Winning Ticket

Emmett won his first raffle last Friday. The prize: a laundry basket filled with cars and trucks, and puzzles and games of a related theme. It was a monster pick. The raffle was sponsored at Jackson's elementary school, so there was a swarm of hopeful kids in and outside the library when the principal called out Emmett's name.

I didn't expect to win anything because we had been through this drill twice before in years past. I was sitting in the cafeteria with a friend when a mother raced around the corner and hollered the winning news. Taking the prize basket and negotiating my way back to my seat, I felt like a scantily clad woman suddenly dropped in the midst of maximum security prisoners. Lifers. These kids, and their parents too, stared at me like I was a grade A prime cut of meat. Who am I kidding though? I had to refrain from sticking my tongue out and chanting nanny, nanny billy goat!

Suddenly Emmett was a celebrity. Every kid his age has a built-in urge to fit in and play with the older kids, and the older kids know it. Thank goodness I was there to supervise. There were some duplicate Matchbox cars that I allowed him to give away to one of Jackson's friends. Other kids I didn't even know were begging to "borrow" certain items, like a little Hot Wheelz scooter (if you can believe it). The kid's mother put the kibosh on that. It's hard to imagine a parent that wouldn't, but such do exist in shockingly large numbers, parents that can't bear to tell their little angel no.

The experience reminded me of the time when Jackson was Emmett's age. We were at Marine World in Vallejo, California. It was one of those low-probability games where you purchase a bucket of plastic rings and try to loop them over the top of a bottle. It seems easy at first because of the sheer size of the tightly packed grid of bottles. We had nearly gone through the entire bucket, and Jackson wanted to throw the last one. He over-handed it, a fast ball right down the middle, and it stuck as if he had thrown a dart. The prize was an enormous red Chihuahua dog, which I had to carry to the car in the parking lot far far away. Same thing, all the people staring and I thinking eat your heart out, as if this monstrosity I held aloft was the Holy Grail.

There is just something about winning a thing that makes it special. It's attached to the end of an inexhaustible string, a tether that leads across time to wherever and whenever you are.

Congrats to Eli and Co.

I'm sure Beth has already composed her masterpiece, a love ballad to the brothers Manning. But I have to add to her chorus. Congratulations to the Giants who played the most outstanding defensive football game I have probably ever seen. The Superbowl is almost always a foregone conclusion. In the nineties it always came down to the NFC championship, and in the Patriots/Colts era it's been the AFC championship. Hardly ever do you see two teams really duke it out in the Superbowl. That certainly changed this year.

Three weeks ago, the Giants beat my Cowboys. They played hard and deserved the win, but they wouldn't have won if Patrick Crayton wouldn't have stopped on a route with 23 seconds left to go in the game, or if the same wouldn't have dropped a pass earlier, or Anthony Fasano wouldn't have dropped a pass in the end zone. I could go on. The bottom line is, it is nothing short of a miracle that the Giants even got to the big game. But I can promise you this: only the Giants could have did what they did to the Patriots.

The Giants did the impossible. They made Tom Brady look human, as in to err is human. Brady spent as much time on his back as he did standing up. And when he did get a little time to scope downfield, he heard the footsteps of Strahan, Umenyiora and Justin Tuck. There were even a few rookies getting in on the sack fest. Randy who? Only Wes Welker performed like he did all season long, but that was not nearly enough.

The Pats defense did a great job as well. It came down to which team would make the big play. Manning wasn't perfect, but dammit man! he was Cool Hand Luke. It came down to the last drive of the game, the Giants needing a touchdown. If you didn't see it… You don't have to be football fan to appreciate how that went down. There were two minutes, thirty seconds left in the game. The Giants were pinned at something like the fifteen yard line. They really hadn't done much with the ball all day, only having scored a touchdown and a field goal. Troy Aikman, the announcer who knows a little something about winning Superbowls, said that the Giant's situation was what every quarterback dreamed of, four points down and needing a touchdown to win.

And I'll be darned if Eli didn't deliver. Assante Samuel, a defensive back for the Patriots, could have ended the game with an easy interception that went right through his fingers. He had two palms on the ball too.

Then Giants receiver David Tyree catches a desperation pass after Eli barely escaped a sack. Tyree (see the image to the left) brought the ball down onto his helmet and pinned it there with one hand and never dropped it. What the…? Unbelievable. Then Plaxico Burress, who hadn't been a factor all night, catches an easy floater in the end zone, just like he and Eli, wearing shorts, practiced before the game. Wow.

