Miami Vice

Miami Beach is where neon goes to die.
--Lenny Bruce

Cold December weather (I know, its always cold in December…I’m one of those people who’s always shocked to realize its almost Thanksgiving or Christmas), both in New York and here, having taken its toll, me and my special lady friend decided New Year’s needed to happen somewhere warm. Though not in a foreign country (that ruled out Brownsville), and not in Hawaii.

So we headed to Miami Beach for five glorious days and nights basking in warm Atlantic breezes (actually it was a little chilly at night), savoring the eclectic mix of people who’d come to Miami from all over (Euro-trash, cashmere-wearing Stanford alums, Cubans, and Virginians who’d inexplicably missed the “Cops” auditions). And going to the Orange Bowl to watch Stanford put an ugly beatdown on Virginia Tech. Ah, its like a dream even now.

Miami hasn’t always had a good run in popular culture. Its reputation today no doubt arises from Miami Vice, Scarface, Cape Fear and news coverage of about 50,000 hurricanes. And the Cuban Boatlift. And as the party place for rappers, NBA stars, Kardashians, and coked-up supermodels and cable TV stars. But those stereotypes aren’t really so accurate.

Miami, like Dallas, is as much a state of mind as an actual municipal entity. The city of “Miami” is actually quite small; numerous other little municipalities with names you’ve probably heard of before surround it—Coral Gables, Coconut Grove, Miami Shores, Miami Gardens, Fontainebleau, Key Biscayne, and Miami Beach. The last of those is where we stayed, and is the specific area to which all the thong-wearing and cigarette smoking Euros, Crystal-swilling rappers, Telemundo stars, and in this case Orange Bowl fans, flocked. Formerly Jackie Gleason’s home turf, but I digress. Miami Beach, and specifically the southern part (imaginatively called “South Beach”) first got on the cultural map as a haven for northerners looking to escape the brutal cold that makes their grackle and black snow-ridden wasteland a perfect place to leave (think Jersey Shore without the charm). Lots of smallish hotels cropped up in South Beach during the 1920 and 30s, all in a distinctive Art Deco style. Lots of millionaires built mansions there. Remember in Some Like It Hot, when Sweet Sue and Her Society Syncopators were going to Florida to play a gig—they were going to Miami Beach and Sugar wanted to meet one of the millionaires. Larger and grander hotels later sprung up further north, such as the Fontainebleau and the Eden Roc. Lots of famous stars, including all the Rat Packers, frequented and performed in Miami Beach during the 50s and 60s (think Frank and Dino poolside at the Eden Roc, or Jackie Gleason’s weekly show at the Civic Auditorium). That scene in Goldfinger, where 007 seduces Goldfinger’s girlfriend (who eventually winds up covered in gold paint)? The exteriors were filmed at the Fontainebleau. But as times inevitably changed, the place lost its luster (no pun intended) in the 1970s and got a little seedy. Later in the 1980s, as Miami again hit the map during the cocaine running days, Miami Beach began to be reborn. In the usual pattern of urban revitalization, first the gay community moved in and started homesteading, followed by the drug lords, then everyone else eager to check out the resulting party scene. The big hotels underwent renovation, and others followed. The Art Deco hotels were declared a national historic district, so they were spared from being permanently turned into a forgettable stretch of crack houses, Hampton Inns and Waffle Houses. Everyone returned to South Beach to party, check out the beautiful people, and enjoy the abundant sun, surf, and shore.

Including me and my special lady friend.

12/30

We left town on the 30th and flew into Fort Lauderdale. It’s a much smaller, efficient airport, kind of like Hobby Airport vs. Bush Intercontinental. FLL, however, has a high concentration of 100-year-old Yankee refugees inching along with hide-like skin from excessive tanning, lugging around fur coats. We’d had some glimpse of this when we boarded our flight, what with the blue hairs taking their seats at glacial pace. This was so agonizingly slow that the normally reserved flight attendants had to implore these people to, you know, move it so we could actually leave that day. I momentarily thought zombies or boarding the plane (cause, you know, they move really slow), but sure enough, it was the Class of 1923. But you can fly direct to FLL from Austin. Flying directly into Miami forces you to stop in either Intercontinental or DFW (which in the latter case is sort of like traveling through Hell; though catching the connecting flight out of Hell is always pretty sweet, kind of like the elation of catching a spot on the landing skids of the last helicopter to leave the US Embassy in Saigon). Within fifteen minutes after leaving the airport, we hit the first of the numerous toll roads we would encounter throughout our stay. This place is Rick Perry’s version of Heaven. Private enterprise building all public infrastructure, and charging a per-use fee every time we use it. Within 30 minutes, we’d made it to South Beach.

Among the dozens of smallish South Beach hotels, we stumbled onto a real find at a work colleague’s recommendation —the Pelican Hotel. The fashion company Diesel owns the hotel and has really turned it into something unique. Literally. Every room featured its own theme design. Examples include Love, Peace and Leafforest, Psychedelic (ate) Girl, and Up, Up in the Sky. We stayed in Do the Vehicle, with furnishings resembling a mechanic’s shop: Industrial PVC-tube desk and nightstands, floodlights, walk-in shower, overhead shop fan, and shop light fixtures. The entire hotel is a fun place to stay. Two things really stood about the rooms. One is that you could actually see. Nearly every American hotel owner has decided that guests don’t really need light; by removing anything resembling an overhead light have turned nearly all American hotel rooms into mini-black holes. Not the Pelican. Four floodlights on a dimmer switch lit the room like a runway. The other is the shower, which had a discernible water flow beyond the melting ice drip found in most hotels. In contrast to most hotels’race against airlines to see which can best torture their guests and cut the most creature comforts, the Pelican provides very livable space. Its very reasonably priced, convenient, and fun. Two curmudgeonly thumbs up.

After settling in and establishing our bearings, we walked up Ocean Drive (more on that later) to the Lincoln Road pedestrian mall for a very late lunch/early dinner. So we went to the Van Dyke Cafe, in a cool old stone building (why anyone would build a stone building in Miami Beach is beyond me), where we sat on the patio and people-watched as darkness fell. Our day’s diet of power bars, nuts, and seeds had caught up to us…well, me. The Lincoln Road mall is a several block outdoor stretch of trendy restaurants, kitschy shops, at least three Starbuck’s and lots of people-watching. And what people watching. Obnoxiously over-designered euros, tight t-shirted men walking pocket dogs and their boy toys, Billy Ray Cyrus Fan Club members obviously in to cheer on Virginia Tech, cardigan wearing-Marin County hot-tubbers in for Stanford, and Telemundo wannabees spending their time thinking of ways to get past the rope at LIV. Pretty much the Human Comedy walking right past our table as night fell. We enjoyed the show while dining on grilled calamari, sesame tuna, and sautéed spinach.

We were pretty tired from the flight and drive, and fell asleep watching the Tennessee-North Carolina bowl game (a/k/a the “Music City Bowl”…see prior post on the bowls). Eventually, however, we got hungry again, and by that, I mean that I got hungry again. We walked to the end of the block to News Café where we had a delightful omelet breakfast, which really hit the spot. At around 11 p.m. Thanks Phil and Marcy McNutt (of the Humble McNutts) for teaching me the joys of late night breakfasts. No, you don’t want the details. But this night, we were so tired that school cafeteria chicken fried steak would have seemed like French Laundry.

12/31

Its New Year’s Eve! Time to sleep late. When we finally managed to extract ourselves out of the hotel to workout on the beach, a la ESPN’s “Body Shaping” but less spandexy (I know, a little too bourgeois, but would you rather work out in some mid-priced Hilton Hotel fitness center or right on Miami Beach?), we saw that the “authorities” had closed Ocean Drive to vehicular traffic. Donte Stallworth thinks that’s about a year too late (too soon? Ok). It was a little overcast, but 75 degrees on the beach on December 31st while everyone back home is shivering? Yes please! So we contented ourselves doing body weight exercises provided by my excellent personal trainer, Kirby Sams, perfectly suited for vacation training. After making our way back to the hotel across Ocean Drive, through the hordes of euros, hillbillies, and thonged-up man-huggers, we cleaned up and headed over to Española Way for lunch at Tapas y Tintos, a Spanish restaurant featuring excellent tapas. Which I guess the name would imply. We feasted on a number of treats, including manchego, calamari, other shellfish, and mushrooms. We enjoyed it, though surprisingly the place has received some bad reviews. Maybe we had a better experience because we went after the lunch rush. Española Way is a pretty interesting place. It’s about a two or three block stretch of some mildly touristy restaurants and shops with a latin/Hispanic theme. Its closed to vehicle traffic, and kind of a quiet oasis in the South Beach maelstrom.

