin-esque North American Summer Tour.

But he wrote a moving telegram. It exhibits two qualities that make it particularly remarkable. Its only two sentences. The best writing ends quickly, or at least seems to. That's why my posts go on forever. The telegram was the Twitter of its day; only a Rockefeller could send lengthy telegrams. To the second point, and it manages to meet the depth of despair and grief that Mrs. Kennedy must have felt that week. The phrase "words fail" is a cliche precisely because words really can't capture the utter shock and anguish at a close loved one's sudden death. This telegram, however, succeeds:

TELEGRAM Mrs. John F. Kennedy. The White House. I realize the utter futility of words at such a time, but the world of civilization shares the poignancy of this monumental tragedy. As a former comrade in arms, his death kills something within me. General MacArthur

I'll continue to look for other bits of excellent writing and post them here.

No that does not include anything by Maureen Dowd or Molly Ivins. Sorry libs.

Ice Dancing-Like a Green Bay Game, With Slightly More Ice (and More Sequins)

What would Brian Boitano do
If he was here right now,
He'd make a plan
And he'd follow through,
That's what Brian Boitano'd do
--“What Would Brian Boitano Do,” South Park: Bigger, Longer, Uncut

I like to picture Jesus as a figure skater. He wears like a white outfit, and He does interpretive ice dances of my life's journey.
--Cal Naughton, Jr., Talladega Nights

NBC once again is bringing us the Winter Olympics, which is really just code for figure skating. Or as I call it, “ice prancing.” Having paid a bundle for television rights to that collection of bribe hawking cronies known as the “International Olympic Committee,” NBC has stumbled onto a money making machine. Figure skating in the winter games, gymnastics in the summer games, and “up close and personal” Lifetime Network-style personal dramas in between Americans taking turns competing. Both generate huge ratings among American women. The Olympic figure skating competition essentially is their Super Bowl. All the real sports, like hockey, get sloughed off on CNBC. Want to see non-Americans compete? Buy a satellite dish and watch CBC or the BBC.

So with “all figure skating all the time” programming, the apologist parade has begun in full force. The gist seems to be that it’s a sport because the ice Liberaces have to perform athletic acts-jumps, leaps, spins, twists, etc.

Right. So do the guests at a Jewish wedding reception. Or on Iron Chef.

Enjoy figure skating all you want. Bring home some wine and cheese, light your eucalyptus love candle, turn down the lights, and spend the night with your favorite prancers. Knock yourself out. Just don’t think that you’re watching something that’s a sport, any more than wrestling or the Miss America contest is a sport. No, figure skating is Xanadu. With ice.

Figure skating is a way to spend Sunday afternoon with your girlfriend, like Rocky and Adrian in the first Rocky movie. Though Rocky didn’t actually wear skates, he just kind of shuffled along on the ice while Adrian skated, which was kind of weird, since he paid the guy working at the rink a ten spot to let them in and rent the skates when the rink was closed. Couldn’t he have ponied up another five for another pair of skates?

Or it’s a way to have fun at the Galleria. Right after you’ve tried on shoes at the annual Neiman-Marcus shoe sale, and before you eat lunch at Chili’s.

And the Olympic Figure Skating competition? Basically that’s the audition for the Ice Capades. Or Disney on Ice.

But its not a sport. Without going through the lawyer-like exercise of resort to authority (i.e. the definition of “sport”), let’s just say “sport” is a contest where individuals or teams compete in an athletic endeavor against one another using a scoring system in which the players earn points through objective criteria. Like crossing the goal line, putting the ball in the hole or the hoop, crossing home plate. These are examples of earning points through your own acts under objective criteria. Having to depend on some judge to award you points, applying his or her subjective criteria about what qualifies for a point, simply isn’t a sport. Its just a contest. Sports involve determining winners through objective means—who scores the most points. Not who is awarded the most points.

Gymnastics, bodybuilding, dance-offs, …these may all involve athletic motions, but they all depend on largely subjective evaluations to determine the winner. No doubt exists that the skaters practice a lot and utilize athletic skills. But so do Dancing With the Stars contestants. Or to make a more serious point, so do ballet dancers. Hey, Gene Kelly was probably every bit the athlete of some of his famous contemporaries like Mickey Mantle, Sugar Ray Robinson and Johnny Unitas as he famously demonstrated in his intriguing television show, Dancing: A Man’s Game. But as incredibly gifted as the dancing was, “Moses Supposes” simply isn’t a sport.

