Dec 19, 2008

The Taming of the Shoe


Against all odds, I finally believe it: Iraq is now safer than the United States. And no, it’s not post-election euphoria clouding my mind. No, after six years of watching an endless news stream of insurgent and poorly directed violence result in seemingly endless American casualties – I finally get a news item so purely devoid of spin that I’ve no choice to believe it and draw the conclusion above. In case you missed it, at a joint news conference in Iraq, where President Bush (alongside Iraqi Prime Minister Nuri Kamal al-Maliki) was talking about the “success” of the “War Against Terror” in Iraq, a man stood up, and threw not one, but both of his shoes, in succession at the U.S. President. To his credit, the President deftly avoided both, and remained at his podium, barely missing stride as he continued on with his planned rhetoric (or at least to the extent that the president’s stumbling repartee can be considered an artful flow of any sort) The man, later identified as Iraqi reporter Muntadhar al-Zeidi, was loosely surrounded by what looked to be other press conference attendees and security, and generated no more excitement than one might expect from a noisy coughing fit. The banality of it was overwhelming, and made me believe that we are either (a) winning the war in Iraq, or (b) losing the war at home.

But before you go unfurling the since-unused “Mission Accomplished” banner, let me explain.

Lately, work has provided me the “opportunity” to travel quite a bit (and by “opportunity” I, of course, mean the chance to spend two days a week flying coach across country and hoping that I’ll get boarded onto the plane early enough to not have my carry-on sized bag checked in the American Airlines black luggage hole due to a lack of remaining overhead storage space). And, in the interests of traveling light (and speed through the airport), I take only a carry-on sized suitcase and my briefcase. And if you have traveled in the past six years, you know where I’m headed next. In the wake of the tragedies of September 11, 2001, airport security got understandably more strict. When previously one could pass through the metal detector with anything short of a half-pound nugget of iron ore without setting off the alarm, now the metal tip on my ball point pen (if not removed from my person) sets off a security situation so intense that I began to have a very real concern for the cleanliness condition of my underpants.

Subsequent years (and associated misadvised criminal ventures in the sky) have brought even more onerous restrictions:

Gels and Liquids. I never really new how much of a sissy I had become until this rule was put into place. The “trial size” section of the drug store became the “travel size” section of the drug store overnight, and there was finally a legitimate reason to pocket all the complimentary toiletries that one was given at their hotel. I came to the shocking and disappointing revelation that I have been roped into chronic dependency on no less than ten or twelve separate gels and/or liquids for my own grooming. I can almost hear my father’s disappointment from here. Here was a man who needed only three substances in his bathroom: Ivory soap, Barbasol shaving cream, and Head and Shoulders Shampoo (the last of which I think he was deeply ashamed of). And here I am with five separate such substances just for my hair. Oh, the shame of it. But apparently the federal government has decided that with one quart’s worth of three ounce containers of things, there is no possible way that one can reliably make an explosive device.

Have these people never watched MacGyver? Or for that matter, ever seen a James Bond movie? Honestly, I’m quite certain that the only thing this restriction is preventing is the satisfactory grooming of business travelers. But hey, if you’d like to feel safe, and as if no decently motivated and well-funded terrorist group could come up with a plan circumventing this, you go right ahead. All I know is that if I ever find out that either Richard Dean Anderson or Daniel Craig has become a fundamentalist Muslim, you won’t find me anywhere near an airplane they’re flying on (unless they’re going to also prevent gum wrappers, wristwatches and ink pens on flights).

Shoes. So you know how the story goes from here: one very suspect looking “criminal mastermind” tries to light his shoe on fire (with a kitchen match) on a flight – and is later discovered to be wearing self-designed Nike Exploders. As a result, the shoes of all travelers must be removed and x-ray-ed. Wait a minute, after this and nearly twenty years of non-smoking flights, couldn’t we just outlaw matches?