From there we headed back to the hotel to change and go visit the Fontainebleau and Eden Roc hotels further up the island. These two hotels were developed in the 1950s to draw in the rich and famous of their time. After recent renovations and expansions, the Fontainebleau now consists of several buildings, with extensive room space (1,500 rooms) along with restaurants, pools, a spa, night clubs and bars. Lowest room rates are around $500 a night. It very much resembles a Las Vegas hotel (the Fontainebleau actually operates a hotel in Vegas as well). This is the kind of place people like J. Lo or Puff Daddy go to cut loose, and see and be seen. As we toured the place, they had roped off the pool area to prepare for the mega-New Year’s Eve bash. Three stages with music. Minimum ticket price $500. The Fontainebleau’s next door neighbor, the Eden Roc, is where the stars actually stay, for something a little more tranquil. Frank may have performed at the Fontainebleau, but he stayed at the Eden Roc. Its where the Ricardos and the Mertzes stayed on the I Love Lucy show when they came to town too. The Eden Roc was originally designed by the same architect that designed the Fontainebleau, hired by one of the Fontainebleau’s original partners who fell out with his other partners. Bitter recriminations followed, leading to the Fontainebleau adding a 14 story tower to block sunlight to the Eden Roc’s pool. Because all the windows were facing away from the Eden Roc, the Eden Roc’s guests got to enjoy a view of a huge white concrete wall. Read about it here. A landmark legal decision followed, in which the Florida courts found that no implied easements exist for sunlight, such that the Eden Roc was screwed. The Eden Roc also has been renovated, and expanded. It’s the same luxury level as the Fontainebleau (it too has spas, restaurants and shops), but infinitely cozier and friendlier. Less attitude.

After touring these hotels, we then got ready for the New Year’s Eve fiesta. We didn’t make reservations til late (my advance planning skills once again manage to hold back the vacation fun), but still enjoyed a fine dinner at the W Hotel, Soleá Restaurant. As we finished a bit early, we went back to our hotel to experience Ocean Drive. The police had closed the street to vehicle traffic, so foot traffic that normally squeezed itself onto the sidewalks, competing for space with outdoor restaurants, spilled out into the street. What a freak show. Every kind of bizarre, oddball weirdo you can think of was there, representing. And Virginia Tech fans. It was like…Austin. Ocean Drive is the heart of South Beach, a promenade of posing. More than one exotic car rental establishment serves the area, such that you often see people driving by in Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Aston Martins and the like, who rather obviously don’t have the means to own one. Or are rappers. Or criminal defense attorneys maxing out their credit cards. Sometimes its hard to tell the difference. People walk, skate, roller blade, jog, bike, skateboard, and cruise up and down the promenade all day and night, checking out all the other people, watching the beach volleyball players, and soaking in the warm sun and ocean breezes. As they get their freak on. Though Ocean Drive is a strange place, its not unsafe or disgusting. Think Bourbon Street, but replace the bars with restaurants, and the falling down drunk conventioneers and bachelorette parties with gays, European tourists, and Orange Bowl fans. Our own hotel was hosting a space-themed New Year’s party, replete with waiters wearing faux Star Trek uniforms, green lit fog machine, and four exotically beautiful dancing space beauties with crazy hair. We attended for a bit, and at midnight were there to watch the fireworks out over the ocean. Quite a nice way to ring in the New Year, at an outdoor space party under palm trees, without suffering in freezing weather. Suck it Times Square.

1/1

As usual, this was destined to be a slower day than New Year’s Eve, though we saw a lot of Miami proper. After sleeping late, we headed to the beach for a six mile run. It took us to South Pointe Park at the very southern tip of Miami Beach, and back north as far as the end of Ocean Drive. Not too many people were out, but more than you’d think on this very sunny and warm New Year’s Day. After recovering and getting cleaned up, we walked back toward the Lincoln Road pedestrian mall for a late lunch at Grillfish. This great little Italian-influenced seafood place was just the spot. The day had warmed up considerably and it was downright hot as we were walking toward Lincoln Road. Rather than dining outside, we ducked into Grillfish to enjoy the nice air conditioning (global warming be damned…air conditioning is one of the greatest inventions ever). There we watched the epic Florida vs. Penn State Outback Bowl matchup. By that I mean it was just football to watch. I had an excellent arugula/pecan/goat cheese salad, followed by grilled snapper. After walking around and exploring a little more of South Beach that afternoon, we got dressed and climbed into the rent-mobile to visit Miami proper.

We hit some spots I’d been to before. First off was Coral Gables, home to the University of Miami. In many places, Coral Gables resembles West University or University Park. We were losing daylight though, and because, as previously reported, the U’s campus resembles a Stalingrad housing block, we headed over to Coconut Grove. This is an oasis, nestled between Murderville to the west, and expensive mansions fronting the water just to the east. It features a three or four block area of trendy shops, restaurants and clubs, and we settled at Green Street Cafe for dinner on the patio and to watch the second half of the TCU vs. Washington Rose Bowl. How delightful was it to watch the “Sisters of the Poor,” as that idiot President of Ohio State called them, take down the Big 10 champion? Wisconsin, by the way, beat Ohio State this year. Its absolutely ridiculous that TCU can’t get in the Big 12. One hears that its Baylor’s fault; Baylor wants to be the sole religious university in the conference. Isn’t it about time we dropped those losers? Talk about the tail wagging the dog. Anyway, Green Street had a bar feeling, with patio outdoor seating, sofa chairs, and a very long outdoor bar. Yet it also had a full menu, and I enjoyed a really great duck breast salad while watching the game. The place was packed, which was quite surprising for New Year’s night. Lots of others jammed other restaurants and bars in the vicinity, most watching the Heat game. Word is that Miami is in love with the Heatles, as LBJ so ridiculously put it.

We wallowed out of there and then toured the famous Biltmore Hotel in Coral Gables. This place was the height of opulence in the 1920s, built on what at the time was a vacant prairie. After falling into disrepair in the 1970s and after narrowly escaping the wrecking ball, the city condemned the property and entered into a public-private partnership to renovate the place. Happily, they preserved the hotel, and its magnificent Spanish architecture. We arrived as someone was holding a black tie wedding. Featuring a golf course, several excellent bars and restaurants, a deluxe spa and workout facility, a pool which at one time was the world’s largest, and incredible furnishings, this place is the height of authentic elegance. Not the modern-day manufactured Ritz Carlton variety. Photos of Presidential visits, and those of other A-list celebrities (including Al Capone), lined the halls. You wouldn’t normally think of New Year’s Day as a convenient day for a wedding, but I guess lots of people are already off and can more readily travel. I guess it makes it easier to remember your anniversary too. The seeming choice of gangsta rap for the dance portion of the reception seemed a little off. The sight of Great Aunt Mildred enduring Ludicrus’ throbbing bass beats while complaining about her bunions must have made for quite a jarring scene.

1/2

Another subdued day. Today we slept in late, again (definitely catching up on some lost sleep). Once again, it’s a really fantastic day, with mid-70s temps, warm breezes, and a really soft sky. We hit the “News” for breakfast again, this time encountering a fairly strange older waiter from, you got it, Odessa, Texas. Though he started off as sort of dismissive of us, he gradually warmed up when we mentioned that we were from Austin. He used to go to UT, and delighted in showing us his longhorn belt buckle. He regaled us with tales of living in Austin during the 1970s and 80s, as well tending bar in Galveston. He came to Miami to follow a woman, who broke his heart. Been there with you pal…been there.