Think about these four people: Willie Mays, Jim Brown, Michael Jordan, Brian Boitano. Which one doesn’t belong? ‘Nuff said.

Then there’s plenty of rules of thumb to which we can resort. Its not a sport if you have to spend as much time designing your costume or selecting your background music as you put into practicing. Ted Williams never had to check whether his uniform feathers were in place before going to the plate. Or worry Joe DiMaggio would have some thug bash his knee. Its probably not a sport if you call it “rehearsal” and not “practice.” Or if you’re presented a lovely bouquet after you perform. Or if the difference between winning and losing turns on whether the French judge has been bribed. Again.

Or you have a choreographer.

Sports involves great rivalries like Lakers-Celtics, Cowboys-Redskins, or Yankees-Red Sox. Two of the prancers arguing over who stole the other’s hair style, or whether their feathers are on properly, isn’t exactly Bird vs. Magic. Its more like a Krystal vs. Alexis slap fight on Dynasty. It might be fun, but its never going to get a good pay per view rating.

Sports is also about toughness, resolve and overcoming adversity to win the game. Its about playing hurt and reaching beyond the pain. I’m sure the ice dancers get blisters and mess up their hair and probably get writer’s cramp from signing autographs after the “Champions on Ice Tour” performances in places like Tulsa and Quad Cities. But their rhinestones and ruffles combination outfits say otherwise. Kerry Collins asking Dom Capers to be excused from playing thinks these guys are Charmin soft.

The truth is, figure skating is basically women’s porn. In overwhelming numbers, they enjoy watching pretty men (and women) in pretty clothes with pretty hair moving gracefully about the ice. Those guys aren’t like their schlub of a husband, smearing cheetoes residue on their bulging stomach covered by a 1985 Chicago Bears NFL Champions sweatshirt as they reach for their fourth Natty Light of the evening, ensconced in the La-Z-Boy. Proof? What’s on the other channels during the Super Bowl? That’s right. Figure skating. Ever seen the commercials during figure skating? It’s like watching Lifetime Network. No, these guys exude charm, grace, sensitivity, taste…you know. They’re exactly what you want your man to be in nearly every way. Just gayer. And with more sparkly things.

Next-I really will try to talk about American Idol. Right after deciding who to vote for in the Republican primary for Governor. Rick or Kay. What I mean is, I need to decide who has the better hair. Kay’s got some fierce locks, and her two hour hairstyling appointments definitely make a strong case to become Governor. But the Perry Mane is dominant. It takes no prisoners. It has never known defeat. Like a ninja sword, it cannot be resheathed until it tastes blood. At least three documented miracles have been attributed to the Mane. What to do? What to do?

Super Bowl XLIV: Not the Cowboys vs. Not the Cowboys

Dallas is a woman who will walk on you when you're down
But when you are up she's the kind you want to take around
And Dallas ain't a woman who will help you get your feet on the ground

--"Dallas," Jimmie Dale Gilmore

As I sit down to savor yet another renewal of what was once imaginatively called the “AFL-NFL World Championship Game,” I reflect on those remarkable events that signify the years passing. The New Orleans Saints are in the Super Bowl. The New Orleans Saints! Think about that. The team that once was the NFL’s elephant graveyard is playing for the ring. You’ve got to like the fact that John Mecom’s little tax write-off, which the NFL awarded him solely to keep the AFL out of New Orleans, has managed to second line its way to the big game. A franchise that points to such immortals of the game like Drunk Billy Kilmer wearing a one-bar helmet and no chin strap, Danny Abramowicz, John Gilliam, Doug Atkins, Half-footed kicker Tom Dempsey, Hokie Gajan, Edd Hargett, or Ol’ Arch as its all-time stars really doesn’t even belong in the NFL, much less at the Super Bowl. You know, the Aints. But who dat say dey gonna beat dem Saints? This is the greatest thing to happen to New Orleans since Comus began parading (or syphilis was cured, one or the other).

The sad thing is they’re not playing the Super Bowl in New Orleans like they should be. Can you imagine the party, win or lose? Oh, and it should be at Tulane Stadium where all Super Bowls belong, under threat of a spring shower (in late January). All Super Bowls should be played in one of three places: the Orange Bowl (site of Joe Namath’s “guarantee” game), Tulane Stadium, or the LA Coliseum. The fact that two of those places don’t exist and there hasn’t been an NFL game in the third since 1975 is really beside the point. No more rotation. Super Bowls in places like Detroit or Atlanta are preposterous. And Up With People should have the halftime gig. Sorry to say but they’re at least as cutting edge as the Who these days. The Rolling Stones in a walker slurping Metamucil think the Who may be past their prime.