No, the smart way to do this is to have everyone remove their shoes. Everyone. Eighty year old grandmother dawdling along in her orthopedics? Yup, they go on the belt. Toddler with 3 inch long Crocs? On the belt, thank you. Really? Wow. So the woman and child who couldn’t light a candle on a birthday cake if their life depended on it, need to be screened to be sure they won’t light their shoes off once on-board the plane? What’s more, have you ever tried to reach your shoes from a coach seat? You’d have to be a reasonably well-accomplished contortionist to even comfortably attempt such a feat, let alone be assured any measure of success.

So let’s just say you’re the criminal mastermind of a terrorist organization – and let’s assume further than you’re at least a few IQ points ahead of the aforementioned Richard Reid (which, just so we’re clear, doesn’t necessarily put you in extraordinary company). Knowing that they’re screening grandma’s (along with everyone else’s shoes) wouldn’t you maybe, just maybe, place your match-lit explosives in another innocuous piece of clothing?

I don’t know about you, but I rest a little easier on each plane that I fly on knowing that federal passenger screening procedures have protected me from the world’s dumbest terrorists.

Which brings me to my point: Can you imagine what sort of hullabaloo would occur if someone tried to throw a shoe at a major US airport? First the thrower would be apprehended like Osama Bin Laden, himself, drawing every TSA grunt within earshot, the mildly armed airport security staff, and every air marshall who could get himself there as fast as his “inconspicuous” costume would allow. Next, they’d lock down the terminal like it was the end of days, and bring airport operations to a halt. Finally, there would be non-stop news coverage for at least seventy-two hours afterwards, when shoe experts, throwing experts and shoe-based explosives experts would opine as to just what had happened, with no evidence or information save what the few eyewitnesses could provide. And all this of course, where shoe was thrown at no one in particular.

A similar, but much more internationally intense version of the previous occurred in Iraq and ended up as little more than an oddity, and most post-event commentary was focused on the president’s “quick reaction time” (as if the obstacle avoidance mechanism which was evolutionarily developed in all humans [monkeys that don’t get out of the way of flying things often don’t survive long enough to reproduce] is somehow exceptional when identified in the President) I mean, for all practical purposes, this guy got off easier than the “don’t taze me bro” kid did. Seriously, I’ve seen a more dramatic reaction at an Apple store when the iPhone inventory got low. I take it from this muted response that no one’s taking off their shoes at the Iraqi airports to get screened these days.

By now, this news oddity – the video of which has made it around the world and been viewed and re-viewed millions of times – has become an international incident. There is an offer of $10M to buy just one of the dress shoes turned projectile, and the New York Times is reporting that a daughter of the Libyan leader Muammar el-Qaddafi has awarded the thrower a medal of courage. But this is all after the fact – the result of the same hype machine which turns nominal injuries to NFL quarterbacks into week-long national news stories. The initial reaction was far more telling. You can be certain that press conferences in Iraq will not suddenly require all attendees to go through a rigorous screening process (including the removal of shoes and the reduction of one’s grooming supplies into a one quart Ziploc bag).

For all the things that burgeoning government in Iraq may not know, it appears that they know two things which we here in the homeland have long since forgotten:

1. You cannot eliminate the existence or impact of the crazy people amongst us by treating everyone as if they might be crazy. All you will accomplish by this is making the sane people angry and make the crazy ones harder to find. For example, now everyone acts unnaturally agitated when going through airport security.

2. A permanent “heightened threat level” is no longer heightened. Am I the only one who knows “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” story? An increased awareness level can be quite powerful when judiciously implemented, but the temptation to keep it around constantly must be resisted. No matter what you call the “threat level” when everything seems peaceful, that’s the new “peace” level. Or to put it in terms that the government thinks makes it easier for us to digest: Orange is the new Green.

These lessons aside, you know that something’s terribly wrong when it feels safer at a press conference in Iraq than it does at the local airport. Of course, maybe that means we’ve finally achieved a level of peace over there, or maybe all along, the Iraqis have never been particularly prone to overreaction. Or maybe we’ve lost our collective minds with regard to airport safety to the point where the security procedures in an active war zone, seem sane by comparison. Either way, unless we start gaining a little perspective and sanity soon, I’m really not looking forward to going through airport security the day after the “Pants Bomber” strikes.