From there we went back into town proper for some science. That’s right. Specifically, we went to “Monkey Jungle.” No, this isn’t a gay disco. Its a privately run nature preserve, basically chock full of monkeys. Unfortunately, its pretty far from Miami Beach, and you have to go through West Murderville to get there (“Murderville,” as we saw yesterday, is closer in town). Monkey Jungle was more fun that a barrel of same. They feature a fully grown male gorilla, King, who was incredibly strong, demonstrating it a couple of times. Poor thing had been rescued from a circus which had removed his front teeth. This failing made it impossible for the park to provide him a mate, as all other females paired with him have rejected him, they suspect, because his lack of teeth made him appear unsuitable. Or maybe he just lacks game. Without these teeth, he can’t protect himself either, so they can’t allow him to be around any other gorillas. Very sad, but at least he lives in something resembling a natural environment. Monkey Jungle also features Maya, a female orangutan. Maya can communicate through signs with the trainers; we were assured that orangutans have quite high intelligence, and demonstrated this by following commands, fashioning crude instruments to do work, and responding to incentives. Quite impressive; I’ve known plenty of people incapable of mastering these skills. The rest of Monkey Jungle featured hundreds of monkeys. People walked about the grounds through caged-in walkways, while the monkeys swung overhead. Here, the people are in cages, not the animals. The park also features a great many parrots and other tropical birds. Their songs no doubt make the monkeys feel more at home. Notably, while there were tons of little kids (urchins really), most were totally unruly and completely ignored the trainers’ requests not to throw food at the monkeys or to be very quiet around King. For the most part, these kids enjoyed playing with the bark mulch more than looking at the monkeys. Which just goes to show, there’s no point in taking little kids on expensive trips to places like Epcot or Space Center. Just set up a big box in the front yard for them to crawl around in. They’ll think it’s Shangri-La.

After spending much of the afternoon at Monkey Jungle, we headed back into town proper, arriving at David Kennedy Park on Bayshore Drive. It was an incredibly beautiful late Miami afternoon as near sunset. Hundreds of people with their kids and dogs filled the park, enjoying the weather. The Park fronts against Biscayne Bay, and has a trail leading right down to the water. We saw a couple of small alligators, which kind of freaks me out that people thought nothing of bringing their kids to the park right near a bunch of alligators, but I guess that’s Florida for you. I’d have called the cops personally. Anyhow, Kennedy Park was full of palm trees, open fields, a dog run, exercise equipment, and an awesomely soft, rubber walking/jogging trail the likes of which I’d never seen.

Famished, we went from there to Little Havana to eat at the famous Café Versailles. Recommended by a client’s employee who lives in Miami, this was the real thing, with lots of neighborhood residents packing the place at 5:15 on Sunday evening. Few tourists were in evidence. I had a really good paella, while my special lady friend had shrimp creole. Mine wasn’t as good as the incredible paella we had at Sevilla Restaurant in the Village (frankly, that’s one of the best meals I’ve ever had), but it was quite good nonetheless. And as it was a holiday, if you know me you what that means: that’s right, it was a designated dessert day. I plunged headfirst into a very tasty caramel flan. Smack, smack, smack....

1/3

Today was THE day as far as I was concerned—time for the Orange Bowl. But first up, after breakfast at the News, was a visit to the Miami Seaquarium, on Virginia Island (via another toll road) to “swim with the dolphins.” This is a fantastic wildlife park, dedicated to sea life. They have alligators, crocodiles, sea lions, manatees, sharks, dolphins, manta rays…pretty much all the denizens of the deep (except for Sponge Bob). The lure was the chance to get in a really large salt water dolphin tank while wearing a wet suit (50 degrees, thanks for the chance to freeze my nether regions), and inspect the dolphins first hand. Seaquarium has an extensive dolphin research program, and the trainers work with the dolphins to research their habits and response to humans. They’ve made lots of progress in communicating with dolphins. From our standpoint, the highlight of the trip was getting to grab a dolphin’s dorsal fin, and ride along with it from one end of the tank to the other. Sort of like being on a Flipper episode. Fun fact, they filmed parts of Flipper at Seaquarium. After riding the dolphins, we took in the “killer whale” show. Think of the scene in Analyze This, with the killer whale/orca splashing everyone in the first few rows. It was about a 20 minute show, with the orca and other trained dolphins performing all kinds of really cool leaps, flips, and jumps. We got a little splashed, but enjoyed the show. Curiously I had a real hankering for fish sticks.

We had to cut the visit a bit short though because I had to be on a conference call, so we headed back to South Beach to get ready, incredibly early, for the Orange Bowl. Miami has torn down the old Orange Bowl stadium, the one that hosted all those Super Bowls, Orange Bowls, and Dolphins games you saw all those years. It was pretty much in a combat zone and lacked parking, but it was also pretty close in to town. You could take a shuttle bus to the stadium. The Orange Bowl is now played in whatever Joe Robbie Stadium is called (“Sun Life Stadium” I think). Its out in East Jesus (some place called Miami Gardens), closer to Fort Lauderdale than Miami. If you can use the express lane toll road, its about a 45 minute drive at rush hour. Upon arriving, we mixed in with the Stanford crowd, many of whom were on their way to the “Orange Bowl Experience,” which was basically a corporate sponsored amusement zone. Payment of a $25 entry fee would get you in. Having gotten there dork early we were tempted to go, but instead just walked around the stadium until they started letting people in at 6. As we observed on South Beach, the two fan bases couldn’t be more different. The Stanford crowd resembled a gathering of bank presidents and anesthesiologists just back from the Pebble Beach pro shop after having drinks with Bing and Arnie. The Virginia Tech fans looked like they own a jet ski rental stand on the Rappahannock and just got back from three for one wings night at Hooters. Balding men in hideously orange Orange Bowl sports coats were roaming around all over the place. These basically are car dealers, oral surgeons and lawyers serving on what amounts to another Chamber of Commerce-type organization where they get to travel to see prospective teams, which means sponge up lots of free booze and chicken wings. These guys’ ability to protect their annual gravy train make up a big part of why we can’t have a college playoff.

Sun Life Stadium is nothing special. Whether today or 30 years ago, this place would always have seemed like just another generic stadium. Particularly now, with modern football palaces like Cowboys Stadium, Reliant Stadium, and the University of Phoenix Stadium (who are they kidding? Its still correspondence courses. Anything you can do while wearing boxer shorts and lying on the couch does not qualify as a university education) have far outclassed it. Even remodeled DKR Memorial Stadium at UT leaves it behind. No jumbo screen, minimal suites, no club level, no restaurant vendors, and no kid amusement zone all combine to make this place relatively ho hum in this day and age. The chairs, though, are fairly comfortable and have nice sight lines. One particularly irritating thing, which Sun Life is by no means the only stadium guilty of, is playing incessant loud music at all times when there’s not an actual play happening. That may be ok for pro games, but it totally ruins the college atmosphere. Specifically, it drowns out the band, cheerleaders, and crowd cheers (imagine not being able to participate in “TEXAS…FIGHT!” or “BOOMER…SOONER” or “WOOOOOOOOOO….PIG…SOOEY” because the PA has Axl Rose playing at about 200 decibels). The cowbells, and the bands and cheerleaders and the cheers are what makes college football what it is. Turning it into the NFL (or WWE) can only hurt the product.

The game was quite the spectacle. From our seats in the lower section on about the 10 yard line, we were able to take in a local celebrity 14 year old girl wearing some sort of Quincieniera dress as she sang Proud To Be An American. Some bald guy twice her age wearing an Orange Bowl sports coat stood uncomfortably close by, lecherously looking on as her “escort.” I’ve seen frat guys at Saturday night keg parties with less dishonorable looks. Nothing like getting the game started with some good old fashioned creepiness. Rather than the tired old Air Force fighter fly by, we were instead treated to five Air Force parachutists each landing on the field just before kickoff. And the Goodyear Blimp. The real Goodyear Blimp.