But another thing that you just can’t help notice. Yet again, for the 14th year in a row, the league’s premier game won’t feature the league’s “premier team.” That’s right, America’s Team won’t be playing in America’s Game. That’s funny isn’t it? What with the hyper-attention the nation’s media pays to every Valley Ranch twist and turn. For a team with one playoff victory to its name in the past 13 years, which by the way is exactly one more than the expansion Houston Texans in the same period, you have to wonder what all the fuss is about.

Ah, the Good Old Dallas Cowboys. The mere name has to bring up special thoughts and memories for everyone. The fans’ cult-like obsession. Acceptance of moral depravity that would embarrass a sewer rat in the pursuit of victory. The smugness of achievement of a team that once had it all but refuses to recognize its true self now, like the head cheerleader that can’t see the extra 40 pounds and 30 years. Ousting the annual Texas vs. Texas A&M Thanksgiving game from the television schedule. Playing ball in a public-funded football equivalent of Versailles that charges prices so high that most of the people who paid taxes to fund it cannot afford a ticket to get in (without missing that month’s mortgage payment). Insisting on other teams in the league following different rules than apply to them. Yes sir, those are the ‘Boys.

In case you haven’t figured it out, I have a bit of a problem with the Dallas Cowboys. Like other Houstonians (and all other right-thinking people of course), I’ve never been able to support the Cowboys. In the Jerry Jones era, I’ve actively despised them, notwithstanding that some of their players have been magnificent, both as players and people. But I’ve always hated them, particularly as I grew up an Oilers fan. It was one thing that people everywhere else in Texas followed the Cowboys over the Oilers, but it was particularly galling how many Houston fans supported the Cowboys and not the Oilers. What the hell?

Obviously, this all begins with Dallas itself. Let me be perfectly clear, and use simple terms so that no one mistakes my meaning.

Dallas Sucks.

Got it?

Everything about Dallas, everything Dallas is, everything its been, everything it stands for, sucks. Houstonians, and by that I mean all real Houstonians, hate Dallas. Perhaps sealing the deal for us is that Dallas basically could care less about Houston, either as a city or a team. Dallas is simply the denial of all things Texan. Dallas has no real culture, personality, or product of its own, it acquires it elsewhere and tries to pass it off as its own. Hell, the fact that the Dallas team hasn’t actually played a game in the city of Dallas since Craig Morton was quarterback pretty much says it all. Dallas is embarrassed to be in Texas and does all it can to deny being of Texas. Its about material possessions, appearances, style, social climbing, pretension, McMansions, and all things white. No one sweats in Dallas (like ladies, they perspire). Everyone sweats in Houston, a lot, starting when we back the car out of the driveway in the morning and all day long in summers that could steam the glue off of fat guys’ toupees. Or boil lobster thermodor. The whole wide world is in Houston: pipe fitters, joint welders, ship captains, shit kickers, rice farmers, lawyers, doctors, rocket scientists, chemists, engineers, rock and rollers, artists, cooks, hustlers, pimps, winos, holy rollers, Vietnamese refugees, Africans, Haitians, Cubans, Indians, Pakistanis, Euro trash, Moslems, jews, Christians, hindus, gurus, and East Texans (come in from the farm like John Travolta in Urban Cowboy to get work and meet himself a real lady like Pam; I sure liked Pam a lot better than that irritating harpy Debra Winger). Dallas has an affected style, the class of plastic and pretension, and the air of social rank. Houston has got no style, and its got no class. Houston makes money. Houston gets things done. Houston is real people. Houstonians may have to flee hurricanes, but Houstonians don’t riot or set fires or wail about helplessly at the first sign of trouble. Houstonians help each other out. Notice how Travolta didn’t go to Dallas? If the cities were the Bush twins, Dallas would be Barbara: cool, polished, stoic, collected, secretly committing transgressions for which she’ll never face punishment because she can use connections to have it hushed up and made to disappear. Houston is Jenna. The Fun One. Getting absolutely ripped and wearing a tube top to the Poison concert and flashing Bret Michaels while sitting on her boyfriend’s shoulders. Singing “Talk Dirty to Me!” at the top of her lungs between Jaeger bombs, then leading the crew over to Whataburger after for snacks. Then classes up on Sunday to go to church and meet Grandma.

