Yesterday I discussed my selective memory when it came to sports. For what it's worth, my memory regarding sporting events is hardly perfect.
Last weekend I was weeding out boxes of belongings that I hadn't seen in awhile. One such box provided three scorecards that I had filled out of Cubs' games from the 1970's. This was in the post-'69 hangover phase when the Cubs once again faded into whatever state is below mediocrity. Thankfully, I was able to see some very fine players play in Wrigley Field.
There are some interesting notes about the times that the scorecards revealed. The scorecards themselves cost .15 and .20. Lower box tickets back then cost $3.75. A Schlitz beer cost .55. No, these are not post-war prices; these are prices during the Nixon era.
There were only twelve teams in each league. Such luminaries as Rollie Fingers, Catfish Hunter, Tom Seaver, Ferguson Jenkins, Jim Palmer, Don Sutton and Steve Carlton were pitching to the likes of Willie Stargell, Henry Aaron, Ron Santo, Dusty Baker, Rick Monday and Al Oliver. Only five years earlier the mound had been lowered, divisional playoffs had been introduced four years earlier and I had begun to play T-ball three years earlier.
Such was my lot that the only players whom I could convince to give me their autographs were the immortal Gene Hiser, Vic Harris and Bill Bonham. Almost forty years later I remember one of them clearly, the second's name and the third results in a shoulder shrug.
The scorekeeping is what you'd expect from a twelve-year-old. No record of pitches is evident, the strikeouts are all of the same variety so I have no idea whether the batter swung or was caught looking and in some places there seems to be some confusion as to what actually happened.
But what the scorecards contain makes their preservation worth it. I saw Henry Aaron hit his 702nd career home run. Early the next season he would break the legendary Babe Ruth's record for career home runs. I saw players whose careers would later gain them entry into Cooperstown: Aaron, Willie Stargell, Ferguson Jenkins, Ron Santo and Billy Williams. I saw a pitcher who would later throw a controversial no-hitter that he would contend should have been a perfect game. I saw a player, Rick Monday, who would save the American flag from being burnt in Dodger Stadium. I saw these players in the flower of their youth and in the twilight of their careers. I saw my dreams on a glorious field where they would forever remain.
A little less than a year later, the president resigned in shame. Almost two years later we withdrew from the conflict in Vietnam. But for these three days, I was a twelve-year-old child engaged in the sort of escapism that still to this day thrills my being. Thankfully, for whatever they're worth, I have a record of those days.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Memory, and lack thereof
I've already put up a partial list of things I cannot do, but this entry will cover one very specific area that puzzles me. Despite the fact that I have an otherwise good memory unaided by ginko biloba, there are a couple of things I am constitutionally incapable of remembering.
For example, I'm pretty good with dates. I remember birthdays, anniversaries, historical dates. I'm no Marilu Henner -- thank goodness -- but I do all right when it comes to recalling important dates. Phone numbers are another piece of data that I can recall pretty easily. Courtroom numbers, schedules -- these can be challenging sometimes, but not typically.
Sports trivia I'm pretty good at. Give me numbers -- 1908, 511, .406, 56, 755* -- and I can tell you the reference. I can remember memorable series, playoff games, wild events. I remember certain things, like Whitey Lockman being on second base when Bobbie Thomson hit his shot heard round the world. I can recite in vivid detail how the US was screwed in men's basketball at the '72 Olympics. I can recall what I threw to certain batters in certain situations.
But ask me to sing a song lyric, name the artist who sang it or even the name of the song and I'm toast. I'm one of the people the admen use for the funny commercials where people make up lyrics to songs and swear they're the right ones. Part of this is my hearing deficiency. Part of it is that until I graduated high school, I never owned a record (CD for those of you from later generations, the internet for the rest). Sure, I like music, but for whatever reason, I struggle to remember this stuff. Ask me who helped stop Joe DiMaggio's 56-game hitting streak with a diving play at third (Ken Keltner -- and my own Mother was only nine in 1941) and I'll readily answer you. Tell me who scored the tying goal at the end of the first period in the Miracle on Ice in 1980 and I'll tell you Mark Johnson. Just don't ask me to recite any Elton John song lyrics, name any Beatles albums or describe Dave Matthew music. And gangsta rap? Um, no.
Considering that my job requires me to have an ever-changing roster of facts and statutes not only at the tip of my finger but also to have the ability to analyze them and apply them properly, it's shameful that I can't remember songs that I hear often on a weekly basis. I love music; that's not the problem. It's not like colors, where I could give a rip about the difference between chartreuse and mauve (for the record, I spelled chartreuse correctly without having to look it up first...but the only reason I know it's correct is because I looked it up since I wasn't sure...). For whatever reason, I don't process music well.