But still, there were thirty five seconds left, and the Patriots had all their timeouts, but great coverage on the kick would make the Pats work for it. But the Giants defense clamped down. Ruthless and decisive.

My condolences to my good friend, Mr. Schprock. But I have gotten so sick of hearing about the dominance of the AFC. And there is just a little bit of poetic justice to how the season ended for the Patriots, who got caught videotaping signals of their opponents, then got a slap on the wrist (relatively speaking—that same slap on me would have me living on the streets). The Cowboys quarterbacks coach, Wade Wilson, was suspended for a quarter of the season because he tested positive for a drug that he had taken legitimately by prescription, but Belichick paid a fine and a draft pick (they had two first round picks and still have the seventh overall), and was not suspended. Oh, and he got coach of the year. I'm not saying he isn't the best coach that ever coached the game, but I would say he got away with one. Then for half a season he ran up the score on weaker opponents, playing for blood when the other teams were already bleeding out of every orifice.

My apologies to fans of the Patriots. Sincerely. But if the Patriots would have won that game, in my mind, a great injustice would have gone unpunished. There should be honor in sports, and nobody likes a bully.

But today is about the underdog. Nobody gave little Davie a chance against Goliath.

How do you think Archie Manning feels right now about his boys?

Movie Review: Juno

There were two things I knew for certain when I walked out of this movie: first, this was the best movie I have seen in at least a year; and second, Ellen Page is the greatest actress of her generation. The last time I was stunned this way: Natalie Portman in The Professional. But Page is much better, if not quite as cute. Talent trumps all, and Ellen Page is the real deal. Her comic timing is impeccable, and Humphrey Bogart would be proud of this young woman who has his knack for acting without speaking.

What could have been American Pie meets She's Having a Baby quickly establishes itself as an original. Hard to do with all the elements of a typical high school flick: the popular jock, the geeky friend (Michael Cerra) who loves Juno (Ellen Page), her parents she leans on for support, the cheerleader girlfriend(Olivia Therby). But nothing goes quite the way we've been programmed to expect.

Take the scene where Juno tells her parents that she's pregnant. I won't spoil it for you, but how do you expect that scene to play out? Let's just say that in this brilliant screenplay by first-timer Diablo Cody, the parental units are not just mindless automatons. For the first time in history of the genre (if this can be nailed down to a single genre), parents have been allowed to think and to be an important part of their child's life. Stand up and clap for Allison Janney, as Juno's stepmom, and J.K. McGruff, as her father. Funny and simply lovable, they made it real.

You would expect at some point to meet a bad guy, someone whose intentions are bad. You might think we've finally met one or both of them in Jason Bateman (he's been gone way too long!) and Jennifer Garner, a couple that by all appearances has that which any American couple aspires. But not even within their damaged relationship can we really assign blame. They should have just agreed to see other people. Juno is the match that lights that cinder box, but again, not in any way you would expect.

This movie reminds me again that Hollywood has lost its spark. Perhaps it's been too busy telling us how to vote and defending child rapists rather than applying itself to the business we pay it for. Juno hearkens back to the old days when I would quote all the funny lines from a John Hughes movie, and my schoolmates already knew them by heart. I can only hope this is just a small sample of things to come.

This is so my sense of humor

This reminds of pranks that I've played in the past. Now if I could only remember...

MotherLoad

The game is called MotherLoad. My three-year-old found this when he was supposed to be playing another daddy-sanctioned game, but his little fingers are guided by the spirit of the surfer. I'll have to keep an eye on him!

Anyway, the game is highly addictive once you figure out how to play it. I was supposed to be researching for my WIP last night, but three hours later I decided I should probably get some sleep.

Click on the image to check it out.

Caveat emptor!

Do You Know Who This Is?

This girl needs my help.

Sigh.

Not only is she beautiful, but she's rich. (How rich? More than you can imagine. I can imagine a lot.) Or should that be the other way around?

You see, she has fifteen million dollars in a bank account and needs someone that she can trust, namely me, to invest it for her here in America. Smart too. She wants to diversify across market sectors.

The money was willed to her by a rich uncle (who was recently poisoned--long story). Now she has to move the money out of her account, and soon, before her brothers get their hands on it and leave her penniless.

I have to help, if not for her, then to strike a blow against the injustices of patriarchical society!