Historically, the teams reflected that schism. The Tom Landry Cowboys were methodical, cool, robotic, operating with machine-like precision based on calculation and meticulous planning. And they were stars. The media fawned over Staubach, Pearson, Dorsett, Hill, Rentzel, White, Lilly, Hayes, and in later years the triplets, Deion, Novacek, Newton, and even that idiot Leon Lett. Anyone with a personality got shipped off: Don Meredith, Hollywood Henderson, Duane Thomas, Clint Longley. The Oilers of old were never stars. They were lunchpail guys. Most of the early teams were comprised of castoffs, except for Billy Cannon, who never really fulfilled his pro potential. But they were colorful. Pastorini married a Playboy Playmate of the Year. Carl Mauck wrote the team song. Guido Merkins got a tryout while driving a truck for a living. There were of course outstanding athletes-Bethea, Munchak, Childress, Moore, Matthews, Moon, Burroughs, Kenny Houston-but none of them ever got as much glory as Cowboys also-rans. But those guys were always more real and genuine, and had more personality and heart, it seemed, than the stoic Cowboys. I was happier in defeat when Bum promised to kick the door in than I imagine any Cowboys fan could be at any Jerry Jones Super Bowl victory (sponsored by Pepsi, and with promotional consideration provided by Rolex).

Under Tex Schramm and Tom Landry, I could at least appreciate the Cowboys’ success and their innovations. Though antiseptic and stoic, they at least had class and dignity. Jerry Jones’ purchase of the team and subsequent operation has long since swept away even that attribute. Jerry Jones is the Ross Perot of professional sports. Success in one field convinced him he can succeed in any field. Like Captain Ahab obsessively pursuing the White Whale, Jones’s win at all cost philosophy, which works in business, doesn’t necessarily translates to the field in the salary cap era (where the Cowboys can’t just buy championships) and his utter hubris prevents him from seeing he is the primary obstacle preventing the Cowboys from achieving Super Bowl victories.

Jones and ego. Its like bacon and eggs. Or Shake and Bake (now “El Diablo” and “the Magic Man”). Those two are buddies from WAY back. The Cowboys win two Super Bowls, but Jerry fires Jimmy Johnson because the latter gets all the credit. Which he deserved because Jimmy put together the team and coached it. Jerry spent the money and got to roam the sidelines like the jock sniffer he is. He brings in a procession of stiffs whom he can roll over, til things get so bad he has no choice but to hire a real coach. To placate his ego, he decides he needs to have the best coach, Bill Parcells, and even agrees to let Parcells run the show while Jerry backs off. Just when Parcells gets the team turned around, Jerry can’t help himself and adds more star power (or at least “stars”) in the form of such all-time good guys as Tank Johnson, Pacman Jones and Terrell Owens. Jerry roams the sidelines like he’s the coach. He runs the team as general manager, though he had absolutely no experience, still has no real qualifications for evaluating talent, and is constantly torn away from football to attend to his other businesses. He’s the only owner in football with his own TV show. The only one who does commercials. Aside from Mike Brown and Al Davis, the only one who actually runs his team (which puts him in pretty poor company). Not satisified with playing in a standard NFL stadium, Jones held up those idiots in Arlington to build the Jones Mahal, a Xanadu-like monument to excess, charging more in parking fees than most tickets to Astros games. He gets plastic surgery to get that fine corpse-like waxy sheen that must impress the ladies, and caps to let his chompers take a serious bite at the media. He sued the NFL to get out of sharing concessions, merchandising, and sponsorship revenue, as if though the Cowboys don’t actually have to play another team every Sunday. News flash, those aren’t scrimmages you’re watching, they’re actually the Cowboys playing another NFL team. Jones spearheaded the NFL Network/TimeWarner Cable fiasco, thereby preventing a substantial number of die-hard Texas Cowboys fans from watching their beloved team play Thursday night games (that he pressures the league into awarding to his team).