Oct 8, 2008

Signs

I’m not sure I really became aware of the potentially oppressive nature of signs until I, as a teenager, heard Tesla reprise the Five Man Electrical Band’s 1971hit, “Signs”. Unfortunately, the spirit of the song didn’t really endure as well as the tune itself. After all, it was the 1990’s and, at the time, it qualified as “rebellious” to wear a flannel shirt to school and stop combing your hair on a regular basis (thank you, Seattle). But, it was then I began to notice just how many signs there were around; parking signs, street signs, municipal ordinance signs, even signs forbidding certain turns at certain times of the day. It seemed every year as if there were more and more, and I should hardly be surprised. Of the many wondrous things that modern tort law has given us (personal injury lawyers, class action lawsuits, and warnings on chewing gum not to, under any circumstances, put it in your eye), the proliferation of absurd written warnings and prohibitions is really the least of it. As a lawyer, I probably ought to feel partially responsible – after all, it’s my profession that perpetuates this propagation. I, of course, don’t and, in fact, think we could use a few more.

Listen, don’t take me wrong. I went to seven years of college (including law school), and the fact that I have trouble deciphering some of the residential parking signs on Los Angeles side streets is an absolute travesty. We need additional posted parking restrictions like we need another Bush presidency in eight years (wait, will Jenna be old enough?). But, I have come up with some additional signs that, I think you’ll agree, should be posted immediately:

No Parking Stalking – Minimum Constant Speed - 5mph. This is to be posted in all parking garages. Parking garages are incredibly efficient structures. The allow for a parking lot to be extended vertically, so that no “parker” is more than the distance of the lot, and maybe a few stairs away from where they want to be. Additionally, they allow for a single path to be taken until the first available spot appears, at which time the driver can park. Unfortunately, the same level of intelligence required to effectively consume a banana – and we live a world of people who are just content to eat it with the peel still on. As if it were a surface lot, drivers insist on driving and stopping in these structures, and stalking “ideal” spots; all the while holding up the traffic behind them. Why is it always the people who are looking for a spot where they won’t have to walk are the ones most in need of a little exercise? Failure to obey this posted restriction would result in being forced to park a minimum of one half mile from anyplace you were trying to go for thirty days. It’s like a forced exercise plan for morons. Hey, if you can’t be smart, at least you’ll be fit!

No Engine Noise Enhancement – Appropriate Exhaust Volumes Only. To be posted on any street with regular pedestrian traffic. I don’t get this behavior, I really don’t. Now, I do know that larger, more powerful vehicle engines make more engine/exhaust noise. But I also know that that causality only ones one direction. In that, making ones engine noisier does not make it larger or more powerful. I’m afraid, however, that this simple truth is lost on the majority of people under the age of twenty. I’ve seen countless compact Hondas, Hyundais, Toyotas, etc., outfitted with a device which bolts onto the exhaust pipe of the car and makes it sound like someone put their spare change into a blender and set it to “Puree”. Now, I’ve never, ever met a girl who thinks this is even remotely attractive. So, you tell me, aside from being annoying, is there a point? In addition to impounding the vehicle immediately, failure to obey this posted restriction will be punishable by a fine which varies based on the difference between how loud the car is and how loud it should be. A punishment and a math lesson all in one!

No Mis-Sized Clothing – Dress Code Strictly Enforced. I’m not quite certain what peoples’ obsession with ill-fitting clothing is. Before you go crazy, I know that not everyone can afford expertly tailored garments – nor can small children always be kept up with as they grow. I’m not looking for bespoke suits on everyone (I don’t even own one), so don’t bother giving me any nonsense about how this is thinly veiled classism (I’ll put my classism plainly out in the open, thanks). This dress code would only apply to people age thirteen and up. If your pants cannot stay on your waist, or at the very least your hips, they are obviously too big. Additionally, if any of your clothing required hand tools to operate the fasteners on, or if any of you is uncomfortably protruding out over said clothing, it is clearly too small. You know damned well those jeans don’t fit, so just cut it out already. I’d rather watch kittens be tortured than be greeted with the unfortunate aftermath of you trying to fit yourself into pants that are four sizes too small. Additionally, young men, rest assured, if someone wants to see your underwear, they’ll let you know. For now, it’s safe to assume that I’m not one of them. Failure to obey this posted restriction will be punishable by a court order to wear a properly sized one-piece jumpsuit for two weeks… with your correct sizes printed on the outside so you won’t forget them (nor will any of your friends).