Oh, and she can't wait to meet me. She's single too. In life, it's really about timing. What are the chances?

The Boston FBI informs me (with a chuckle) that they already have reams of info on this one. But thanks for calling.

Third Tynes a Charm

The first thing I did this morning was to google the title of this post. The results were exactly what I expected. It was too much to hope for that nobody else thought of that newspaper headline to summarize yesterdays NFC championship game.

(Lawrence Tynes missed two field goals that would have iced the game in the fourth quarter. In overtime, he nailed his third attempt, splitting the uprights.)

My previous post was intended to be an actual post. I've been composing in Word, which has a feature now to auto-publish to a blog. For some reason, before I was finished it simply published it before I was finished. I hadn't had a post in a while so I figured what the heck.

I'm down to three lady bugs, by the way. One more went to the Lady Bug Picnic In the Sky.

Emmett is running up the steps; mommy is gone away for an appointment. Surprise, he didn't come into my office—yet.

Now that the fog of the football season has evaporated into the clouds, I'll take this moment to look around and breathe the air.

How many there were to start with I can't remember, but I'd say I've lost five or so ladybugs from their little bug hut home I have beside me on my desk. It makes me a little sad when I see one on its back, sometimes just a tiny leg swaying ever so slightly.

Jackson just got back from school—early release day, you see. Momma is out for a couple hours, so I'm hanging out here, trying to work and squeeze in a post.

Concession Speech

For the rest of the season, I'm officially a Packers fan.

I don't want to talk about it right now, other than to say that when the ball was intercepted in the endzone to end the game and the season, I had a moment of utter dispair. After I stopped the Tivo from recording, deleted it, and turned the TV off, my wife said quietly, "I'm sorry."

"I can't believe we lost to the GIANTS..."

Then, without saying another word, I walked up stairs, flossed and brushed my teeth, took a deep breath, went downstairs again and joined my wife and kids at the table.

I said, "Ok, I'm over it now."

Thanks for one hell of a season, Cowboys. Thirteen and three, first round bye in the playoffs, and a young, talented roster to take us into the future.

Not too shabby.

Leave Tony Romo Alone!

This won't make much sense if you haven't been following Jessicagate, the Cowboys or football in general, but you have to check out this parody of the infamous Chris Crocker YouTube video. I have no idea who Chris Crocker is, but he certainly seems to have affection for Britney Spears.

Turn down the volume knob, ok?

Getcha Popcorn Ready

My manager is a Packers fan, as is my wife. I just found out that one of my coworkers is a life-long Giants fan. At least nobody with any direct influence over my well being has a Jones for the Seahawks.

So, this weekend is shaping up to be an unstable stick of dynamite.

Everyone knows I'm a huge Cowboys fan, and I have not been encouraged by the way my team played down the stretch, but it seems that everyone in the media has completely written them off. I've sort of come to expect it, but it still kind of stings to be reminded.

Eli Manning, the younger brother of Peyton Manning, played two good games back to back. The first, against the Patriots, was a valiant effort for three quarters. The loss though was perceived as a win. The following week, the Giants beat the Buccaneers in a wild-card matchup. Now, according to the mediots, the Giants are resurging; Eli is playing "within himself", and will be too much for the struggling Cowboys to handle.

The Giants pass rush will be too much to handle too. But what these people seem to be forgetting, or at least attaching no significance to, is that the Cowboys line has held that monster pass rush in check for two games this season, games that the Cowboys won, and kept Tony Romo upright but for two sacks. In two meetings, our defense was missing one of its two starters. The first time it was our star corner Terrence Newman; the second time it was Anthony Henry. And both times, Eli Manning torched the backup Jacques Reeves, who has shown some spark, but would not normally crack the starting lineup on any NFL team.

But nobody pays this fact any attention. They will however be quick to tell you that in that second meeting, Giants receiver Plaxico Burress was hobbled by an ankle injury.

Well let me set the record straight about what's going to happen on Sunday. The Cowboys, contrary to reports coming from the coaches, will have TO back in the lineup. The Giants will be facing a couple firsts in this meeting. For the first time, their receivers will be facing Terrence Newman and Anthony Henry. And also for the first time, they will be facing Terrell Owens and Terry Glenn, both receivers on a normal day would be drawing double coverage. Terry Glenn has been hurt all year, getting a few snaps in the season ender with Washington to knock the dew off his lilly. Reports from practice say that Glenn is looking like his old self. If that's true, then I give the Giants no chance in this game whatsoever. Because the recipe for beating the Cowboys involves single coverage on wide receivers and crowding the line of scrimmage. If everyone is healthy, then that just isn't possible. Look for big days from TO, Glenn, Witten and Marion the Barbarian.

