Halloween 2007

This is Lily again. Her Dad brought her over for trick or treat.

She's 9 or so.

I'm glad I don't have a daughter.

This Is The Kind Of Stuff Hendrix Can Look Forward To

Hendrix College-my old Alma Mater-is thinking about bringing back football. OK fine.

Hit the jump to see what happened to Millsaps-one of their competitors in the SCAC- last Saturday.

http://sports.espn.go.com/broadband/video/videopage?videoId=3083220&categoryId=2564308&n8pe6c=2&lpos=spotlight&lid=tab1pos1

I would certainly pay to see this kind of crazy shit.

My Sunday Feeling

By the time you read this, the Fall season will be over at Miracle League. It has been a fun 8 weeks and I will miss those little guys. But I am ready for a break and there are some other projects that I need to tend to before the holidays. All in all, this really has been an amazing experience. When I first volunteered to coach out there, I couldn't talk to anybody connected with the program who didn't go on and on about what an incredible experience it would be to spend time with these kids. My response, being me, was to think, " You don't have to keep blowing smoke up my ass. I told you I'd do it."

Turns out they were telling the honest-to-God truth. Being with these kids every Saturday has easily been the highlight of my week the past 8 weeks. And the Spring was no different.


It is easy to romanticize disabled kids. Indeed, the "sick child" character is a staple of literature. Dickens was a particular master of that grim genre giving us both Tiny Tim and Little Nell. He at least let Tiny Tim live. Little Nell was not so lucky and Oscar Wilde managed to find Dickens's portrayal of her demise as exceedingly hilarious. Which is one of the reasons I love Oscar Wilde.

I don't romanticize the kids at Miracle League. And one of the beauties of the system-or what passes for a system-is that the Miracle League environment is such that they can be kids first and disabled kids second. Willy talks serious trash to the pitcher every time he gets up. Rebekah shamelessly flirts with the college boys that come out to help. Jerrod calls his shot whenever he comes to the plate. Chloe routinely outruns the "buddies" that are assigned to her. Just to prove she can do it. Nope, we are having too much fun out there to get too sentimental about it all. But every now and again something happens with these kids that hits you where you live. One of those things happened a week ago.

The girl on the left is Sarah Beth. Her mother died last week after a brief but tragic illness. Sarah Beth was understandably distraught. All kids depend on their parents. A special needs kid does so exponentially. It was during a discussion with her father about the arrangements for the funeral that Sarah Beth revealed that she had become friends at school with a girl named Josie. Sarah Beth wanted Josie around during this time because, as she told her dad, Josie was the first friend she ever had.

Sarah Beth's father was wise and loving in equal measure. The family is from South Carolina. They decided that the serious stuff would be done there. But here in Little Rock, her father chose to have a visitation that would be as non-scary and positive as possible under the circumstances. And so, it was held in the Fellowship Hall of their church. There was no coffin. There were no flowers. Just punch and cookies for the guests who included the kids from Sarah Beth's school.

Josie and her folks were there. Although she was in her wheelchair at the visitation, she can slowly walk with the assistance of her walker. Josie also plays in the Miracle League. Josie's dad said that the goal for the next game was for Josie to round the bases with the walker instead of the wheelchair.


Sarah Beth showed up the next day as well. Her father told me the night before that he thought coming out to play ball was the best thing for Sarah Beth. Sarah Beth is a physically gifted kid. She can run like the wind and has almost gone yard on us during a couple at-bats. She had already hit Josie was at bat. Josie hit the ball. And as she and the "buddy" assigned to her slowly made their way to first Sarah Beth went down the baseline too, cheering Josie on every step of the way.

I do not romanticize these kids. But they do tend to be precociously empathetic in a way that their more able-bodied counterparts sometimes are not. But this display was extraordinary even by the usual standards of the Miracle League. Think about it: Here was a girl who had just lost her mother, cheering on her friend-the first friend of her life- as she struggled to make her way toward first on two legs. Josie did it 2 more times, with good old Sarah Beth cheering her every step of the way.

