Tag: boys

Who’s Image Anyway

David Stern, that iconic sport executive “genius” of the NBA, continues to rework the reputation of pro-basketball.

NBA playas were all chained out–baggy pants hanging significantly south of waist and over sized tees accented by platinum chains. All bling, a la the most gansta of urban chic. It was good for the NBA–the younger, hipper pro sport. Ticket sales and TV ratings up, up, up!

We had athletes choking coaches, throwing naked wives into the snow, and punching fans in a stand-clearing brawl. People started getting uncomfortable with this marriage of elite hoop stars and the hood stars. Got the cool, but would this turn off the wealthy, white fans? Ratings and sales potentially down, down, down!

Solution? Make the ballers wear suits, and have Wayne Newton bring his geriatric Elvis, Mr. Vegas revival to the NBA All Star intro-show.

15 year-old: Who is that guy?
12 year-old: Is his face real? He looks like wax.
Me: Michael looks less real.
15 year-old: Was that guy famous? For what?
Me: (no answer)

Where was Beyonce and her girls remaking The Star Spangled Banner? John Legend jumping on his piano?

Not a way to attract fans for the future. And–much as I love Xtina–the music and show was old.

I came for the music, not the game. Boo!

(c) 2005-2016 Doctor of Thinkology. Some rights reserved under Creative Commons License.
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Full of Something

The Spouse said something disturbing the other day.

Spouse: You know that we will still be in Iraq when the boyz are draft age.
Me: What the hell are you saying THAT for????

We have tried to raise the boyz to be responsible, to take responsibility, to be responsible for others. Is the payoff watching them ship off to Iraq?

Both have independently said that they would fight for their country. And that they would do their duty. Me, I am looking for swampland in Vancouver. Anyplace to save them.

Then I had an epiphany.

They wouldn’t let me save them. And that I am proud of them. Proud every time they get up from their seat on the subway for an elderly man. Proud every time they hold the door open for people entering the school. Proud every time they bend down to hear a little kid’s secret. Proud of every time they cringe at violence in a movie. Proud of every time I see them at a game, with their hands over their huge hearts, singing to the flag.

But I still have that swampland in the back of my head.

(c) 2005-2016 Doctor of Thinkology. Some rights reserved under Creative Commons License.
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Straight Flush

I came in the house and cast my glance at the 12-year old. I was struck by how he looked.

Me: Hey, are you in love?

Him: (emphatically) NO!

He turned and looked intently and earnestly into my eyes. And man-oh-man, were his eyes green.

Me: Really. Your eyes are so green.

Him: They always are. (with a curious look.)

Me; It’s like, like you are almost like, like glowing. Like not like you played alot of basketball. But you look different.

He tilted his head a bit away from me. And, man-oh-man, he looked like a gazillion bucks. Like he owned the world. But not like he just earned the world. Like it was always his. And that it would always be.

Him: (laughing) Well, I’m not in love.

But, man-oh-man, I am. With him!

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The Trials of Mister Stinky Man

The 15-year-old regaled me with the tale of Mister Stinky Man.

MSM gets on the public metro bus about 1/2 way during the commute. And from his “name” you have probably guessed that he smells not so good. For a bunch of high-school guys, many of whom are only too aware of their personal hygiene, this is troubling. And a source of entertainment.

The 15-year-old: We see him at his stop. And then all the boys from my school run to the windows and open them up. We stick our faces out. Man, he smells bad.

Me: Hmmmm…

The 15-year-old: We NEED to. He really smells bad. Like really bad.

Me: Like piss?

The 15-year-old: Like stink.

Me: Is he in ragged clothes? Is he a bum?

The 15-year-old: No. He just stinks. He puts newspaper down on the seat before he sits down, he stinks so bad.

Me: Hunh. So he knows he stinks. Do you think that he can’t help it?

The 15-year-old pauses. He is thinking.

The next day he missed the morning bus. Had an appointment. On the way home from practice…

The 15-year-old: I was glad I wasn’t on the bus this morning.

Me: The Stinky Man?

The 15-year-old: Some stupid freshman decided to throw a bar of soap at him. And sprayed him with Right Guard.

Me: That’s just wrong.

The 15-year-old took a different route this morning. He didn’t want to be associated with the stupid freshman. He saw one of his classmates on the alternative route. He, too, wasn’t pleased with the action of the underclassman. They thought that he didn’t represent.

The 15-year-old: There is a line. The kid definitely crossed it.

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1st Gear

Maybe this is one where you really had to be there. I thought it was hysterical. The 15-year-old was a bit concerned, though.

We were driving back from football practice–me and the 15-year old in the Subaru, about 1/2 mile from home. A very bright yellow car passed us on the left. There was something about the rumble that made me look up and see the Ferrari horse rearing on the back of the car. Like this, only yellow.

I met my foe at the light and quickly assessed the competition. The passenger, some short 30-something guy. Bad hair cut. The driver was much better put together. I could see his cufflinks glint against the steering wheel. MUCH better haircut. A weasel-ly moustache, though.

The light turned and I gunned the Subaru through her paces. That Ferrari ate my 4 cylinder dust. I cackled maniacally. The yellow car met me at the next light.

“So, you think that was funny?”

The 15-year-old raised his eyebrows in warning to me.

“Hey, let’s face it,” said I. “It WAS funny.” The 15-year-old coughed his concern. “I’m from Detroit,” I continued. “We used to race from the lights all the time.” The guy was pissed. I was crying, My laughing was out of control.

The 15-year-old was flashing yellow. I revved the engine. My foe did so, too. About 6 octaves lower than mine. I revved back. The light changed, and I immediately lost my place on the gears. The canary car was long down Michigan Avenue.

Me, still in hysterics, fumbled my way to second (or third?) gear. The smell of burning clutch was everywhere.

But I did beat the Ferrari. At least once.

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Time Free Zone

The 11-year old: Can I please play RTC on the computer?
Me: No.
Him: Would it help if I said please?
Me: (lying) No.
Him: Please?
Me: Well I don’t want you in front of that computer all night. You can play until 6:15.
Him: Great!
Me: Now you need to be able to tell time. To time yourself. I don’t want to have to come in there at like, seven and tell you to get off. Understand?
Him: No problem.
Me: (at 7 p.m.) Get off!

Happens every time. Like clockwork. Well at least something has to do with time.

Posted on by docthink 4

VaRoom D.C.

Nice weather brings everyone out, and Chinatown was buzzing last night. 7th Street sidewalks were full of coat-free strollers crowding restaurants and bars. [BTW, the MCI Center has been rechristened Verizon Center. You can see that at www.mci.com.]

Walking toward the Spy Museum on the way from the movies* the 11-year-old spotted a hot red car.

HIM: Isn’t that a Ferrari?
BRO: I see the horse.
ME: [to valet] Can I park it?
VALET: Ha, Ha!

After our hamburger dinner, we were walking back toward our car.

14-year old: What’s that?
ME: I dunno. The new Chrysler?
HIM: What are those “B”s on the wheels.
ME: Bentley.
VALET: You like?

A block later also on the street.

14-year old: More “B’s”. Whose car is this?
ME: Somebody you don’t know.

All that within 3 blocks. Then we drove away.

* Dave Chappelle’s Block Party fun, fun, fun.

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