Like TO says, "Getcha popcorn ready."

Prediction, Cowboys 35, Giants 17.

Another prediction: The media will still find a way to attribute the Cowboys win to luck and poor focus on the Giants part. But the reality will be, that after this game, the Cowboys will have their swagger back and kick buttocks in the NFC championship.

The Super Bowl I don't even want to think about. For all my bold predictions, I'm nervous as hell. The one thing I hate more than losing is to lose when everyone is predicting it like a foregone conclusion.

The Andy Rooney Internet Hoax

Thanks to the one and only MagnetBabe for pointing out that the email making the rounds purporting to quote Andy Rooney was a hoax. I should have known. Every time I get an email from my cousin I normally double-check it for accuracy. This time I just assumed it was true.

Doh!

I remember watching Dennis Miller on his HBO series having an entire episode to rebelling against racial sensitivity, but it wasn't totally revolutionary because it is the kind of thing you would expect from a comedian whose job it is to pick at the scabs of status quo. Someone like Andy Rooney -- well, it was too far from the norm to have accepted it at face value.

I promised a reply to MagnetBabe's comment, which as I've come to expect from her, is intelligent and passionate. Here it is:

Opinions that are not grounded in reason and are instead the influence of ignorance should be stamped out rather than given a forum. One could say that in the first comment here Alan stamped out "Rooney's" opinion that the United Negro College Fund and Miss Black America represent reverse racism, as he very should have. That was an ignorant opinion that "Rooney" was either too lazy to look up the history of or too racist himself to care. Or just trying to cause a stir, in which case it worked.

The statement about homosexuality didn't directly imply that the writer thought homosexuality was wrong. But in a similarly dangerous manner, it displays tolerance of people who think homosexuality is wrong. To me, shrugging your shoulders at someone attempting to exert moral authority over a population of people is not acceptable and rather than simply taking it at face value as opinion I would argue that this thinking ought to be stamped out rather than perpetuated throughout society. To me, "homosexuality is wrong" accepted simply as opinion bears an unsettling resemblance to the "opinion" that "evolution is just a theory", another opinion that should be stamped out rather than tolerated a minute longer.

I would counter by saying that while the above is well-stated, it is some pretty fancy stamping. And before anyone thinks I'm opposed in any way to homosexuality, or that I am applauding the opinion that homosexuality is wrong, please reconsider. I tolerate different opinions, not just the opinions that I feel are worthy of consideration. I know plenty of people that think homosexuality is wrong, as well as people who are prejudiced. They are most certainly ignorant, and easy marks in conversation. The only way to get through to people like this is through discourse, not by treating them like lepers and banishing them to a white supremicist commune. You are an idealist, Nat, and I really admire that about you. Your parents raised you to see the world as it should be, and have backed that rhetoric with action. But you can't bully people into your way of thinking. It's not realistic. In fact, it's a perfect recipe for lifelong frustration and bitterness.

On the opposite end of the family spectrum is my grandmother. She hates everyone who is not white, and I'm assuming homosexuals as well. She used to use the n-word with regularity until I brought my kids around. We were watching an Eddie Murphy movie Daddy Day Care when my grandma, right in front of the kids, said "That n--- sure is funny." The kids didn't hear because they were too focused on the movie.

Grandma, don't use that word in front of my kids.

Why not?

Because it's disrespectful, and they're my kids and I'll raise them as I see fit.

Well what do you call them?

I just say 'that man' or 'that woman' and point. I don't refer to anyone as a white man or woman and they seem to understand who I mean. Names help too. Like, 'Eddie Murphy sure is funny.'

She looked at me with a gleam in her eyes. I'm not sure if she was proud or just thought I didn't get it, but I think it was the former. I have to admit that if she would have persisted I would have threatened to leave, but my point is that I talked to her about it, and hopefully made her understand just a little.

And as for exerting moral authority over a population of people, that's some pretty strong stuff. If I am not allowed to do this, then I must accept polygamy, or men who treat their women as chattel, and a host of others that I can't think of, simply because they are a population of people, and that I object on moral grounds. I don't think so. And I hardly see the correlation between the denial of evolution and moral objection. One is felt in the heart while the other is denying an entire body of science.