No, I do not romanticize. I will come back next Spring. I will come back mainly because I will miss my kids something something awful. I will come back so I can be assured of a weekly reality check these guys impart that, quite frankly, I don't get from practicing law. Or from being me. And I will come back to see an occasional glimpse of perfect kindness. OK. So maybe I romanticize a little.

Enough of that. By now you probably have guessed that Josie is the kid on the right. Oh. I forgot to tell you. Josie can't talk. But that's OK with Sarah Beth.

Because we all know that there are those times when the best kind of friend is somebody who just listens.

The tmfw Nominee For Worst District Attorney

That dubious nomination would go to Orleans Parish District Attorney Eddie Jordan. As if it weren't bad enough that his foolish personnel decisions will likely cause the taxpayers to be stuck with a 3.7 million dollar judgment, it turns out that a suspect in a recent armed robbery repaired to Jordan's house while on the lam.

Only in New Orleans. Check it out here .

As I say at times like these, you cannot make this stuff up.

With All Due Respect To The Village People

Native Day

Today is my birthday. I am 52, the same age as my father when he died. I really don't think overly much about the fact that the men in my father's side of the family do not tend to cash their retirement checks. But neither can I say that I dwell on it either. Indeed, some people have expressed mild surprise that I have managed to live this long. But they weren't making a comment about my genetic background as much as they were about my dyspeptic nature and historic nose for trouble.

As my brother the nurse said last night, " Rollo (my cardiologist) and I were talking about you the last day I worked at the clinic. We figure the odds of you having a heart attack are a lot less than the odds of you getting shot. But there ain't nothing we can do about that other problem." And actually, my odds on that latter score are getting better since a) the invention of Caller ID and b) my inability to stay up much past, say, 10:15.

It has been a good birthday. A highly respected educator and leader of young men here in the LR area showed up last night bearing a six pack of what turns out is his favorite beer. So I can expect a visit soon. Which is fine. Had dinner with KM and PM last night. Will be going out the next two nights and Saturday the family will be over for burgers on the grill. I told my excellent friend Renee the hectoring scold from Tucson that I would be a fat drunk before this was all over.

"That's OK," she said. "You were a skinny drunk up until now." All of these comedians out of work and listen to her.

This, by the way, is but one example of the torrent of abuse I have been receiving all day. Even my deaf friend got into the act. She told me I looked pretty good for an old person. Have you ever been dissed in American Sign Language before? I didn't think so.

I am not complaining. As Mother used to say, "They wouldn't pick on you if they didn't like you."

The truth of the matter is that I am blessed with a great family and with the best friends a man could have. I have no financial worries to speak of, I enjoy robust good health and there is a roof over my head. Like all of us, I have some regrets and there are a few events in my life I wish I could get a "do-over" on. But they are few and I don't dwell on them either.

My goals from here on out are minimal and well defined. I just want to hit 53. I want to outlive my genes. And I want to hit the driver better.

That's all I want. Really.

Grant me this Oh Lord, and I promise to stay out of Your grill for the coming year.

The Worst Mayor In America?

Is Jackson's Frank Melton the worst mayor in America? Worse than Ray Nagin even? From the sounds of this and this one may certainly draw the conclusion that he is crazier than Nagin.

And that's plenty crazy.

Thank God for Mark Stodola here in Little Rock.

I Got A Nikon Camera. I Love To Take Photographs.

I went to the Jewish Food Festival down at the River Market today for the first time. It was a lot of fun. There were booths set up where you could get arts and crafts and there were other displays where one could learn about Jewish culture. A band was playing while I munched my pastrami. The refrain they sang sounded to my ears like "bomb the Golan Heights" until I realized they were singing in Hebrew, a language that ranks right up there with German in it's non-musicality.

The food that I sampled there was wonderful and the folks serving it up couldn't have been nicer. As tasty as it was, very little of it could be considered remotely good for you with the possible exception of the matzoh ball soup. As someone once said, "I love Jewish food. The problem is 72 hours later I'm hungry again." But you don't go to a food festival to eat carrot sticks.

I ran into my little friend Lily who was there with her mom and her older brother. Lily, who as you can see is painfully shy and withdrawn, could pass for a little Jewish girl with her dark eyes and brown hair. However, in point of fact, she is as Lutheran as Garrison Keillor.