The first half was pretty close. Halftime score was Stanford 13, Virginia Tech 12. Then for halftime, rather than hearing from either of the school’s bands, we were treated to the Goo Goo Dolls. Or rather, half the stadium (not our half) was treated to the Goo Goo Dolls. The other half heard the songs, but couldn’t see the show. Why they didn’t set up the stadium like countless bands do when they play stadium shows, with the stage in one end zone, was not immediately apparent. The show, by the way, appeared to feature about 500 teenage girls dressed in some sort of aluminum foil Star Trek-esque mini dresses, gyrating, bending over, and doing Happy Hands Club routines from Napoleon Dynamite at odd times in accompaniment. I never quite figured out what was going on there. But I’m sure the kid who sang Proud To Be An American was down there somewhere. Somewhere, Al Edwards was screaming “NOOOOOOO!!!!”

The second half became a blowout. Stanford found huge gaps in the Virginia Tech defensive line and ripped off huge runs. Towards the end, Andrew Luck was heaving 40 and 50 yard touchdown passes left and right. Stanford’s smaller but quicker defensive line was able to stuff the run, and harassed accomplished quarterback Tyrod Taylor mercilessly. It looked like Virginia Tech opened up a big old can of quit in the fourth quarter. Its fans, who’d screamed incessantly during the first half, headed back to their covered wagons early, leaving the stadium nearly deserted by game’s end.

We stayed til the end of course, just to enjoy the spectacle. We made it out of the parking lot relatively easily, then back to South Beach around 1 a.m. for an early, early breakfast at Jerry’s Famous Deli. We then completely crashed for the night.

1/4

That pretty much ends the story. We woke up and packed, then ate lunch at Maya’s Tapas at the Lincoln Road pedestrian mall before driving back to the airport to go home. For lack of a better word, it was just ok. Nothing to compare to the better meal at Tapas Y Tintos.

One final word about Miami. The drivers are horrible. They dart in and out of traffic. They ride their horns. They tailgate. They drift in and out of lanes. They drive extremely fast. I thought Dallas drivers were bad, but Miami drivers are very bad. No doubt that reflects the high population of Yankees who drive the streets. If you drive in Miami, be prepared for treating it like a cab ride from SoHo to the Upper West Side.

No Blow?...Dammit!

Today's mini post comes courtesy of The World According to Scott. One of his friends found this crumpled-up list tossed aside at his gym. No it is not a list of daily affirmations. It appears to be a "to do" list for the author's (can't tell if its a "him" or a "her") impending breakup with "Landon." I'm working on the Miami post, but thought this merited your immediate attention.

No idea whether this is on the level or not, but boy it sure takes me back. Its been years of course since I've been in a nasty breakup ("welcome to Dumpsville, population YOU"), but I sure remember all the fun. Doubting your self-worth. Obsessing over why she didn't want you. Cutting out blow. Doing more pushups. Good times.

Of course, I don't really react by plunging myself into a self-improvement binge, like the author. Its been so long I can barely remember. But it seems like I went to a lot of movies and taped a bunch of albums. [Those archaic terms pretty much date my last bitter breakup]. Seems like I watched a lot of TV too.

But I don't remember having to limit the painkillers to just work. Hopefully the author isn't a brain surgeon (seems unlikely) or air traffic controller (a bit less unlikely) or President of the United States. Nor did I have to cut out blow altogether. [Limiting it to weekends is perfectly reasonable and moderate]. I like how this person thinks tanning, whitening teeth, buying new clothes, and straightening hair is pretty much the same level of self-improvement as norcos only at work. Hey, beauty has no pain.

Kids, this sounds like a fine plan to me. This person should be writing the Time-Life Home Improvement Series installment on breakup response. Or maybe the "Breakups for Dummies" manual. This list includes a lot of positive and constructive ways to deal with interpersonal relationship challenges. Like drinking only four times a week. What do they say? The secret to a long happy life is moderation in everything. I mean, really...

Of course, maybe if the author had done all this stuff before Landon pulled the plug, he/she wouldn't be facing this spiritual crossroads now. No sense closing the barn door once the horses have run.

Which makes me realize, this is a clarion call to launch my own self-improvement program. Let's check my needs against this list. Tanning? Yes. I have that fine "Casper the Friendly Ghost" mid-January sheen working now. Hair? Its mostly all still there, though there's more and more salt mixed in the pepper. Check. Whiten teeth? Yep. Years of Dimetapp, Actified, Benedryl, unfocused rage, and Shipley's Donuts (mmm....) have turned my teeth into that yellow color you see on over-ripe bananas just before they start to turn black. I think its attractive, but survey results don't quite justify that opinion. No blow? Hmm...will try to see that as an opportunity, not a challenge. Norcos only at work? That one I may have to call shenanigans on. I mean, what else am I supposed to do at work? Work? Do you know what I do for a living? I'm an attorney. That is a life of pain. Drinking four times a week? Well, if I must. But it seems like I'd have to sacrifice the beneficent qualities harnessed from red wine. And Southern Comfort. Look what it did for Janis Joplin. New clothes? Absolutely. Some of my clothes date back to 1982 (yes, the Reeder Estate acquired this mint condition Rolling Stones shirt, which continues to fit perfectly, in 1982). I'm preserving these pieces of my wardrobe for the Chris Reeder Wing at the Smithsonian (Air and Space Museum, which actually is an interesting story for another day). Hey, someone in a vintage shop recently offered me $50 for the Grateful Dead shirt I was wearing. Who's the idiot now?

But no moondoggies? What? Aw, mom! You never let us do anything fun! People always are taking things one big step too far. Too much of anything is too much. And why three weeks? How was that time period objectively determined? I'm sure we'd all agree that for at least two weeks after a nasty breakup, no one should have any moondoggies. Two weeks definitely. But three? Three? That's just outrageous. James T. Kirk would never swear off moondoggies for three weeks. Well, not unless his tests had come back positive.

And sex with Chris only? Where am I going to go with that?

Next-ok, back to the Miami post. Really, its going to happen. Just you watch.

All Apologies

What a world. It could be so wonderful if it wasn't for certain people.

--Woody Allen

That could be the theme of this blog. Though I do try.

To that end, I've gone back and re-read with a critical eye some recent posts. Obviously I've run out of things to do. I mean, its not like its going to read differently than when I wrote it. Its like watching Gone With the Wind over and over and over, hoping that the South might win. Just once.

Anyway, I've noticed that a lot of these posts are...well...kind of horrible. Bad grammar. References to "Bruce" Pitt (maybe that's Brad's less hot, smarter older brother). Run on sentences. Lots of connecting flights needed to get to the point. Unfunny. Its a little painful. Not like a tetanus shot or a Presidential debate, but its definitely time you can never get back.

Let me take this opportunity to apologize, and promise to step my game up. Most of the time when I write these things, its past midnight on a workday, and the screen is a little "blurry." The "magic," if you can call it that, which takes thoughts out of my head and puts them onto the computer screen, is a little lacking that late. So I wind up writing things that read like Jeff Lebowski trying to explain why we're not privy to the new shit that has come to light. (Sorry for that). References to Star Trek or Dirty Dancing seem like the greatest thing EVER at that point. Things that seem super-awesome hilarious, or brilliantly insightful when they're still inside the USS Chris' on-board computer wind up reading like a sophomre mid-term paper. Written after an afternoon spent doing bong hits and watching Match Game.

I really loved that show.

Hopefully you can all bear with me during this slump. I have some promising ideas for upcoming posts on our recent Miami trip, censorship of historic works of literature, and the impending Royal Wedding. Maybe one of these will produce a chuckle. Or a chortle. Or a wry grin.

Thanks for all your support. I'll keep swinging if you'll keep reading.

"Swinging" of course in this context is a euphemism for "trying," not for indiscriminate sex with anonymous partners. Just wanted to clarify that.

Next-Miami Tales

Five Years--What a Surprise!

Before discussing my latest Miami adventure, I need to mark an important anniversary.

I try to keep Daily Affirmations from turning into some sort of online journal. Maybe you'd enjoy reading more updates about such incredibly important things as the dream where I was chasing a marshmallow across the English Channel, or laments that people don't speak more clearly, or whether I had a good nap the day before. Personally, I couldn't care less about how your naps go, so I figure, you know, likewise. My view is its far important to write posts about generally inane things we all confront, and to liken them to Star Trek, Top Gun, Dirty Dancing, or one of several 70s sitcoms. This is my calling. Law is something I do in between quoting from Caddyshack.