And don't start thinking I'm a creationist (not that you would!). The whole thing is absurd. That's not an opinion. It's a close cousin of conspiracy theory. Religion has no place in schools, just as it has no place in government.

Kansas, We Have a Winner

The state of Kansas has become the focus of research for my expansion of my flash piece for Bernita's contest. It will probably amount to one sentence out of hundreds, but I want to be as authentic as I can when portraying the life of a boy growing up in the lawless old west. I've always liked historical fiction. Kansas turns out to be the perfect setting. In 1854, the Kansas-Nebraska act opened up the two territories for homesteaders, and some ninety thousand people started their journey into the west from the mouth of the Kansas River, which is commonly referred to as the Kaw. Beyond that begins the Great Plains, which for some unknown reason, already had trails leading across them. The speculation was that perhaps it was the Buffalo or the Indians that had blazed them, but they already existed.

I found two books from my local library. The first is The Kaw: The Heart of a Nation. I've only just started it, but this is definitely the focus of my research. Not only do I get exact descriptions of the landscape throughout the state, but of the pioneers that came from all parts of the world to settle there. There are descriptions of the initial settlements, wages paid, famous outlaws, the division of the prairies by barbed wire. This is going to be a cover-to-cover read for me. I'm tentatively setting this story in 1865, just after the Civil War. Kansas was an anti-slave state, but neighboring Missouri was pro. In fact, Kansas was the staging ground for the Civil War. My two characters were initially white, but now I'm thinking that my boy character is white, and that the other is an ex-slave that escaped from Missouri into Kansas and was taken in by the boy's father. This man and the boy's father both join the Union forces, leaving the boy and his mother to survive alone for the entire four years of the war. That's the start of it.

The other book I have is Pioneer Women: Voices from the Kansas Frontier. This is a collection of first-hand accounts from – you guessed it – women of the Kansas frontier. I'm looking forward to this too, because this should give me everything I need to convey the life of a family on its own without a man to help. Life back then was terribly brutal, and I want to capture that.

Lastly, I found a link to nineteenth century slang. And Wikipedia is just amazing. I've been reading about hoop skirts and bustles to start with, but the links take me sometimes seven degrees of separation from my original subject. For instance, I was reading about the hoop skirt and somehow ended up on escarpment.

If only we had these tools in high school.

Andy Rooney

I got this in an email from my cousin. Roughly translated: this is probably already made the rounds and I'm the last one to hear of it. But this is the kind of talk that needs to happen on a regular basis. Hard talk. Telling it like it is. I may not agree with every aspect of what Rooney is saying, but I really appreciate that someone is willing to travel crossways across the grain. In particular, I like his views on the hypocrisy of reverse racism. Whites in America have become docile house pets. We watch the Mind of Mencia, laughing until our drink comes out the nose holes while he flips white people the bird. As I've said, that's all well and good, but have the cojones to take a little of your own medicine. Not gonna happen. Not in this lifetime.

Here it is:

I don't think being a minority makes you a victim of anything except numbers.. The only things I can think of that are truly discriminatory are things like the United Negro College Fund, Jet Magazine, Black Entertainment Television, and Miss Black America. Try to have things like the United Caucasian College Fund, Cloud Magazine, White Entertainment Television, or Miss White America; and see what happens...Jesse Jackson will be knocking down your door.

Guns do not make you a killer. I think killing makes you a killer. You can kill someone with a baseball bat or a car, but no one is trying to ban you from driving to the ball game .

I believe they are called the Boy Scouts for a reason, which is why there are no girls allowed. Girls belong in the Girl Scouts! ARE YOU LISTENING MARTHA BURKE ?

I think that if you feel homosexuality is wrong, it is not a phobia, it is an opinion.

I have the right 'NOT' to be tolerant of others because they are different, weird, or tick me off.

When 70% of the people who get arrested are black, in cities where 70% of the population is black, that is not racial profiling; it is the Law of Probability.

I believe that if you are selling me a milkshake, a pack of cigarettes, a newspaper or a hotel room, you must do it in English! As a matter of fact, if you want to be an American citizen, you should have to speak English!

My father and grandfather didn't die in vain so you can leave the countries you were born in to come over and disrespect ours.