No Obstreperous Behavior. To be posted in all coffee shops, and non-fast-food, non-chain-restaurants. These are places where the conversational noise level is not only comfortable, it’s desirable. If I wanted peace and quiet, I’d stay home. I’m out at these places to hear the rattle and hum of human interaction. Well, adult human interaction, that is. I’ll bet the people who most need to heed this sign will have to look up what it means (which I advise). Ever wonder why there aren’t any teenage stand up comics? I don’t. I know why. Teenagers aren’t funny. Oh, they think they’re funny. But they’re not funny. Ever. So teenagers at the coffee shop, listen up: the only thing worse than your loud, lame jokes is the loud, lame laughing that follows it! I understand these are your formative years, when you need to express yourself, but can you maybe do it someplace, say, that I’ll never, ever be? That’d be great. Additionally, clapping at a restaurant when one of the wait-staff accidentally drops a dish is about as grown-up as the crowd at a New Kids on the Block concert. Seriously.

* * *

Okay, so “Signs, signs, everywhere there's signs, Fuckin' up the scenery, breakin' my mind…” But in a world where we’re increasingly afraid to even say anything to one another – signs could be an effective way to put people on notice that their behavior is not only wrong, but completely ridiculous. It’s also a quick way to provide due process so that we can get to the business of enforcing the rules they state. And besides, if signs are going to tell you and I where to park and what to do, the least they could do is provide us a little relief from and recourse against all the dumb around us. Can’t you read the signs?

Sep 28, 2008

That's Another NAVY First Down....

I'm a Navy "homer" in more ways than I can possibly count... in that, I'd root for Navy Football against just about anyone - including a team made up of Nobel Peace Prize winners. This weekend, the Blue and Gold scored their first win over a ranked team in over twenty years, and I couldn't be happier about it:

Kettani, Navy stun No. 16 Wake Forest 24-17



I say, bring on Notre Dame... No, seriously, BRING ON NOTRE DAME! Because I can't imagine anything greater than watching the Not-So-Fighting Irish have to walk off the field on consecutive years after losing to the boys from Annapolis. Do I want to beat them? I don't want them beaten... I want them out of the tournament...


Sep 26, 2008

Another Great Movie You Didn't See

Here's another 80's classic, which truthfully captures the intensity that was high school twenty years ago. Before there was an internet, the biggest thing in the life of most small town kids was life at the high school. There was no perspective, and so all the roles were filled by whoever was available... thousands of social microcosms.



Three O'Clock high - a great underdog story, with one of the greatest villians ever: Buddy Revell. Go rent it. No, seriously, go rent it NOW.

Sep 22, 2008

The Naval Academy in the Times

For those of you that don't know... John McCain is a graduate of the same trade school as I am.

What a Naval Officer Knows

Not all women are for women's rights

It almost seems ludicrous to even suggest it, but since I've been completely taken off-guard by the national response to Gov. Sarah Palin - I'm left trying to justify it in my brain. I think it's fantastic that we've finally gotten to the point, as a nation, where we can have women realistically vying for the highest office in the land. It's sad that we're so far behind the rest of the world in this regard (most notably, the UK and Israel), but uplifting that we're finally getting it right.

Problem is, many of the nation's women seem to care only that Gov. Palin is a woman, with no concern for her politics or her personal beliefs. Now, I'm fine if women take at least a cursory look at these things and still decide to support her - but I think that would be even more surprising to me than the current indifference.