Today's post breaks that rule. Five years ago tomorrow (January 10, 2006) I had heart surgery, which probably saved my life. Or at least lengthened it considerably and dramatically improved its quality. Some of you may remember it, though most of you didn't know the details. I intend to celebrate by drinking beer and eating sausage queso. Well, ok, not really.

All my life, even now, I've had a condition known as "hypertrophic cardiomyopathy." Basically, this is an enlarged heart. Specifically, the walls of my heart are excessively thick. So for all of you convinced that I'm heartless, well that's just way off the mark.

Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy (HCM) is the result of an inherited genetic trait predisposing the heart to become enlarged. My mother had it (and likely passed away from it), and we believe others in her family had or have it. Though somewhat rare, its the most prevalent cause of sudden cardiac death in athletes. Houston Rockets star Cuttino Mobley had to retire prematurely after being diagnosed. American marathon runner Ryan Shay died during the US Olympic Marathon trials from HCM. Most people who have HCM don't have any complications from it, but for those who do, like me and mom, the thickening can obstruct the flow of blood exiting the left ventrical. The result is the heart has to beat faster to supply the body with sufficient blood. Symptoms include chest pains, dizziness, fainting, extreme fatigue, and the like. Some people, however, experience no symptoms (or at least, nothing they attribute to a heart problem). Unfortunately, some people experience no symptoms until they die or suffer a heart attack. In extreme cases, HCM can cause sudden cardiac death, as the genetically mutated heart cells disrupt the normal electrical current which causes the heart to beat. This leads to arrhythmia, which if not arrested by a defibrillator, causes death even in otherwise very healthy people.

In my case, I knew I had HCM around 25 years ago, when in college (or maybe law school). Mom was being treated by a cardiologist for cholesterol problems who happened to be conducting an HCM study. She participated, and was diagnosed. Back then, there was almost no treatment other than beta blockers to slow the heart. Mom never experienced any blockage or obstruction, so the medicine was largely preventive. I was diagnosed as part of the study. My brothers were tested but found not to have the disease.

I experienced no symptoms at all for many years. Every few years, I would visit Mom's cardiologist for an examination, be declared "negative," and go on my way. In retrospect, however, I was experiencing symptoms for many years that I attributed to growing older. I would experience fairly profound lightheadedness when climbing stairs or sitting up from a chair. Occasionally when running, I would experience a severe and overwhelming fatigue that would prevent me from running more than a mile. These episodes would last a week or two, and after backing off would go away. Through the years, however, my ability to run long distances gradually eroded, as my weight steadily crept up. I attributed all this to sitting behind a desk most of the day and to growing old. That all changed in the particularly hot summer of 2005. All summer long, I could barely run a mile, even at night. I tried running indoors at the Gregory Gym track, with the same result. I tried swimming in the fairly cold Deep Eddy pool, but had the same problem. But I kept pushing, convinced I was just out of shape and needed to force myself to break through. Sometime in August, when about a mile and a half into a run, I noticed that my chest was hurting. That's something I'd never experienced before, and thought maybe I should go to the doctor. He referred me to a local cardiologist, who found the obstruction I'd begun to experience.

Returning to my cardiologist at the Methodist DeBakey Heart Center in Houston, they confirmed the results, and put me on a beta blocker. They'd had some success in treating symptoms with beta blockers, which slow the heart. They didn't hold out a lot of hope though, for a long term solution, saying the beta blocker typically warded off obstruction for only a year or two at most. In my case, it was about three months. I was able to resume running, albeit at a slower pace (and with a cardiac monitor). One very cold night in November 2005, I was running on the three mile loop at Memorial Park in Houston. Two miles went just fine. After I stopped for water and then resumed the run, the obstruction was back at full strength. As if though someone had flipped a switch. I tried to make it back to the tennis center at the three mile mark, where I'd parked. Eventually I had to walk it in. At that point, I knew the only option was surgery.

Through the years, two types of surgical procedures had been developed to treat HCM. The first, and probably still most prevalent, was an open heart procedure in which the surgeon goes through the aorta to slice away part of the thickened heart wall causing the obstruction. Recovery is about three months, and risks include all the risks of open heart surgery--infection, memory loss, brain damage, pulmonary failure, etc. Fun times. The other procedure is a septal ablation. The surgeon goes into the heart by a catheter procedure (as if though putting in a stint or conducting an angiogram), but injects an alcohol solution into the thickened tissue contributing to the obstruction. This kills the tissue at that point, causing it to contract and shrink, which eliminates the obstruction. Its not an open heart procedure, but it had only been utilized eight years before I had it done, so they lacked a long-term post-procedure database. Also, this process has a higher risk of causing the heart not to restart on its own, necessitating an implantable defibrillator/pacemaker. Recovery time, however, was generally only two to three weeks. You can watch an animated video illustrating both procedures by clicking here.

Mom and I went to the Cleveland Clinic for a second opinion. Its regularly rated as the best heart institution in the country. That was quite an adventure. As ever, she took copious notes of everything that was said, and never left my side. They wanted to do the open heart procedure, saying the ablation technique was still too new to recommend. Our doctors at Methodist, however, were confident, and related that the pacemaker risk was largely confined to much older patients. So I chose the ablation route, and waited for a month and a half for the procedure.

That part was harder than the actual procedure and recovery. As the day grew near, I became more and more freaked out. The surgical nurse told me that they do not administer anesthetic, and patients were awake at all times during the procedure (though they administered pain medicine). She said some experienced severe pain at the moment of injection. Also, I began to grow very fearful of my heart not restarting and being relegated to a pacemaker. All the running I've done through the years wasn't just for fun, it was a lifestyle, and one which I despaired of losing. But there was no choice. Had I done nothing, my heart would continue to beat excessively fast. Basically, it would prematurely wear itself out. I would be at a very elevated risk of heart attack, or other complications from fainting and having to live a sedentary lifestyle. That simply wouldn't do.

As I got my affairs in order and arranged to spend the recovery at home with my parents, the holidays were very difficult to endure. All I could think of was my own pitiful little problem, viewing it as a danger rather than an opportunity to restore and preserve the quality of life I'd experienced before. As the day wore on, I became extremely anxious and in retrospect started acting like a little kid about to get a shot.

About a week before the procedure, Mom suffered a heart attack. This was quite a shock, as she had been so closely watched by her cardiologists. The doctors found absolutely no arterial blockages, and declared it caused by extreme stress. Ironically, the same doctor who did my procedure performed her angiogram. I've posted about this before. Mom was always extremely over-extended. Even in the cardiac intensive care she was making calls to church volunteers she coordinated. But as was her manner, she viewed it as a "test run" to see how everything would work at that hospital for my procedure.

The procedure itself was not so bad. The whole thing is conducted while the patient is on an x-ray machine. They looked within my heart for just the right spot to make the injection. I remember the nurse pointing the spot out to me as I looked overhead at the x-ray image. I remember her saying they were going to make the injection now, but don't remember anything after until the team was winding up. I remember being wheeled out and back to post-op. I went past some sort of greeting line with a number of people I knew but can't for the life of me remember. I experienced absolutely no pain at all.

Recovery was worse than the procedure, but not because of my heart. I had (and continue to have) no problems with my heart whatsoever. It restarted just fine, without the need of a pacemaker. I couldn't roll over on my side in bed, however, for a couple of days, and after the first day my back was killing me. They gave me pain medicine for that. Dad stayed with me the entire time in the hospital. Mom was there every day, but as she'd had a heart attack the week before we insisted that she sleep at home. I'm still not sure how we were able to win that argument. There then followed two weeks at home, which I basically spent sitting outside on our back patio while Mom fussed over me all day. I slept downstairs on a bed that Dad had drug down from upstairs. I was overwhelmed at how many people came by to visit, many from Austin. The number of cards and flowers and so forth were also surprising. Kimberly was also a God send, having come for a week from California to help me and Mom. We couldn't have made it without her. I couldn't drive or walk up stairs, so I had to be driven each day to my brother's house to take a shower (in his ground floor shower). It was the highlight of each day. Well, that and my afternoon "walk," which basically consisted of going up the block to the greenbelt on Woodland Hills Drive. After two weeks I had a follow up visit to the doctor, who cleared me to begin slightly more physical activity. Stupidly I went to the gym, and promptly contracted the flu. So I had about another week's worth of staying at home while Mom continued taking care of me. Eventually, however, I was able to go back to Austin. At first I worked only part time, which was the greatest thing that ever happened. Being able to leave for the day at 1 was fantastic. For some time thereafter, they kept me from stressful assignments, which eased the transition back. By my April 2006 follow up appointment, I had begun running and exercising, and was given a very promising outlook for recovery.