Add to that the absolute inability to remember a joke. I love cleverness. I love the sly turn of the phrase, the well-worked wordplay. Wordsmiths I appreciate more than one can know. But I cannot remember a joke beyond the two or three that I've memorized. Although not exactly on the same level, they're barely a notch above Knock-Knock quality. And frankly, I don't remember any of those.
I revel in the finery of a deliciously naughty limerick. I applaud the bravado of a well-turned chiasmus. Double-entendres make me giggle like a child. But I cannot remember a joke.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
For example, I'm pretty good with dates. I remember birthdays, anniversaries, historical dates. I'm no Marilu Henner -- thank goodness -- but I do all right when it comes to recalling important dates. Phone numbers are another piece of data that I can recall pretty easily. Courtroom numbers, schedules -- these can be challenging sometimes, but not typically.
Sports trivia I'm pretty good at. Give me numbers -- 1908, 511, .406, 56, 755* -- and I can tell you the reference. I can remember memorable series, playoff games, wild events. I remember certain things, like Whitey Lockman being on second base when Bobbie Thomson hit his shot heard round the world. I can recite in vivid detail how the US was screwed in men's basketball at the '72 Olympics. I can recall what I threw to certain batters in certain situations.
But ask me to sing a song lyric, name the artist who sang it or even the name of the song and I'm toast. I'm one of the people the admen use for the funny commercials where people make up lyrics to songs and swear they're the right ones. Part of this is my hearing deficiency. Part of it is that until I graduated high school, I never owned a record (CD for those of you from later generations, the internet for the rest). Sure, I like music, but for whatever reason, I struggle to remember this stuff. Ask me who helped stop Joe DiMaggio's 56-game hitting streak with a diving play at third (Ken Keltner -- and my own Mother was only nine in 1941) and I'll readily answer you. Tell me who scored the tying goal at the end of the first period in the Miracle on Ice in 1980 and I'll tell you Mark Johnson. Just don't ask me to recite any Elton John song lyrics, name any Beatles albums or describe Dave Matthew music. And gangsta rap? Um, no.
Considering that my job requires me to have an ever-changing roster of facts and statutes not only at the tip of my finger but also to have the ability to analyze them and apply them properly, it's shameful that I can't remember songs that I hear often on a weekly basis. I love music; that's not the problem. It's not like colors, where I could give a rip about the difference between chartreuse and mauve (for the record, I spelled chartreuse correctly without having to look it up first...but the only reason I know it's correct is because I looked it up since I wasn't sure...). For whatever reason, I don't process music well.
Add to that the absolute inability to remember a joke. I love cleverness. I love the sly turn of the phrase, the well-worked wordplay. Wordsmiths I appreciate more than one can know. But I cannot remember a joke beyond the two or three that I've memorized. Although not exactly on the same level, they're barely a notch above Knock-Knock quality. And frankly, I don't remember any of those.
I revel in the finery of a deliciously naughty limerick. I applaud the bravado of a well-turned chiasmus. Double-entendres make me giggle like a child. But I cannot remember a joke.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Monday, September 17, 2012
Manhunter
I live and have always lived in the lower forty-eight states. For that matter, I've never been west of Kansas City. Perhas for that reason, I've always been fascinated with the outdoors and specifically the Northwest. I've done a fair -- my girl would say unfair -- share of reading on the region and want to go there someday for an extended visit. Were circumstances to permit, I might move there if the conditions were right.
In the meantime, two television shows in this vein have captivated my interest. The first is a Canadian production called Manhunter, which is largely shot in Canada but due to its popularity makes occasional forays into the States. The premise is that two people -- known as the Prey -- are dropped in the middle of the Canadian wilderness with nothing more than a map and whatever they can bring with them and start about two miles away from a professional tracker, the Manhunter, originally Terry Grant, who would be teamed with a sidekick who knew the regional terrain. The Prey are on foot, Mantracker and his guide on horses. A flare is shot to begin the game, and the Prey have forty-eight hours to get to a designated point known only to them. Mantracker has to follow the Prey based only on using their tracks and any visual sightings he may obtain.