I'm not a woman, so I qualify all of this by realizing that it's only speculation... but I'm just going on what I believe to be common sense. Additionally, I believe it's important to note that I'm a registered Republican, and have been since I was 18. With these things in mind, there are three things which frighten me terribly about the Alaskan Governor:

1. Pro-Life - Now on it's own, there's nothing terribly shocking about a GOP candidate with this position. But it gets worse... much, much worse. Gov. Palin is on record as not supporting abortion in cases of rape, including for her own daughter. Yes, you heard that right. Are the nation's women really ok with this? Alaska's rape rate was an abysmal 2.2 times above the national average and 25 percent of all rapes resulted in unwanted pregnancies. Still think she's a champion of women's rights? Oh, it gets better... turns out she's also in support of women paying for their own rape exams. Hey, maybe she can put together a chart of possible evening outfits for women, so we can figure out which rape victims were "asking for it".

2. Her daughter's pregnancy - Now there are a lot of things I'd like to do to the 17-year old kid that knocked up my 17-year old daughter. As it turns out, one of them is not to parade him around on stage as a new "member of the family" as my wife runs for the second highest post in the federal government. Honestly, have you seen this guy? He's two years and one twelve pack away from beating the hell out of young Bristol Palin because the baby's cryin' "done went and interrupted his hockey game." Seems to me that you'd want a little more for your daughter, especially if you've worked your entire life to raise your family out of mediocrity... than to have her marry right back into it. And honestly, high school seniors getting marred??? In 2008? Marriage won't make the Palins' decisions good ones - they'll only make it worse, and if Levi Johnston doesn't turn out to be a massive wannabe wife-beating douchebag, it'll be the biggest surprise since the Giants won the Super Bowl.

3. Creationism - Gov. Palin is on record as supporting the teaching of so-called "Creationism" alongside the theory of evolution in public schools. That's right, the same theory that despite a copious vacuum of supporting evidence, that holds that dinosaurs and humans co-existed. Woo hoo! Okay, okay, I know that there is a good section of folks that also believe in this theory, so I won't casually dismiss it out of hand - but there's no doubt that that's a matter of faith and not science. And nothing says "I'm winding up to knock down Roe v. Wade" like coming out in a support of an initiative which has been repeatedly defeated by the Supreme Court. The latest courtroom defeat of teaching faith-based history came in the 2005 Kitzmiller v. Dover case, when the superficially religion-neutral theory of intelligent design was classified as religious creationism. The Supreme Court ruled in 1987 that teaching creationism violated the separation of church and state.

I think it's great that she's got strong religious beliefs, but how can she possibly believe that it's ok to teach this in public schools? She says she wants to encourage debate and discussion on the classroom between "both" views. Are there only two? What about the Buddhist theory of creation? The Hindu? Islam? How far up your own ass do have to be to think that there's only two ways to see the world (like you do, and then the Godless masses who don't see it your way)?

* * *
There's no doubt that the nomination of Sarah Palin is a significant milestone in U.S. history, but it doesn't mean that we ought to overlook some of her strong positions simply because she's a woman... Our nation's women can do better, and they ought to.

Sep 21, 2008

Gone Country

As I've written before, part of living in LA is finding a place where you fit in... despite the fact that in most places you will not (don't worry about trying to figure out which is which... there will be, in all likelihood, someone there who will let you know). I've also written about the dismal and comic tragedy that is the club scene here. But I've found a little solace and a whole lot of fun in LA's small but vibrant country scene.

The LA Country bars are places where you can actually go and meet new people, places where people actually dance on the dance floors, places where a cold beer can be had for less than $5 and there is no valet parking.

My personal favorites:

1. In Cahoots (Fullerton, CA)
I know, I know... it's Fullerton. But this is my favorite place to get my country on in L.A. The dance floor is big, the drinks are cheap and the DJ knows what he's doing. The downside is that it's a tough club to be a beginner at. The regulars know a lot more of the dances than they do at any of the other country bars around. But, if you're cool about it, there are plenty of folks to teach you.

The people here are very cool, and it's a great place to make new friends.