Now, I go to the cardiologist once a year for follow up testing. The first few tests showed an extremely minor amount of blockage, but only under pressure (bearing down on the abdomen). I have few restrictions. The doctors advised me not to engage in competitive sports (too much start/stop activity) or to lift heavy weights (pressure on the chest cavity). For that reason, I work out with a personal trainer who has consulted with my doctors on the specific types of weight training that I can perform, and who can watch over me just in case something happens. The doctors say there's nothing I can do to make the blockage return. Though in light of Mom's passing from sudden cardiac death, they have advised me to have a defibrillator implanted (which I've decided for many reasons not to do, at least for now).

This whole episode turned out far better than I could ever have imagined. Basically, the procedure gave me my life back. My heart condition was far worse for many years than I knew. I believe that I was experiencing obstruction in an on and off way for many years before 2005, and just attributed it to old age or being out of shape. With the obstruction, I was facing a sharply reduced lifespan spent sitting in chairs and staying within a 30 mile radius of my home. Now I can do things that seemed highly unlikely before. For example, I've run three half-marathons since the procedure. Before then, I'd despaired of ever running more than six miles. I've lost maybe 20 pounds since then, and just generally feel a lot better. I tell people I immediately felt five years younger. I've been able to go on all kinds of trips and have really incredible experiences I would have had to forego if I were still afflicted with a heart obstruction. It also enabled me to continue practicing law. I'm not sure I could have continued in such a high-stress profession with HCM. And in rejuvenating my life, its allowed me to have experiences, such as travels, and to develop friendships and relationships I may never have had otherwise. In many ways, its been a second chance at life.

This whole thing also taught me a number of lessons. It made me realize I had far more friends than I realized, and that these friends were much better to me than I'd expected. It also taught me the value of friends and family. Though I generally like to live like an island, I'll never again minimize the positive impact that friends and family have on one's disposition and welfare. This affair also showed me the positive power of prayer. People all over, primarily at my parents' notice, were praying for me. This clearly made an impact. Everything that could have gone wrong, instead went right, and I felt the support of so many people. The procedure and recovery also made me focus on physical health and vitality. You only have one body, and it has to do you your entire life. The prospect of a minimized, sedentary lifestyle proved completely unacceptable. Keeping my body in as good a shape as possible (though with donuts and cheesy bread every now and then) seems even more important. Being able to run and swim and hike and travel is so much more rewarding than I ever knew. Finally, I've realized I won the parents lottery. They never failed me, not once. Mom had a heart attack the week before my procedure and still was there for me the whole time. Dad never left my side. They calmed me down and ran "interference" for me when stress ran too high. They catered to my every need. They anticipated everything I could have wanted. I cannot imagine how I could possibly have had better parents.

So anyway, if you were among the many who prayed for me, sent messages of support, visited me, or covered for me while I was away, I thank you. It meant quite a lot. No thanks to those of you, however, who joked that my procedure was "micro-surgery." Ha, ha, very funny.

Next-OK, I'll tell you about Miami over New Year's.

There’s No Free Lunch (Though There Will Be Hors’ D’ouerves)

I was five years old at the time, but more than 40 years later I can still remember Texas winning the "Big Shootout" against Arkansas. President Nixon attended the game, and gave Darrell Royal the national championship trophy in the locker room afterwards. How did that taste, Penn State? I can still remember Randy Peschel catching that 4th and 3 pass from James Street, and Jim Bertleson scoring the tying touchdown. I guess "Shootout" wouldn't be politically correct anymore. Let's call it the "Great Participation Festival." We could give both teams participation ribbons, not keep score, and have each coach star in a skit to promote self-esteem.

College football is a special game. A special thing in our country, particularly in the south. Maybe there was a golden age before Nike sponsorships, coaches hopping from school to school, players taking handouts, and billion dollar TV contracts. Long before the NFL achieved popularity, people routinely crowded college football stadiums to watch the local team. Though still enormously popular, does it seem a little like wrestling now?

College football (and college athletics in general) sure is well organized, fair to its fans and players, and innovative. Its not all about profits and revenues, but instead it serves the student-athletes and promotes healthy spirit within university communities.

Yeah. College football makes boxing look fair and well run. Cedric Benson’s spending no time in jail for his burglary conviction, Barry Switzer’s OU squad assaulting coeds with impunity in between firing off machine guns on campus, and the NCAA’s four year investigation of Reggie Bush fully agree.

In two previous posts, I’ve schooled you on the utter and complete hypocrisy and sham that is the NCAA, and how the member educational institutions, whose mission ostensibly is to promote education, are just as rapacious and greedy as Enron traders.

Now its time to focus on the victims in this quagmire, the players. Excuse me, the “student athletes.” You know. The ones wearing letterman sweaters, hanging out at the malt shop, working on their fraternity’s homecoming parade float and looking forward pep rally before the big game. The ones practicing a couple of hours a day, and hitting the books the rest of the time. Yeah, them.

These are the guys getting caught with their hands out, and generally are the immediate precipitators of their schools getting put on probation, or slapped on the wrist as the case may be. For every car dealer who puts a Big 12 starting quarterback on the payroll for doing no work and not even appearing on the job, there’s a Big 12 quarterback who’s consciously getting paid at a “job” where he’s not doing any work. The players may be young, stupid, and particularly vulnerable to temptation, but they’re giving in to the temptation. And in seemingly increasing numbers. Reggie Bush’s parents accepting a free house in exchange for Reggie agreeing to use a particular agent for endorsement deals. Nearly half the North Carolina starting football team accepting improper benefits from agents. Andre Smith getting himself disqualified from the Alabama team for the 2008 Sugar Bowl for signing up with an agent prematurely (and of course eating his way off the Bengals). OJ Mayo taking gifts from agents and payouts from his coach. Terrelle Pryor trading his Big 10 championship swag for tattoos. Don’t forget all the DUIs. And breaking in to someone’s house to “get your TV back.” The list goes on and on.

When you and I were high school seniors (or even juniors) we were probably choosing a college based on which one has the best business program, or is the most fun place to live, or has the most enriching student life, or where can I meet the most interesting people that can help me fulfill my career goals. Do you think Cam Newton or Mark Ingram were asking those questions? Child, please. Your naivete is adorable. If that were true, no one would go to Oklahoma.

The only thing 95% of these guys have in mind is where can I go that will get me to the NFL or the NBA. Its all about going pro. And more specifically, about getting paid. They want to be on Cribs and hang with Beyonce. They want all the trappings of being an NFL or NBA player—a posse, riding in Escalades, packing heat in clubs, having nine kids with eight mothers. Didn’t you see Hoop Dreams? All these guys are convinced they have the game, and their sole criterion for selecting a school is which is the best one to help them get there. Going to class? Uh, no. Have someone go take my tests for me, please, I’m playing Madden right now.