Some of the Prey have been idiots. Statistics show that teams only win about twenty percent of the time. Individuals may win about thirty percent of the time. The only prize for those that beat the Mantracker is bragging rights. The terrain varies, but it is always rugged. It would seem that the Mantracker, in addition to his skills and experience, has a distinct advantage being on a horse, but there are times when that is a huge disadvantage, especially when it comes to muskeg or rocky ground. The editing heightens the viewing enjoyment, but the concept alone is worth tuning in to see.
The other show is of recent vintage. Yukon Men deals with the community of Tanana about sixty miles south of the Arctic Circle in Alaska. It focuses largely on the men, fathers and sons, and the challenges they fact eking out a living in the wilderness. Again, the editing lends to the excitement for the viewers, but what these people face on a daily basis amazes me. Unlike Mantracker, which only has rain and perhaps incipient snow as its inclement weather, Yukon Men revels in snow in all its stages. The primary fight is snow: Living in it, hunting in it, guarding against its effects, predicting it melt, preparing for its return. Add to that the rough terrain and it's nothing short of miraculous that people lived in such wilderness before the combustion engine and rifle were invented.
Manhunter is contrived to the extent that the rules fit the show into a manageable timeframe. Unless they're doing reshoots, Yukon Men's only artificiality is in the editing. Both are reality shows, but Mantracker is much different than the rest of cable television reality shows in that there is a purpose beyond the depiction of what tracking is all about.
Both shows have the ability to transfix me. Had Mantracker been around when I was younger I might have tried out for the show. I'm not sure how long I could have tried Yukon Men, though. I know I would have liked to try.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
In the meantime, two television shows in this vein have captivated my interest. The first is a Canadian production called Manhunter, which is largely shot in Canada but due to its popularity makes occasional forays into the States. The premise is that two people -- known as the Prey -- are dropped in the middle of the Canadian wilderness with nothing more than a map and whatever they can bring with them and start about two miles away from a professional tracker, the Manhunter, originally Terry Grant, who would be teamed with a sidekick who knew the regional terrain. The Prey are on foot, Mantracker and his guide on horses. A flare is shot to begin the game, and the Prey have forty-eight hours to get to a designated point known only to them. Mantracker has to follow the Prey based only on using their tracks and any visual sightings he may obtain.
Some of the Prey have been idiots. Statistics show that teams only win about twenty percent of the time. Individuals may win about thirty percent of the time. The only prize for those that beat the Mantracker is bragging rights. The terrain varies, but it is always rugged. It would seem that the Mantracker, in addition to his skills and experience, has a distinct advantage being on a horse, but there are times when that is a huge disadvantage, especially when it comes to muskeg or rocky ground. The editing heightens the viewing enjoyment, but the concept alone is worth tuning in to see.
The other show is of recent vintage. Yukon Men deals with the community of Tanana about sixty miles south of the Arctic Circle in Alaska. It focuses largely on the men, fathers and sons, and the challenges they fact eking out a living in the wilderness. Again, the editing lends to the excitement for the viewers, but what these people face on a daily basis amazes me. Unlike Mantracker, which only has rain and perhaps incipient snow as its inclement weather, Yukon Men revels in snow in all its stages. The primary fight is snow: Living in it, hunting in it, guarding against its effects, predicting it melt, preparing for its return. Add to that the rough terrain and it's nothing short of miraculous that people lived in such wilderness before the combustion engine and rifle were invented.
Manhunter is contrived to the extent that the rules fit the show into a manageable timeframe. Unless they're doing reshoots, Yukon Men's only artificiality is in the editing. Both are reality shows, but Mantracker is much different than the rest of cable television reality shows in that there is a purpose beyond the depiction of what tracking is all about.
Both shows have the ability to transfix me. Had Mantracker been around when I was younger I might have tried out for the show. I'm not sure how long I could have tried Yukon Men, though. I know I would have liked to try.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Friday, September 7, 2012
Last name skein
Apropos of nothing, the other day it occurred to me that in my life, there were three women that shared the same last name who had interesting, if hardly crucial, roles in my life. Well, perhaps not roles, but they each passed through my life sufficiently enough to leave me with anecdotes or memories, mostly bad.
The surname we'll give them to protect their privacy will be Murphy. It isn't that, but it was Irish, and O'Brien is just harder to type than Murphy.
The first girl was the daughter of the real estate agent who sold us the lot on which our parents built our house when I was twelve-years-old. Gail -- I'll use their real first names -- was a raven-haired girl who I thought was a beauty a year older than me. Perhaps she was, perhaps she wasn't. We were friends first, then we developed an attraction to each other when I was in eighth grade and she was a high school freshman. Because we weren't in the same school and didn't live near each other, getting together was difficult. Then I made one of the most boneheaded decisions in my life: Another guy showed some interest in her, I generously stepped aside to let them date...and at last report, they had six children together.