Well. Maybe not that Lutheran.

Anyway, it was a beautiful day with great food served by wonderful people. Despite all of our problems, Little Rock is basically a cool place.

MY Sunday Feeling-AWOL

With a visitation, Race for the Cure and my Miracle League kids, I didn't have any time this weekend to do the usual Sunday offering.

Will post some cool pictures later after I chill for awhile. Check back later.

Courage.

Any Pub Is Good Pub

Last Sunday's post about Houston Nutt's being all pissed off about the FOIA request about his brother still being on the payroll got picked up by a website devoted to FOIA and public information.

Mother would be so proud.

Making Stuff Up

Today's Wally is interesting. While he is completely correct in what passes for analysis about the brouhaha concerning the FOIA request about Danny Nutt's continued connection with the program despite his being retired for medical reasons, he lapses into his usual attempt to play both hands against the middle so as to not offend whoever may wind up the winner in the ongoing psychodrama that is the football program at Arkansas.

Houston Nutt has suggested that Danny would be a prime candidate for a counselor's job up there. Maybe he would. Who knows? Wally thinks it's a good idea. In fact, this is today's column.

As you can see, according to Wally, all that Danny Nutt has to do if a) the position is created and b) assuming Danny Nutt would want to work for somebody that may-or may not- have canned his brother and c) despite these apparent obstacles:

"All he would need to do is apply... then hold steady through any time the position has to advertised."

Here's my question that should crank up any haters that might read this:

Wally! How do you know that Danny Nutt will be "pre-selected" as we say in litigation over these issues? For a position that does not exist (That was a Wallyesque sentence I apologize). Have you actually interviewed a source ? You say this is the way stuff works in government. Yeah, it does on the QT sometimes. But if you know that the fix is in for Danny Nutt for a position that so far does not exist, which I can't believe you actually think, you ought to do some journalism before you make shit up.

Either way, today's offering was pretty chickenshit even for you.

I Gotta Nikon Camera. I Love To Take Photographs.

I love this pic.

Vox Populi

As you may have gathered from earlier posts here, things are not good here in the Razorback Nation. To compound the misery, Arkansas gagged another one away at home Saturday night against the Auburn WarDamEagles. So naturally, I turned the dial on the radio to Drive Time Sports to hear the usual moronic commentary from the constituency.

As usual, I was not disappointed. One man actually called in to defend Houston Nutt and to urge folks to be positive about the Razorbacks. He was fairly defensive himself.

" I know this isn't a popular opinion nowadays," he said. " You can even call me a homey if you want to. I don't care."

I can't possibly make this stuff up.

My Sunday Feeling

I don't have a lot to discuss in this edition. Of course, that has never stopped me in the past. So let's get started.

More Houston Nutt. All of the time: I typically do MSF on Saturday afternoons as I like to use my Sundays for reading and playing golf. When I'm not engaged in intense religious contemplation, that is.

Anyway, by the time most of you open this up, we will know whether or not Houston Nutt, the high-strung and embattled coach of the underachieving Arkansas Razorbacks has saved his job by beating the visiting Auburn Tigers. My money is on the Tigers but that is why they keep score and until it is over it doesn't much matter what you and I think.

This week's brouhaha-and we do seem to average one a week up there-concerns the fact that somebody filed a Freedom of Information Act request seeking university records concerning whether former running backs coach Danny Nutt is still on the payroll. For those who don't know, Danny Nutt was forced to retire from coaching due to recurrent bleeding in his brain stem which prevents him from flying or spending long periods in the hot sun.

Turns out Nutt is drawing the sick leave he accrued while employed by the University along with various fringe benefits to which he is entitled under his old contract. As far as I can tell, everything is on the up and up. A person who is not as touchy as Houston Dale Nutt might have said, " I will let the public record speak for itself" and leave it at that.

But no. He resorted to the petulance for which he justifiably renowned.

According to this morning's Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, HDN said " When you get letters of inquiry, FOIs on your desk, it's so ridiculous. So ridiculous that somebody would think there's something new there [regarding Danny Nutt.]"