I know this is sort of like blaming the victim for being in the wrong place. After all, the Fort Knox-like piles of cash that is college football and basketball don’t exist without the players. Nike isn’t exactly doing endorsement deals with the Dean of Arts and Sciences, and corporations aren’t buying suites to watch sociology lectures. The players see coaches signing multi-million dollar deals, fans wearing replica jerseys bearing their numbers, and athletics staffers getting huge bonuses when the players go to BCS bowls or the NCAA Tournament. In the NFL, with the weakest union relative to the owners, the players receive 60% of all "designated" revenue. In college athletics, the players get a scholarship to attend a university. What’s that really worth? In big time football and basketball factories, the pressures to win make it difficult for players to take a full class load and get their full value out of their scholarship. A cousin of mine was all Big-8 starting quarterback in the late 1970s, and during the season his class load was nine hours (average is around 15). And the value of these scholarships vary from school to school. A full scholarship to West Texas A&M is, of course, far less valuable than one to Stanford or Duke. Plus, to some of these kids, a college scholarship is about as valuable for their future lives as a GPS device on a kid’s bike. Some of these kids just have no business being in a university. That’s no aspersions against them, its just a fact. University isn’t for everyone. These kids are just marking time in school, struggling to stay eligible. Some of them have difficult family situations and need money now, not an education that may (or may not) lead to a more lucrative career in 10-20 years. So the “value” they get out of a scholarship is next to nothing, beyond it being a stepping stone to a pro career. Not only do the players get no money, they have little freedom to transfer to other universities if they happen to be playing behind a star (and therefore likely to see little playing time). Coaches can just come and go to job after job without having to sit out at all, even after leaving the last school on probation. Coaches can even move to other schools in the same conference with impugnity (I’m talking about you Houston Nutt). Players can’t transfer without sitting out a year, and without sitting out two years if transferring in conference. The scholarship supposedly is for four years, but is subject to yearly renewals. Every year, the big programs “run off” scholarship athletes before their four years have expired.

So the “student-athletes” in this ridiculous scheme must feel little if any heartburn about taking a little here and there. Or a lot. Before they’re supposed to. The little handouts here and there tend to pile up. And if they get caught? Until recently, this was highly unlikely. The NCAA had a miniscule enforcement staff, and was historically reluctant to go after the stars. The Reggie Bush “investigation” took four years, for example. In the internet age, however, with the Yahoo Sports and TMZs of the world running down leads sprouting on message boards, the NCAA can just follow up on cases uncovered elsewhere.

Guys, to put it bluntly, you need to keep it in your pants. To borrow from Socrates, if you’re not willing to live by the rules, don’t play the game. If you’re going to play ball, you have to play by the rules. Otherwise, stay at home, or do something else with your time. If you accept the benefits of the system (playing college ball, coming to the attention of pro scouts, taking coaching and physical development from the school), you have to abide by their terms. Yeah, their rules suck the big one, but too bad. Its their game. That’s like if you want to live in America, you have to pay taxes and watch American Idol. If you don’t want to watch American Idol, move.

Not only that, you owe it to your teammates, if no one else, not to bring down the program through ignoring the rules. You’re all boys, and you’re all in the same boat. Your success depends on their success. After all, you’re participating in a “program.” The team’s success helps you succeed, and vice versa. Football (and basketball) is a team sport; no one succeeds unless everyone does. When a school goes on probation, it suffers on field, and that makes it harder for everyone to achieve their personal goals.

You also owe it to yourself. Maybe Reggie Bush can get away with blatantly disregarding the rules, but most NFL teams don’t want to bring in bad character guys (unless they’ve got super human talent, and by definition, that’s a handful of guys at most). The NFL has lots of rules, and its teams have even more rules. They want players who are capable of following them. Teams will definitely take your inability to stay inside the lines into account on draft day. Guys who would have been top 10 picks may drop into the 20s. Guys who would have been first rounders may drop into the second, and so forth. So breaking the rules can hurt your pocketbook.

Plus, its just a matter of months, not an eon. Basketball guys only have to stay in college a year, and football players only three years. If you can just keep it together for a short time, you’ll get paid.

The alternative is what we’re seeing now. Ever increasing violations, increasing sanctions, punishment meted out to the innocent players a couple of classes behind the cheaters, and reduced respect for and trust in the game.

Next-New Year's in Miami Beach

Bowl Fever...Catch It!

Ah, the day after Christmas. It brings back such happy memories, and it has such wholesome traditions. Kids get to enjoy their first full day playing with new toys. Families enjoy their last moments together before parting, gathering around yesterday’s leftovers with promises to keep in better touch next year. And everyone enjoys the Little Caesar’s Pizza Bowl (f/k/a the "Motor City Bowl"), live from Detroit. What, didn’t you watch that with your dad growing up? I thought that's where Domino's was headquartered?

For some reason, college football remains on my mind. There’s just so much wrong with it that criticizing it is like hunting at the zoo—lots of easily harpooned targets. And now that we’re easing out of the Christmas season (hope everyone ate a lot and Papa Noel was good to you), its time for the next season on the calendar—bowl season.

That’s right, the festival of hypocrisy that is College Football’s major yearly showcase. All the tradition, the pageantry, the competition that are corporate sponsored exhibition games between locked in representatives of contractually obligated conference tied-in institutions. This is so much better than a playoff. I thoroughly enjoyed the Beef O’Brady Bowl, whatever the hell a beef o’brady is. Is that like London Broil?

Bowl season brings with it lots of time-honored rituals as old as college football itself. Parades, trips, fat toupeed local businessmen wearing polyester jackets and pawning themselves off as the “Bowl Committee.” Please. These things run themselves. The only responsibilities that Bowl Committees have these days is to take free trips to “scout” potential participant teams, eat free shrimp and throw up at the corporate sponsored bar late in the third quarter. These guys spend most of the year as the sales manager at the local Subaru dealership, but thanks to connections and possession of incriminating photographs, have managed to hop on board the richest gravy train outside of International Olympic Committee membership. And while prospective host countries aren’t sending them free hookers, cash-filled envelopes and southport cookies, a Bowl Committee member’s ride is a plush one.

Other than the BCS cartel bowls, bowl games today are essentially partnerships between some desperate minor league city’s chamber of commerce and an easily duped corporate sponsor. Shreveport, you and AdvoCare V100 are a match made in Heaven. The bowl game telecast essentially is a three hour infomercial, with breaks for a college football game in between. Matchups now flow from contractual arrangements with the various conferences, so past brinksmanship and scouting resourcefulness needed to land the most attractive matchups no longer apply. The Emerald Nuts Bowl, or whatever its calling itself these days, doesn’t have to scout the country to find deserving invitees, it just automatically gets a pair of WAC and ACC also-rans.

Believe it or not, that’s a good thing, because when these bowls get the chance, they absolutely screw over college football’s best interests in favor of whatever ridiculous matchup puts the most seats in seats. Take the 2008 Rose Bowl. Those people are the worse. What accounts for their slavish insistence on an annual Big 10 (now Big 12) vs. Pac-10 (now Pac-12) matchup is beyond me. Due to BCS formulas and scenarios, they could have paired USC against Georgia. That would have put two 10-2 teams in the Rose Bowl, the number 5 BCS team (Georgia) against the number 7 BCS team (USC). Instead, they chose 9-3 Illinois, which didn’t win the Big 10, and which was ranked 13th. Instead of a great game, they got a 49-17 USC blowout. Georgia instead went to the Sugar Bowl, where they smashed Hawaii (that’s right, the Hawaii "Don't Call them Rainbow" Warriors went to a BCS bowl) 41-10. Instead of one great college football games, college football was treated to two crappy ones. But the Rose Bowl got a chance to match a historic Big 10 team against a Pac-10 team. Why anyone would want Illinois to play in their town is of course a matter for psychics, meter maids, or taxi drivers to debate.

Really, guys. The bowls lost any pretense of amateurism right about the time the “gift bag” was invented and the organic names of these bowls were cast aside in favor of the “Chick-Fil-A Bowl.” The bowl system is the college football equivalent of carbon paper. Except instead of having everything in triplicate, we are being treated to roughly 30 games no one, except the players and their parents, could care less about. The "GoDaddy.com Bowl," between Middle Tennessee and Miami of Ohio. Really, must we? Couldn't we watch an I Dream of Jeannie re-run instead? We have to watch this instead of an eight-team playoff? That makes perfect sense.

One of the great traditions of bowl season is the annual cavalcade of slap on the wrist suspensions. Can you believe a 19 year old kid on an out of town trip might miss his curfew? Or the team bus? Or have a drink? Or decide to sell all the free swag showered on them by corporate sponsors to make a couple of bucks when he looks up and sees everyone but himself profiting off his athletic talent? That the NCAA decided to suspend those Ohio State guys five games NEXT YEAR for infractions committed THIS YEAR surely has nothing to do with not risking lower ratings for the Sugar Bowl (starring, you guessed it, Ohio State)? I’m shocked, SHOCKED!!!