The next Murphy was named Kerry. She was nothing more than a friend, and when in our senior year she got dumped by her longtime beau, we agreed to go to prom together. I'd never been, so it was convenient for me, and it allowed her to save face publicly. The only problem was that after shelling out whatever I did for a nice dinner, when we arrived at the dance, she and the girl from the other couple with whom we drove to the venue waltzed off to the bathroom, only to be found later dancing together and not with their dates. The other guy, who was serious about his date, was upset enough that the next day, on whatever they call post-prom's next day, convinced me to play poker with him in the backseat of his parents' Cadillac. I don't even know how to play poker. The high point of this excursion was that we had crossed the border into a state that still sold beer to eighteen-year-olds.
The curious thing was that later that year, after we'd all gone off to college and come home for Christmas, we were at my buddy Buck's house for New Year's Eve. Kerry, not drunk, decided that it was time to make amends for her folly at prom and use mistletoe as her excuse. I wanted no part of it or her.
The third woman was named Stacy, and I didn't run into her for over twenty years after the business with Kerry. Stacy was a woman of incomparable beauty. Ironically, she couldn't take a photograph to prove it, but trust me -- this woman is drop-dead gorgeous. The problem is that not only does she know it, she has a patrician background. It's as if she expects everyone to genuflect when she walks in the room. She tries to pass herself off as Everywoman, but it's a charade. The last time I saw her she was on a local news show that highlighted her two sets of triplets. She and her brood were dressed up seven o'clock in the morning ike they were headed to Nantucket for the day. Given the fact that her kids were Irish sets of triplets, there is no way she handles all of them by herself and manages to dress like Jackie O. It was only after the woman interviewing her mentioned at the last moment that she has a nanny that she 'fessed up. If she hadn't, I'm quite sure Stacy would have let the world think she was Wonder Woman and did this all on her own, every single day. Appearances, for her, are everything. Too bad for her she can't get cameras to cooperate.
My girl laughs at me when I notice patterns and coincidences. I wonder what she'll make of this one.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
The surname we'll give them to protect their privacy will be Murphy. It isn't that, but it was Irish, and O'Brien is just harder to type than Murphy.
The first girl was the daughter of the real estate agent who sold us the lot on which our parents built our house when I was twelve-years-old. Gail -- I'll use their real first names -- was a raven-haired girl who I thought was a beauty a year older than me. Perhaps she was, perhaps she wasn't. We were friends first, then we developed an attraction to each other when I was in eighth grade and she was a high school freshman. Because we weren't in the same school and didn't live near each other, getting together was difficult. Then I made one of the most boneheaded decisions in my life: Another guy showed some interest in her, I generously stepped aside to let them date...and at last report, they had six children together.
The next Murphy was named Kerry. She was nothing more than a friend, and when in our senior year she got dumped by her longtime beau, we agreed to go to prom together. I'd never been, so it was convenient for me, and it allowed her to save face publicly. The only problem was that after shelling out whatever I did for a nice dinner, when we arrived at the dance, she and the girl from the other couple with whom we drove to the venue waltzed off to the bathroom, only to be found later dancing together and not with their dates. The other guy, who was serious about his date, was upset enough that the next day, on whatever they call post-prom's next day, convinced me to play poker with him in the backseat of his parents' Cadillac. I don't even know how to play poker. The high point of this excursion was that we had crossed the border into a state that still sold beer to eighteen-year-olds.
The curious thing was that later that year, after we'd all gone off to college and come home for Christmas, we were at my buddy Buck's house for New Year's Eve. Kerry, not drunk, decided that it was time to make amends for her folly at prom and use mistletoe as her excuse. I wanted no part of it or her.
The third woman was named Stacy, and I didn't run into her for over twenty years after the business with Kerry. Stacy was a woman of incomparable beauty. Ironically, she couldn't take a photograph to prove it, but trust me -- this woman is drop-dead gorgeous. The problem is that not only does she know it, she has a patrician background. It's as if she expects everyone to genuflect when she walks in the room. She tries to pass herself off as Everywoman, but it's a charade. The last time I saw her she was on a local news show that highlighted her two sets of triplets. She and her brood were dressed up seven o'clock in the morning ike they were headed to Nantucket for the day. Given the fact that her kids were Irish sets of triplets, there is no way she handles all of them by herself and manages to dress like Jackie O. It was only after the woman interviewing her mentioned at the last moment that she has a nanny that she 'fessed up. If she hadn't, I'm quite sure Stacy would have let the world think she was Wonder Woman and did this all on her own, every single day. Appearances, for her, are everything. Too bad for her she can't get cameras to cooperate.