BEST NIGHT TO GO: Fridays
(Note: All ages (18+) night is on Wednesday, and this bar's proximity to CSU Fullerton means that this bar is completely packed with coeds - so if that's your thing, this is your place)1401 S

In Cahoots
Lemon St
Fullerton, CA 92832

2. Borderline Bar & Grill (Thousand Oaks, CA)

Again, it's not exactly close, but Borderline is a great mix of good dancing and good people. Recently under new (and much cooler) ownership, this place has the smallest dance floor of the places I frequent, but it's never really too crowded. The DJs here can be touch & go - sometimes they're great, other times you'll get Eminem and country old enough that your parents will recognize it.

The crowd here is the most approachable of all the country bars, but beware the hottest regulars - many of them have lurky boyfriends who are sulking at tables, waiting for a chance to be unreasonably jealous.

BEST NIGHT TO GO: Thursdays
(Note: Saturdays are also decent - and will do if you don't want to trek out to San Dimas)

Borderline Bar & Grill
99 Rolling Oaks Dr
Thousand Oaks, CA 91361

3. Montana's (San Dimas, CA)
It's way out on the 210 (because I know your first question is going to be "Where is San Dimas?")

Montana's is the coolest thing that's happened in San Dimas since Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure. This is, by far, the biggest country dance floor in the city - and well worth the drive. There are two big upsides to Montana's: (1) the dancing is very "beginner oriented" (you don't have to know any country at all to dance here) and (2) they have the best-looking crowd of all the places listed. The downside seems to be the prevalence of Affliction-clad MMA wannabes who seem bent on making asses of themselves to get attention (I guess because they're not allowed to fight inside the club?). But they usually bring their own crew, and as long as you watch out for them on the floor - it's little more than a good laugh (seriously, a soul patch, a tattoo sleeve and screen-printed skulls on your t-shirt???)

BEST NIGHT TO GO: Saturdays

Montana's
657 W Arrow Hwy
San Dimas, CA 91773

4. Cowboy Country (Long Beach, CA)

Three dance floors, live music and cheap beer.... what more do you need?

First off, this bar is not in a nice part of town. In fact, you'll probably think you're lost until you actually see the sign for the place. And if you don't want to end up with door dents, park across the street at the grocery story lot.

But the live music here is usually pretty good, and there is plenty of room to dance. The crowd is friendly, but not particularly good for singles. The line dancing is fun, and the DJ keeps it from being monotonous. There is definitely a crowd of regulars, but they're not exclusive, and always nice to newcomers. The upstairs has it's own bar and dance floor - and is a fun place to watch the action on the main floor.

BEST NIGHT TO GO:Fridays

Cowboy Country
3321 E South St
Long Beach, CA 90805

* * *
The bottom line is that all these places offer a much better time than any club that I've been to in Hollywood. You'll spend a lot less money, and probably meet some pretty cool people. Also, you can always wear jeans and t-shirt. Though, dress for warm weather because, the air conditioning is less-than-optimal in these joints, and with everyone dancin' around - it gets pretty hot.

Hope you see you out there!

Sep 16, 2008

The links...

So... a brief explanation of the links above:

MYSPACE - a connection to my MySpace page... you can almost smell the narcissism!

BROOWAHA - a connection to my profile and portfolio on BrooWaha - the citizen journalism site that I write for

PICTURES - a link to my public Picasa account

CONTACT - a link to email me

There ya go... enjoy :)

Sep 15, 2008

A Complicated Day

A while back, I wrote a piece called 'A Simple Night' about one amazing night I had last year... but, the young lady involved turned out to be nothing like I thought she was. The entire relationship (if you can call it that) devolved into something so caustic and horrible that I can hardly stand to think of it. As much as I loved the piece - I contemplated asking the site to take it down. My feeling was that since I knew she had gotten a great deal of enjoyment from reading it and knowing it was public, and I didn't want to be the agent of anything that brought her happiness, I would eliminate it from existence. But then I realized that she wouldn't care, and that I would only be hurting myself - and anyone who had enjoyed the writing. So, I left the piece be. It still has one of my favorite paragraphs:

I walked comfortably close to her, my arm around her shoulder, and hers around my waist. The street was mostly quiet, devoid of much, if any, vehicle traffic. The night was warm, but just cool enough to make her proximity inviting, if not wholly necessary. The street and window lights were positively suburban, and smell of trees and grass was wistfully carried on the slightest of summer breezes; just enough to keep the air fresh. There was not an ounce, not a single ounce of pretense. The minutes passed, rife with subtlety, and literally, my only concern that this simply beautiful moment would have to, at some point, give way to the reality which, no doubt, lurked just beyond my sight. The music of footfalls and laughing sighs was trailing behind us - and it may very well have been, just for a second or two, the summer of 1992.
But, as with most things, despite my best attempts to avoid it - it came around.