Happily, though, the biggest victims in this charade are not the indentured servant players but the crack addict universities who so desperately cling to this dinosaur system. In some, but not all, cases, the bowls provide a fairly decent payout to the participating schools. But nearly all conferences require the universities to share bowl payout money. So while the Maaco Bowl may pay each participating team $1 million, each school must share that money with numerous other institutions. Though each school will get its share of the other conference members’ bowl payouts, most schools feel lucky to break even. By sticking the participating universities with onerous ticket purchase obligations, the bowls are royally screwing the schools who, against all self-interest, refuse to participate in a playoff system that would provide a much greater revenue opportunity.

Take the case of the University of Connecticut. As the Big East Conference champion, it was invited to play in the Fiesta Bowl. By going, it will be paid $18 million, one of the largest bowl payouts of all. But the Fiesta Bowl requires U Conn to sell (or failing that, to purchase) at face value (lowest price $111) 17,500 tickets. It has a minimum hotel reservation requirement at three local hotels of 550 rooms. U. Conn doesn’t exactly have the same fan base as a Nebraska or an LSU, and it managed to sell only 4,000 tickets to its fans. What happens to the remainder? UConn is on the hook to pay the face value of all of these tickets. And unlike home games, bowls require that the schools buy face value tickets for all the band members and other school officials who attend. Throw in transportation expenses for the team, coaches, staff, band members, cheerleaders, etc., and U. Conn is looking at a BCS financial bath. Now, appearing in a prominent bowl may help with recruiting next year and possibly with generating alumni donations, but in these economic times, that’s a difficult expense to incur. Most university athletic departments are in the red. That is, most schools are not Ohio State, Alabama, USC, Texas or LSU. Someone like a North Carolina State or an Iowa State just doesn’t have the same cash resources as the big boys. Getting ripped off in these bowls must be more and more difficult to sustain. But God forbid we should have a playoff system, like the “Football Championship Subdivision” has every year.

But I digress. The schools get ripped off, but everyone else makes money. ESPN, the corporate sponsors, the cities whose bowls generate more tourists, the bowls themselves, and the BCS which uses these minor league bowls to justify its continued existence. I suppose you could say that Dwight, the hick linebacker from Moresville, Alabama who gets a free trip to Disney World also benefits. Coaches benefit too. With so many bowls now, about half the NCAA Football Bowl Subdivision schools get to play in a bowl. Idiot athletic directors who can’t see the financial mess their programs have become usually agree to award incentive payments to coaches for taking their teams to bowl games. It’s a whole heck of a lot easier to get in the Poulan Weed Eater Bowl or the Insight Bowl or the Military Bowl Presented by Northrup Grumman than it is an eight or even 16 team playoff.

So rather than getting to watch some really excellent playoff games, we instead are treated to the festival of mediocrity. No one interrupt me at 2:30 on New Year’s Eve Day. I’ll be watching the Auto Zone Bowl, featuring 6-6 Georgia against 10-3 Central Florida. Don’t come knockin’ on my door at 11 a.m. on January 8th. I don’t want to miss a single snap of the BBVA Compass Bowl, featuring 7-5 Pittsburgh and 6-6 Kentucky (also known as the Toothless Bowl). I’m guessing it’ll be a lot easier to get restaurant reservations and see popular movies then, huh?

Bowl Fever…catch it!

Next-ok, I know you're clamoring for it...how the athletes are to blame. I know you're sick of football posts, but its football bowl season dammit! Get with the program!

Gwyneth Paltrow is Country Strong

You may fool me
And I’ll fall
But I won’t stay down long
Cause I’m country strong
--Gwyneth Paltrow, "Country Strong"

From time to time here at Daily Affirmations, we open it up for others to school us about the burning issues of the day.

One such issue, of course, is noted stick figure/actress Gwyneth Paltrow’s performance at the Country Music Awards (no, not the Academy of Country Music Awards; I know, “how are these different” you ask? I guess its sort of like the difference between “Dukes of Hazzard” and “BJ and the Bear”, you just know it when you see it).

Those country folks sure have become more welcoming as of late. The Byrds played a couple of songs from their landmark Sweetheart of the Rodeo album at the Grand Ole Opry in 1968, to faintly polite applause at best, and outright heckling at worst. GP, however, got a standing O from this generation of rednecks. What kind of world is this? One of the stories making the rounds was that Miranda Lambert, one of dozens of country hot chick pixies who allegedly can sing just as good as they look, giving GP icy death stares while on stage (while conveniently off camera). Is it possible that Miranda somehow begrudges Gwyneth's “cut in line” privileges that comes from being a famous Hollywood actress? Or is she just another pretty face who made good and wants to keep everyone else out? All About Eve comes to country music. This can only get better.

Here with a guest view on this is Shane “Rowdy Dwayne” Dunker, music editor of the Corinth, Tennessee “Intelligincer” (that is not misspelled, BTW). Mr. Dunker, the page is yours, sir.

"Gwyneth Paltrow, country music newcomer, stole the show. By “show,” I mean the 44th annual Country Music Awards, held in Nashville. It was Gwyneth’s rendition of her new hit “Country Strong,” from the Hollywood movie of the same name, that was the night’s top performance.

The way she sang that song was from the heart. You could tell she’s walked a true country road. From the heartache and deprivation of being born to Hollywood star Blythe Danner and director Bruce Paltrow, to failed relationships with the likes of Brad Pitt and Ben Affleck, that’s just a lifetime of country problems that have obviously made her Country Strong.

When she sang “Cause I'm country strong, Hard to break, Like the ground I grew up on,” I could only think, “preach on, sister!” I mean, growing up on the mean streets of Santa Monica and going to private girls’ school in New York City, its like I can practically see her milking cows or riding in El Caminos or eating at the truck stop after the Friday night game. Who can doubt this Country Girl’s country heart?

Yes, Country Strong may as well be Gwyneth’s theme song, and I’m sure it will eventually become that as she tours mall openings, state-level beauty pageants, and state fairs throughout the southland. On the same bill with Jessica Simpson, no doubt. I have no doubts that when she sings, “I know you see me, Like some wide eyed dreamer, That just rolled in off a dusty mid west bus,” people will really tear up as they recall her dusty journey to summer acting camp in Vermont, the road back to Hollywood and beginning her life of struggles with immediately landing starring roles with the likes of Brad Pitt and Morgan Freeman.

And what Grande Dame of country music hasn’t won the Academy Award for portraying English nobility during the 16th Century, and guest starred in Glee? No one worth listening to. I bet Dolly Parton never did Shakespeare. Nope. Dolly only starred with Burt Reynolds. How is that Country Strong? And I bet none of them have married someone from Coldplay and named their little girl Apple. Nope. That’s as country as June Carter Cash.

Now, some of these uppity New York critics, who are probably lighting a candle every night lately if you know what I mean, have gotten a little above themselves with airs about how Gwyneth shouldn’t have been on the same stage as Loretta Lynn. These people just don’t belong, and they don’t understand.

What has Loretta Lynn done compared to Gwyneth? Loretta wasn’t even in her own movie; they had to get that chick from Carrie, clean her off, and try to teach her to sing. That’s not Country Strong. And all that wailing and moaning about how she was a coal miner’s daughter and Patsy Cline’s best friend. Big deal. Gwyneth was a Hollywood actress’ and director’s daughter and models for Estee Lauder. That’s real pressure right there. Loretta was married at 13 and had five kids before she was 19? So what. Gwyneth was on Saturday Night Live. Loretta was the Country Music Association’s first female “Entertainer of the Year” and has been in the Country Music Hall of Fame for 20 years? Big deal. Gwyneth knows Luke Wilson. Again, that’s Country Strong. So you “critics” need to just step back and respect a country girl.

I’m looking forward to country hit after country hit from Gwyneth. With all those pickers and pedal steel players in England, where Gwyneth lives, that should be pretty easy to accomplish.

Love you Gwynny!"

Uh, thanks Rowdy Dwayne. I'm sure we'll be seeing you and your wife and 12 kids outside a Cracker Barrel real soon. That will end our guest spot here at Daily Affirmations.

Next-the third and final installment of the NCAA infractions trilogy. Which is only slightly less entertaining than the Star Wars trilogy. You thought I had forgotten, didn't you?