My girl laughs at me when I notice patterns and coincidences. I wonder what she'll make of this one.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Families
What is it with family? I've come to the conclusion that one is entitled to be even more upset when a family member treats that person worse than a stranger would have, because the relation should know better and should be held to a higher standard.
My own family is a piece of work. Our Mother, whom I adored, was the glue that held the family together. She died sadly some sixteen years ago, and things haven't been the same since.
The siblings have written me off. The accuse me -- among other things -- of being pedantic, conceited, hard to live with, in need of the spotlight, unable to hold a job -- in short, just about everything short of being the second shooter in the Kennedy assasination and the cause of global warming. Nevermind that I have lent them money without any hesitation, moved them, done free work for them, advised them on career goals, helped them get into schools, supported them through their various domestic strifes, been godfather to their children...yep, I'm Evil Incarnate.
The remaining parent has always hated me, despite his protestations to the contrary. Throwing a young son into a wall, rousting him out of bed for the felony of not having worn a T-shirt to school and kicking him down a flight of stairs while he's carrying a fully-loaded clothes basket would seem to contradict his assertions. Add to that his emotional and psycholological abuses and he's a psychiatrist's wet dream. It says all that one needs to know that after being sent to a shrink by grade school teachers for my putative difficulty getting along with my peers, it was determined that Himself was the one that had the problem, not me. If you're betting that he never attended another therapy session after that, you'd be right.
When I would come home from college, the first thing I'd do the next morning would be to talk with Mom about how I was to behave while I was home, since I was the source of all the family's problems according to him. Later, over the last nine years of our Mother's life, including the time that she was dying from lung cancer, I didn't go home when he was around lest I stir up anger unnecessarily.
Why does this come out today? My girl is suffering from similar distancing from her family, although by no means as trenchant as the one I have from mine. It pains me to see her immediate family at best indiffernt, at worst judgmental, about her lifestyle.
It is often said that you can choose your friends but you can't chose your family, and that may well be true. But what is often left unsaid is that you can chose not to interact with your family. So much responsibility is thrust on us that no matter what, family is family. That's hogwash. Family that treats you like used newspaper is no more deserving of good treatment than a stranger who treats you similarly. The biological roulette that cast me into the same family with other people does not mean that I must be their target without provocation, that I must suffer their slings and arrows without recourse. It doesn't mean that I have to return kind for kind, but I also don't have to be a fool and let them continue to mistreat me.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
My own family is a piece of work. Our Mother, whom I adored, was the glue that held the family together. She died sadly some sixteen years ago, and things haven't been the same since.
The siblings have written me off. The accuse me -- among other things -- of being pedantic, conceited, hard to live with, in need of the spotlight, unable to hold a job -- in short, just about everything short of being the second shooter in the Kennedy assasination and the cause of global warming. Nevermind that I have lent them money without any hesitation, moved them, done free work for them, advised them on career goals, helped them get into schools, supported them through their various domestic strifes, been godfather to their children...yep, I'm Evil Incarnate.
The remaining parent has always hated me, despite his protestations to the contrary. Throwing a young son into a wall, rousting him out of bed for the felony of not having worn a T-shirt to school and kicking him down a flight of stairs while he's carrying a fully-loaded clothes basket would seem to contradict his assertions. Add to that his emotional and psycholological abuses and he's a psychiatrist's wet dream. It says all that one needs to know that after being sent to a shrink by grade school teachers for my putative difficulty getting along with my peers, it was determined that Himself was the one that had the problem, not me. If you're betting that he never attended another therapy session after that, you'd be right.
When I would come home from college, the first thing I'd do the next morning would be to talk with Mom about how I was to behave while I was home, since I was the source of all the family's problems according to him. Later, over the last nine years of our Mother's life, including the time that she was dying from lung cancer, I didn't go home when he was around lest I stir up anger unnecessarily.
Why does this come out today? My girl is suffering from similar distancing from her family, although by no means as trenchant as the one I have from mine. It pains me to see her immediate family at best indiffernt, at worst judgmental, about her lifestyle.