I think the police should have every right to shoot you if you threaten them after they tell you to stop. If you can't understand the word 'freeze' or 'stop' in English, see the above lines.

I don't think just because you were not born in this country, you are qualified for any special loan programs, government sponsored bank loans or tax breaks, etc., so you can open a hotel, coffee shop, trinket store, or any other business.

We did not go to the aid of certain foreign countries and risk our lives in wars to defend their freedoms, so that decades later they could come over here and tell us our constitution is a living document; and open to their interpretations.

I don't hate the rich, I don't pity the poor.

I know pro wrestling is fake, but so are movies and television. That doesn't stop you from watching them.

I think Bill Gates has every right to keep every penny he made and continue to make more. If it ticks you off, go and invent the next operating system that's better, and put your name on the building.

It doesn't take a whole village to raise a child right, but it does take a parent to stand up to the kid; and smack their little behinds when necessary, and say 'NO!'

I think tattoos and piercing are fine if you want them, but please don't pretend they are a political statement. And, please, stay home until that new lip ring heals. I don't want to look at your ugly infected mouth as you serve me French fries!

I am sick of 'Political Correctness.'

I know a lot of black people, and not a single one of them was born in Africa ; so how can they be 'African-Americans'? Besides, Africa is a continent. I don't go around saying I am a European-American because my great, great, great, great, great, great grandfather was fromEurope . I am proud to be from America and nowhere else.

And if you don't like my point of view, tough...

The Yoko Reference Was My Own

Just a quick note to say, that in my previous post, I referred to Jessica Simpson as Yoko Ono, the notorious femme fatale credited with breaking up the Beatles. Well, as it turns out, that reference was made by at least one other Cowboys blogger the day before.

In the interest of deflecting any plagiaristic accusations, I came up with that on my own. After the game, I didn't read about the game, stayed away from the blogs and sports shows, so I had no outside influences. Not that anyone would notice or care. This isn't a football blog, and nobody but Bailey comes here to read about the Cowboys (but I'm glad she does!).

And as they say in Mexico, hay no comparison!

As it turns out, hating on Jessica Simpson has become a sport after the collapse of the Cowboys versus the Eagles. In light of that, I retract my comment. At least in my case, it was a total joke--but an original one, and one that didn't require a whole lot of imagination.


It's easy to blame the presence of a woman. Not just any woman, mind you. Simpson is to hot what a blazing super nova is to a lighted match. I get it. But if Tony Romo is incapable of playing football from here on out because his sexual diving rod is pointed true north, then don't blame Jessica Simpson. You might as well blame it on Rio. It's the player that needs to step it up, and he will. Just hopefully this year.

Oh the Weather outside is Frightful

Our driveway is a solid sheet of black ice, and there was a run on the local hardware store. Think Jimmy Stewart in It's a Wonderful Life. Instead of a bank and a pathetic stack of money, it was Aubuchon Hardware and a palette of salt. I bought the last four bags and thought I would fight my way back to the truck.

We are low on food. Oh sure, we have boxes of Mac & Cheese, microwave popcorn, pb&j and lots of bread. But nothing to eat. Yesterday we decided to lump it. Wait out the storm; let the sun come out and set us free. We were good with that. Good that is until the television blinked out.

First my uniform: snow pants, winter coat, Elmer Fudd hat with macho ear flaps, Darth Vader gloves. Last bag of salt, next-to-last bag of sand, show blower, shovel--the works. Half hour later, wipers thumping, freezing rain, we're slogging our way to New Hampshire. Ice storm or no we are not paying taxes for a major purchase. Costco. Philips forty-two inch plasma flat-screen. Just enough room on the credit card. McDonalds drive-thru. Home again. Will it fit in the entertainment center? I measure, cross-check the width as reported on the box. No—Khaaaaan! Wait, that's the box width, not the unit. The reality? One inch to spare. I hook it up.

Sweet Lord! Football has transformed into a wide screen religious experience.

Half time already. Dallas down seven-three to the Eagles. Romo not playing like himself. Already with two interceptions. Wait! Is that Jessica Simpson in the stands? I holler, "Yoko!"

Game over—oh well. It's only one game. Hey, we're twelve and two. Nothing to sneeze at. Move on. I'm over it.

But I do think about deleting my last two football posts.