I keep an unofficial list (in my head, because I'm certain that writing it down would actually make me crazy) of the five best and five worst people I've met in Los Angeles. After three years, there hasn't been a lot of movement on either. I seem to have found a middle ground where I'm (thankfully) not meeting any more self-obsessed sociopaths (alarmingly enough, dressed as normal people), but I'm also (woefully) not meeting any more amazing people. But, just when I thought my lists were complete, there was an addition last year to my Five Worst list.

I'm not a big fan of The Secret or similar works. Having been raised in a cult, I'm wary of pop-spirituality in a way that most folks can't appreciate. But I finally experienced true evidence of The Secret's "Law of Attraction" that cannot be explained by any other mathematical phenomenon of which I am aware. The aforementioned Law states "people's thoughts (both conscious and unconscious) dictate the reality of their lives, whether or not they're aware of it." (Wikipedia, "Law of Attraction") This works in both a positive and (as I found out) a negative way.

I was invited by a couple of friends to go UCLA's home opener at the Rose Bowl (vs. Tennessee). I had rebuffed their invitations on many former occasions, but I had no excuses this time - and I was eager to finally see my first game in Pasadena. As I drove to the game, I thought about who I might see there. Of course, there were around 70,000 people expected, so I wasn't just going to run into anyone... but it was an interesting thought nonetheless. I realized that the aforementioned and former romantic interest was also a former UCLA cheerleader - and still living in the area... and she might actually be there. But I wasn't going to be anywhere near the field, or the student section, so no worries, right?

Wrong.

I got to the vicinity of the Rose Bowl around 3 pm (2+ hours before game time). I really didn't appreciate how many people there would already be there - tailgating, and soaking up the sun. They directed traffic to park on the golf course - and I parked about 2 miles from the actual stadium. The golf course was literally filled with people... thousands of them. There was music, grilling, footballs being thrown around and a general joyful chaos that made me happy I had finally decided to come to one of these. I didn't have much of an idea where I was going and meandered through the crowd, just trying to head in the general direction of the arena.

Statistically, the likelihood of running into the one person in the crowd that I least wanted to see was impossible. In fact, it was impossible many times over. The colloquial perception of "impossible" is equivalent to about a 1 in 1,000 chance. If 20,000 people (a conservative estimate of the tailgating crowd) are randomly distributed over 4-5 acres, and one takes a random, direct path through that space - the likelihood of having a specific interaction is about as remote as being struck by a meteor on the same trip. I remember the smile that began to cross my face as I walked, beginning to feel the energy of the pending game, the enjoyment of so many Angelenos collected in the same place with no regard for fashion, bling or fame, and the glorious Saturday afternoon weather. I remember the carefree feeling that washed over me, comfortable in the anonymity of the assembled masses. I also remember the cold chill that took it all away as I heard my name called.

I feigned as if I didn't know who it was, despite the fact that the awful reality of the situation had hit me with a horrific clarity almost instantaneously. There she was, trotting over to me with that cold and easy smile - having just left the side of her latest beau. It would have been impossible not to see the pain on my face. I was purposefully not trying to disguise it. I didn't remove my sunglasses. And yet, she continued as if we were long, lost friends. As if nothing has transpired in the intervening months since I had the surgery; as if she hadn't betrayed my trust to my teammates, and said unspeakable and terrible lies about me; as if had actually taken one of her calls or returned one of her text messages in the preceding eight months. She casually asked how I was, and I quickly turned the conversation to her (which she was eager to get to). I tried to look obviously disinterested - wishing fervently for this whole terrible scene to just be done with... but she bantered on. Finally, and thankfully, it concluded.