It is often said that you can choose your friends but you can't chose your family, and that may well be true. But what is often left unsaid is that you can chose not to interact with your family. So much responsibility is thrust on us that no matter what, family is family. That's hogwash. Family that treats you like used newspaper is no more deserving of good treatment than a stranger who treats you similarly. The biological roulette that cast me into the same family with other people does not mean that I must be their target without provocation, that I must suffer their slings and arrows without recourse. It doesn't mean that I have to return kind for kind, but I also don't have to be a fool and let them continue to mistreat me.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Random thoughts continue
Here are some random thoughts for a Labor Day Weekend.:
-- I was really rooting for MAD, but I'll take the outcome nevertheless.
-- The oldest of our three generals, Sherman, used to be preternaturally scared of the vacuum. With the move to the new house, he has become an attack dog. Now, as I vacuum the rug, he attacks the vacuum and tries to bite it while I'm using it. But when I turn it off and put it in the corner, he leaves it alone. Must be some weird bulldog macho thing.
-- Latinos who complain about us robbing them of their culture by forcing them to learn English shouldn't be making up words like frizar, brumar, parquear, lonchear and aplicar or changing the spelling of their names to Cháves or Servantez.
-- I cannot pronounce nor will I ever be able to pronounce Chiwetel Ejiofor's name but I can for some reason remember how to pronounce even though I can pronounce Djimon Hounsou's. Go figure.
-- Alluding to the Amistad business, isn't it interesting that the Brits can apologize for African slavery but they can't bring themselves to apologize for the predations they carried out for nearly a century against their neighbors, the Irish?
-- Just how does one get a gig paying millions of dollars with no discernible talent and tagged with the goofiest name in town like Shia LaBeouf?
-- Political fever -- catch it now.
-- They did a great job adapting The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo to film, but I hope they can do justice to the rest of the trilogy. The second book in the series, The Girl Who Played With Fire, has so much going on in it, though, that I wonder if making two movies out of it might not be a wise move. Cynics, of course, would say it was a blatant money grab, but if you examine that and the third installment, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, you realize there's too much going on in those books to distil them into one movie each.
-- I love my alma mater, and I'm proud to be a graduate of it. But the state in which it resides blows whale chunks.
-- The talent that artists have to compose music or paint or draw pictures amazes me. I'm happy if I come up with an original thought once a year.
-- For some inexplicable reason, despite the fact that I'm not a big fan of pro football and absolutely abhor the Super Bowl, I'm participating in a fantasy football league this year. Sports crappola perplexes my girl no matter what the subject, but fantasy drafts are just downright inane to her.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
-- I was really rooting for MAD, but I'll take the outcome nevertheless.
-- The oldest of our three generals, Sherman, used to be preternaturally scared of the vacuum. With the move to the new house, he has become an attack dog. Now, as I vacuum the rug, he attacks the vacuum and tries to bite it while I'm using it. But when I turn it off and put it in the corner, he leaves it alone. Must be some weird bulldog macho thing.
-- Latinos who complain about us robbing them of their culture by forcing them to learn English shouldn't be making up words like frizar, brumar, parquear, lonchear and aplicar or changing the spelling of their names to Cháves or Servantez.
-- I cannot pronounce nor will I ever be able to pronounce Chiwetel Ejiofor's name but I can for some reason remember how to pronounce even though I can pronounce Djimon Hounsou's. Go figure.
-- Alluding to the Amistad business, isn't it interesting that the Brits can apologize for African slavery but they can't bring themselves to apologize for the predations they carried out for nearly a century against their neighbors, the Irish?
-- Just how does one get a gig paying millions of dollars with no discernible talent and tagged with the goofiest name in town like Shia LaBeouf?
-- Political fever -- catch it now.
-- They did a great job adapting The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo to film, but I hope they can do justice to the rest of the trilogy. The second book in the series, The Girl Who Played With Fire, has so much going on in it, though, that I wonder if making two movies out of it might not be a wise move. Cynics, of course, would say it was a blatant money grab, but if you examine that and the third installment, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest, you realize there's too much going on in those books to distil them into one movie each.
-- I love my alma mater, and I'm proud to be a graduate of it. But the state in which it resides blows whale chunks.
-- The talent that artists have to compose music or paint or draw pictures amazes me. I'm happy if I come up with an original thought once a year.
-- For some inexplicable reason, despite the fact that I'm not a big fan of pro football and absolutely abhor the Super Bowl, I'm participating in a fantasy football league this year. Sports crappola perplexes my girl no matter what the subject, but fantasy drafts are just downright inane to her.
(c) 2012 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles
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