Promise

I've haven't been writing much, not here on my blog, not even on my novel that is dying a slow death. I'm not giving up, but that is the truth of it. I used to blog almost every day, and the confidence it gave me was energizing. Without it, I'm losing my flare. The words that come to mind are empty, repetitive and boring. So I need to back in gear. It has been suggested to me in the past that if I put so much energy into my blog that I would burn out for the real thing. I think I might have bought into that in a small way.

Anyway, I happened upon a contest that one of my fellow bloggers is having, and in the absence of any motivation whatsoever to do work yesterday afternoon, I applied myself to submitting an entry.

I've always wanted to write a western. You may or may not know that my avatar is a picture of the great Wyatt Earp. I love country music, or at least I used to. It's changed, and that's just the way it goes. When my dad complained about it, I didn't listen, so I won't expect any sympathy. But it's not the same anymore. You may have read somewhere that my favorite team is the Cowboys. Coincidence? I think not.

I don't watch westerns and I don't read them, except for Lonesome Dove, which is a masterpiece of literature by Larry McMurtry. I make no lofty claims to be near as talented, but one has to start somewhere.

Here's hoping I don't fall off the wagon again. It's time to get back to the routine of writing every day, whether it is here or elsewhere.

So thanks Bernita for having this contest. And I hope to see that Jason has some more in the near future.

Here is my entry:

Promise

Bobby snatched his pistol from his right hip holster and started into his pivot—

Crunch, head jerked forward, ringing like a gong.

Dog tired.

"Whoa. It weren't that hard," a gruff voice said. A tug on his gun hand. "Now gimme that." The loss jarred Bobby awake. The Colt. His daddy's Colt.

"That there was a love tap t'get yer attention." Cole spiked the shovel into the dirt a hairs breadth from the tip of Bobby's boot. "Now dig."

"You gonna do for me like you did my daddy?" Bobby rubbed the back of his head. Bone dry.

"You ain't never had no sense, Bobby."

"So you sayin' it ain't so?"

"I said dig."

"No."

Cole trained the Colt on Bobby's forehead and thumbed back the hammer. "This thing loaded?"

Eyes locked on Cole's, Bobby snatched the shovel and heeled it into the soft earth. "Six feet I reckon?"

The sun turned orange and dipped over the horizon. Bobby looked up in the failing light, neck-deep now in the hole. Cole's face stared down, aglow from the tip of a cigarette.

"The Beaton boys hung your daddy from that branch right there." Cole pointed.

"That's a damned lie. It was you kilt him--for the stolen bank money! "

"No, but they did. Do I look like a rich man?"

Bobby's shovel bit into ground with a hollow thunk.

"He died so's when his boy become a man he'd have the chance his daddy never had."

Happy Birthday, Jackson

Today is your eighth birthday, Jackson. You don't know that I'm writing this, and you may not know it for years to come. But I want you to know how proud I am, and what has meant to me to be your father.

After you were born, your mother and I bought our very first house to make the best possible home for you. It was brand new, the walls flawlessly white. The one bit of color, and the only color it would get for the first four years was your room. Like the only ornament on a tree. We bought the best of everything: a crib, a rocker, shelves, changing table and dresser, stroller, car seat, Baby Bjorn, even a fancy country-style backpack that we only used once. Everything had to be perfect.

Your mother had a stack of books she read tirelessly, insisting that I read them too. Of course I didn't, because I am just a guy after all. I went to all the classes though. Lamaze. Even one on breast feeding. I saw some videos that still wake me up in the middle of the night.

There is nothing in the world that can prepare a couple for a new born baby. When you first came out, you were like a little alien that looked just like my grandpa. It wasn't real, and yet it was all too real. We had no idea what to do.

The nurse swaddled you in a blanket so that only your little scrunched-up face stuck out. You barely weighed more than a feather. I could hold you in the palm of my hand. And I did, quite often, just for the fun of it. I never let you out of my sight. When the nurses took you to the nursery, I followed right behind in case they tried to switch you out for another.

Despite the fact that we had spent so much time on your new room, you slept with mommy and daddy for the first year. We had read and heard accounts of what kind of trouble we had created for ourselves, that you would never sleep in your own bed. But when we finally did put you in your crib, you didn't mind at all. Lesson in life: don't believe what you read. Parents are just kids with deeper voices. The good ones do what's best for their kids.

I read to you every night, and thank God I did. Now you love books almost as much as you love video games, just like your dad.