She offered up some sort of subsequent meeting, which I mumbled a non-committal response to, and I was on my way. Some thirty minutes later I found my friends, and began the five hour process of trying to forget the whole thing had happened. As luck would have it, I got to see one of the best college football games I've ever seen - complete with fireworks at the end.

As for Ms. Wrong... I didn't hear from her during the game... and didn't hear a thing until a whole week later... when a text message came through from an unknown number... about how the sender was sorry not to get back to me sooner, but how good it was to have seen me. Right. I didn't respond... and safely moved someone into a permanent spot in the "Bottom 5".

I imagine there is some sort of life's lesson here - some profound moral to this story that I could ink down here in a Doogie Howser-style epiphany... but I prefer to stick to the numbers, and how since there was less than a 1 in 1,000 chance of running into this mistake, the universe owes me 999 games at the Rose Bowl without even a shred of drama.

The Stanford Daily... my first steps

I owe my writing career (whatever it becomes) to the fact that law school just isn't very taxing. If you know someone who's in law school, and they tell you how time consuming or difficult it is they're lying to you. There is one thing that you must know about law school and that is that the hardest part is getting in. There is a short adjustment period to the reading requirements when you first get there - but the schedule is sparse at best, and for those students who don't have a job or other significant time obligation in their lives (e.g. spouse/children or things of that nature), there's a mountain of free time.

During my first year, I was bored, and ended up dancing with a performance dance troup on campus. During my second year, I was bored (despite significant student government obligations), and ended up reviving my cheerleading career. Finally, during my third year, I auditioned for a column in the campus paper, with an homage to Judy Blume, and based on being a thirty-something grad student at his first private university - after public school and ten years in the military, entitled Tales of 19th Grade Nothing.

Death on a Beach Cruiser

So, here they are... sort of a Glenn T, the Early Years reprise of my first stab at trying to be funny while writing... and if you're not careful, you just might learn something:

The Games These Kids Play


10,000 Band Kids


Why I Hate the Band
(This is my favorite piece from the collection - not because it's the best written, but because it generated the most response... on both sides)

Whatever Happened to Hello?


The Shallow End of the Gene Pool (My most controversial piece - as demonstrated by the two people who wrote to the paper calling for my resignation... ah, free speech)

No One's Looking at You

The Era of the Abercrombie Man


Campus Traffic and the Miracle of the Four-Way Stop


Ok, I Get It, He's Rich

An Ode to John Mason

A Brief Look Back (my parting shot at the law school)

Things We Don't Know

Now, a year and a half after I had gone, I had the unique opportunity to see my two alma maters play a football game against each other... Stanford decided to open it's new stadium with a game against perceived "cupcake" Navy. Now, those who don't know me very well wondered who I'd root for - but those who do know me know that I bleed Blue & Gold when it comes to football.

After Navy dump trucked Stanford, and ruined its home opener and new stadium debut - I penned a little tribute and sent it to the Daily as an Op Ed.

The printed it... and became the most popular thing I have ever written. The Academy and some parents' groups reprinted/republished it, and it before I knew it, it was nationwide. I received hundreds of emails from Academy people, and reconnected with some folks I hadn't seen since I left the Yard.

After this piece - I knew I'd never stop writing:

Bad Fans, Bad Band, Good Stadium

I hope you enjoy this little trip down memory lane...

Sep 14, 2008

In the beginning...

So here it is... my blog. Why am I starting today? I don't have a particularly good reason... I should have started it a LONG time ago...

There was "Sunday Love" ... my 18-week homage to what was to become my final season as a cheerleader for the Clippers - but it was cut short by tragic and silly events. I'm certain that at some point - Sunday Love will be back, but who knows when...

So it's late, and I'm working on one of the essays for "the book", which I will no doubt wax on about later - and I just wanted to get one post in to start this off. I'm certain that at some point, I'll look back with disgust and disdain on this anemic initial effort - but for now, I'm sleepy, so that's going to have to to do.

In the beginning...