It may be ridiculous but anybody can file a FOIA request for any reason fair or foul about the public records concerning any government employee. The address of that employee's duty station, her job title, pay grade and annual salary are freely releasable 95% of the time. And the exceptions to the release of that otherwise basic information do not apply to a person employed as a football coach. Further, as Nutt also learned last winter much to his considerable chagrin, if your cell phone bill is paid for by John Q. Public, those records are releasable as well. Which is not good if you have spent what would appear to be an inordinate amount of time sending text messages to a woman who is not your wife on your University of Arkansas cell phone.

I know HDN is high pissed about all of this. But the better question would be: How did he manage to so lose the trust of a not inconsiderable segment of the Razorback fan base(some of them admittedly fullblown batshit crazy) to where an otherwise reasonable explanation of his brother's relationship to the program. Maybe if he hadn't stuck his brother in the coaching box wearing headphones during the Kentucky game while he was technically "retired" (the SEC told him to knock that off) eyebrows would not have raised.

I'm surprised folks haven't resorted to using FOIA to harass coaches before now. And quite frankly, I'm surprised I didn't think of it myself. But it's completely legal. And if Houston Nutt doesn't like it they he go to the NFL. Or take his act to Rice or Tulane. He wouldn't win many games.

But he could text his female associate without fear of it getting released.

The Latest on "V": My post a couple of weeks ago about my friend V brought me many e-mails and phone calls. Indeed, I attended a party the night after I posted it and a couple of women that read this blog inquired about her ,wondered how she was doing and offered help and consolation. To a perfect stranger.

The noted therapist Dr. GG asked about her yesterday. This is what I told her. As far as I know she is doing OK. I haven't seen her much since our talk. She says she is keeping pretty much to herself nowadays. Been there, boy.

Which, according to GG, accounts for the interest in her story. All of us have found ourselves unlucky in love. All of us have experienced situations that didn't work out. Many of us have heard explanations from "significant others" that didn't make a whole lot of sense. And it is a lot to unpack.

" And the women relate to it because all men are shits, right?"

"Absolutely," she replied.

V is a smart and attractive woman. She will remain on the shelf until she no longer wants to remain there. She will be OK. And that's all I know.

A Dispatch From The Field: Here is last week's IM from my excellent friend Jenny who finds herself mired in the upcoming nuptials of yet another of her nutty friends.

Jenny: Did I tell you that Charlene is getting remarried?

tmfw: Yeah. She's the one that hooked back up on the Internet with her high school sweetheart up in Maine or someplace and basically stole him from his wife the Episcopalian priest? That Charlene?

Jenny: I can't believe you remembered all that.

tmfw: Well, it ain't exactly your basic success story from e-Harmony.com.

Jenny: True. Tell me something.

tmfw: OK.

Jenny: What do you know about Soren Kierkegaard?

tmfw: Huh?

Jenny: He was a philosopher or something, right?

tmfw: Yeah. Danish existentialist Christian theologian. Very gloomy stuff. Why?

Jenny: I've been asked to read a passage from Kierkegaard at the wedding.

tmfw: WHAT?

Jenny: You heard me.

tmfw: What, were they not able find anything sufficiently depressing by Beckett or Camus?

Jenny: Bizarre, ain't it?

tmfw: My response is two-fold: That's the most fucked up thing I've ever heard and can I go with you?

Jenny: Sorry. Bob's in town. He's stuck.

tmfw: Damn. I would have liked to have seen that. Where is the wedding again?

Jenny: Happy Valley Country Club.

tmfw: I guarantee you that the only way those folks over there would have known about Kierkegaard is if he won the PGA. Which he didn't BTW.

Jenny: Gotta run. Will catch you later.

tmfw: Want to come over and get my copy of Fear and Loathing and the Sickness Unto Death just to see what you are getting into?

Jenny: Absolutely not. Bye.

tmfw: Just trying to be helpful. Bye.

There are indeed strange days. Fans are accosting HDN with planes bearing banners and FOIA requests. And Kierkegaard will be declaimed during a nutbar's nuptials. And I guarantee you that the bridal party has absolutely no earthly idea who Soren Kierkegaard was.