Once I sat the video camera up on a tripod and filmed my advice to you in case I was killed in a car accident. I drew a total blank. Feeling embarrassed, I rewound and taped over it. Too bad. You would have seen how inarticulate I can truly be. Hard to believe, I know. It's one thing to know who you are inside, and another to put it into words with such confidence as to inspire the same in someone else.

When I look at you, I see a lot of myself. All the good things and none of the bad. We all have insecurities, and I have plenty. The advantage you have in this life is a mom and dad that will always look out for you. We won't yell or hit or belittle, and when we make mistakes we will apologize. That's a world apart from how we were raised. Instead of passing the buck, the buck stops with us. You will always have the advantage that our undivided attention will afford.

Mere words cannot express the ocean depths of my feelings toward you. When I see you smile your real, ungoverned smile, and hear the musical lilt of your laughter, it lights the darkest of darkest days. You are my son. You are the best part of me. You are the future, and it is my foremost purpose to make yours the best that it can be.

Happy Birthday, Jackson.

I don't think this works

I found this on Bailey's blog. There is a tool that rates the readability of your blog. Here is the results of checking mine:



I don't think it works though. I ran a check of some of my blog buddies and got a lot of elementary levels back, which is clearly not the case. Jaye at Jayes Blag though, scores very high, College Undergrad. That one does make sense.

I added the Library Thing to my sidebar. I'm in a deep-reading phase, taking notes and paying special attention to descriptive passages. It's amazing how difficult it is to describe how one walks from one end of the yard to the other. So I'm taking notes.

Vive los vaqueros.

The demise of the New England Patriots has been greatly exaggerated. So too the dominance of the Cowboys. Still, 12 and 1 and counting. A win is a win. And a come-from-behind victory with two minutes on the clock is the stuff of legend.

** Update **

In response to Beth's comment about the Colts: they definitely have a chance. More than a good chance, a great chance to go all the way. I'm overstating my confidence level in the Cowboys, by the way. Eight parts confidence, two parts wishful thinking. They have a long road to the Superbowl. Green Bay is not a gimme game just because we beat them once. Seattle is coming on strong, and the Giants aren't going to roll over and play dead either. In the AFC, I seriously doubt the Steelers are scaring anyone after getting humiliated by New England, but the Jags aren't to be overlooked. When the Colts are in the playoffs, they'll have Marvin Harrison back but will have swapped for Dwight Freeney. Regardless, nobody in New England will honestly be able to profess confidence when those two teams meet again.

Work, Kids and Football

I have finally submitted something to my employer that showcases everything I am capable of doing given enough time. In case some of you are wondering, I have been working on a web page that employs some of the latest and greatest technologies. It's nothing you as the general public can browse to and see. Though it is a web page, it is also an internal application bought and paid for by customers of my company. It's pretty cool just the same. The stuff I'm doing now is the next evolution in web page development. It's a damn good thing I'm on top of it. I have to be if I want to stay in the business.

As I was bringing my coffee upstairs, I took a moment to glance at my two kids sitting on the couch together. Emmett adores his older brother, Jackson. They were sharing a blanket. Jackson had turned off the television after a half-hour (twenty minutes on TiVo—sans commercials) of Ben-10, and was playing Nintendogs on the DS. I could tell by the sound of dogs barking. There is a feature of the game that displays a record player—you know, a phonograph record, 33 RPMs. The kids have mastered the art of using the stylus to drag the needle to the record, pressing the "record" button and making silly noises until the needle reaches the smooth middle. Then they laugh—no, they crack up—at the grunts, screams and fart noises they have left behind.

Hours of quality entertainment.

As I saw their two heads pressed together, faces alight from the glow of the screen, I gave myself a mental pat on the back. They will always have each other, long after I am gone.

My football team has quietly advanced to an eleven and one record. If it weren't for the raging success of the New England Patriots, our ascension would have attracted a lot more attention. This is the best time to be a fan of a football team, after years of rebuilding and frustration, to be a witness to the magic before the world knows what is about to happen.

The Dallas Cowboys are going to win the Superbowl this year. I can feel it. The Patriots are fading down the stretch while the Cowboys are getting better each week. Our defense is getting ferocious. New stars are blooming on each side of the ball. Bill Parcells built this team, but it took Wade Phillips and Jason Garrett to take advantage of the considerable talent Bill had collected.

If you love another team, I understand that you either don't or won't believe. Feel free to tell me so. But come February, in Tempe, Arizona, allow me to say that I told you so.