Ego is one thing; I’m sure there’s 31 other NFL owners whose heads can barely fit inside their luxury suites. Classlessness, however, is quite another. We first learned about Jerry from the appalling and disgusting way he cut loose Tom Landry (on a golf course in Austin, after having already told media members Landry was out). Then, after making Tex Schramm’s life a living hell for a few weeks, he unceremoniously dumped him as well. These two men were more than just innovative. They made the NFL what it is today. Without these two men, the NFL would be radically different than the game we love today. Yet after 25 years of building the Cowboys into the league’s marquee team, and arguably the most important sports franchise in the world, they got no more thanks than the back of Jerry’s hand on the way out the door. When Jones decides to cut corners and build a cheap, uninspected indoor practice facility that collapses and paralyzes one assistant coach and breaks the neck of another, Jones issues no public statements of sympathy or otherwise. Jerry brings on any common street thug with a swift 40 time or bench press number when he thinks it may help him sell jerseys or win games. His tolerance of rampant criminality during the 1990s was shocking. At times you couldn’t tell if that was a pro football team or a Led Zeppelin tour (or the 1986 Mets). Remember all those fun times? Cocaine, strippers, hookers, booze, pills. Michael Irvin stabbing Everett McIver in the neck for not getting out of the barber chair when Michael wanted to go first. Nate Newton getting busted for driving a truckload of pot (that’s 175 pounds to you and me) down I-10 just as casually as if he were moving his stuff to Lafayette for a new job. Barry Switzer, the Bootlegger’s Boy, and former coach of that bastion of the “student-athlete” Oklahoma (think Charles Thompson selling coke, Buster Rhymes firing machine guns, and several rape allegations) going through pre-9/11 airport security with a loaded .45. Pacman Jones (rap sheet: 13 police reports, 6 arrests). Tank Johnson (violated probation by weapons possession). Just recently Deion Anderson gets arrested for pulling a gun on a guy outside a restaurant. Duane Goodrich plowing into some good Samaritans doing 110 Mph and fleeing the scene. Many teams have bad guys, but Jones seems indifferent. He’s the poster child for the “win at all costs” mentality.

Yet, ironically, through the towering ego and pursuit of glitz and glamour and star power, there’s a shocking tolerance of on-field mediocrity. “Win” at all costs apparently means “become famous and make lots of money at all costs.” Actually winning championships doesn’t seem quite as important. He may say so, but on the principle that actions speak louder than words, look at what he’s done to “win.” Fired Jimmy Johnson, ran off Bill Parcells, hired coaching immortals such as Dave Campo, Chan Gailey and Little Bum Phillips. Who moved up in the draft to pick Quincy Carter in the first round? Who brought in Chad Hutchinson, Steve Walsh, Anthony Wright, 80-year-old Vinnie Testaverde, 90-year-old Drew Bledsoe, and Ryan Leaf. Ryan Leaf? Two-glove wonder David Carr wants to know why he didn’t get a shot. Jones cares more about bringing in past-their-prime stars with name value than up and coming players that can achieve. Roy Williams? There’s $11 million more in dead money. Terrell Owens. Pacman Jones. Is there any doubt who’s drafting Tim Tebow?

But aside from Jerry Jones, there’s yet another reason to hate and despise the Cowboys. The zombie-like cadre of brainwashed lemming masses that swallow any product they’re sold with a blue star stamped on it. You know, Cowboys fan. Year in, year out, Cowboys fan watches the team flail in mediocrity and under-achievement but somehow manages to see a Super Bowl championship every season. To them, the Cowboys win the Super Bowl every year. They are the Iraqi information minister of sports fans. “Yes, yes, we have definitely won the Super Bowl. The Colts-Saints game is for third place!” Cowboys fan myopia borders on Raider myopia, possibly passing it as more and more Raiders fans sicken of Al Davis’ Mafioso-style senility. And they just take it, hook, line and sinker. $75 to park? No problem. $40 just to come inside the stadium and stand in one end zone? Sign them up. $59 for the cheapest seat in the house. $2000 for the cheapest PSL. They buy the hats, the shirts, the cups, the pizza (which cost $60 in one of the suites), the Pepsi (because Jerry has a special endorsement deal with Pepsi while the rest of the NFL is with Coke). They accept 9-7 records year after year, hoping next year will bring another round of the Michael/Emmitt/Troy glory days. They are the legions of the America’s Team worshippers. They are Raiders fan without criminal records. Until they demand that Jerry backs off from his GM duties and provide an actual winner, they merely buy the jacked up, good but not that good, product that Jerry dishes out. In the end, they’re just cheering for the shirts. And the stars.

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