Like I said, I'm just sorry that I won't be there to see this in person. You just don't get the opportunity to see something this feet-in-the-air crazy very often and you should take advantage of it when you get the opportunity.

Do They Not Have An Editor Over There?

The always fun annual music edition of the Oxford American arrived last week. The free CD, as always has some really interesting stuff. There is " G Man Hoover" by the "legendary" Van Dyke Parks. It is possibly one of the most gloriously fucked up things I have ever heard. It is fucked up even for Van Dyke Parks. Then you have "Don't Let The Sun Go down On Your Grievances" which is performed by a mad man named Daniel Johnston. It is the aural version of gawking at a car wreck. Iris Dement is on and she is her typically luminous self.

The last cut on the CD is "Hammond Song" by The Roches, a one trick pony sister act that had their 15 minutes of fame back when the country was in the throes of its fleeting fascination with choral music. "Hammond Song" is a lovely song about a girl arguing with her parents about running off to Hammond, Louisiana with a boy-girlishly referred to in the song as "that fella."

Typical of the Roche sisters, it is beautifully sung. Also as is typical of their usual offering it is highly stylized with bizarre pronunciations and overly complex chord structures. The average vocal line of a Roches song is not so nearly volcanic and/or really gay as the crap Queen used to get away with, but it tends to get in the way of what should have been a simple and beautiful song.

Don't tell that to John Jeremiah Sullivan, who in his essay about the song in the OA wrote:

" The Roches' water pails have always hung pretty deep in the American songbook. Some of what I have uncharitably called geekiness above (earlier on in the essay) is really Charles Ivesian pastiche-weaving, playing with a virtuosity of styles and modes as much as with words and chords."

Charles Ivesian? The Roches? If any artist featured on this little CD is Ivesian in the slightest it is "the legendary" Van Dyke Parks.

It is rare when one stumbles across such complete and utter bullshit. Was the editor asleep when this overheated-and slightly creepy-essay came across his desk?

By the way, how can somebody write a piece about this song and fail to mention the amazing guitar line played by the really legendary Robert Fripp about whom Jack White of the White Stripes might be accurately described as "Robert Frippian."

Buy the magazine. Give it a listen. Draw your own conclusions.

Who Dat Talkin' 'Bout Beatin' Dem Saints?

Apparently anybody that shows up. They gagged one away today to the Carolina Panthers to go 0-4. Drew Brees is starting to resemble a smaller, less-sepia toned version of Aaron Brooks.

The Sunday Sports Page

There was a lot going on the world of sports last night. Let's get started with the oldest story in sports writing: The Chicago Cubs will not be going to the World Series for the 100th year.

The Specific Gravity Of Futility- The Cubs managed to get swept last night by the Arizona Diamondbacks. Let's put this in some perspective: The Diamondbacks got outscored by their opponents during the regular season. They also had the lowest team batting average in the National League. Way to bring the "A" game Cubbies!

The Cubs Nation will long debate the wisdom of Lou Pinella lifting Carlos Zambrano in the 6th inning of Game One (it is never "the first game." That's not portentous-or pretentious for that matter-enough.) to save him for a Game Four that will never happen. This was a move that in the crystalline view of retrospect will be long considered a screw-up of Grady Littlesque proportions.

Let's look at the Big Picture, though I willingly concede that this is difficult for Cub fans to do. No Cub fan even at his most delusional-and I include my brother John in this number-could have predicted that this bunch would have won the Division. Lou Pinella weaned the Cubs of their toxic addiction to the oft-injured Mark Prior and Kerry Woods. Even without Prior and Woods, pitching staff held together and they got production up and down the lineup. Indeed, the pitching pretty much held up in the playoffs. It was the Cubs' bats that picked the worst time in hell to go inert.

As far as I can tell, they have every reason to believe that they will be a favorite to return to the playoffs. How many times in a lifetime can your average Cub fan say that? So chill. As Jack Brickhouse said, " Anybody can have a bad century."

There Is A God- Stanford beat Southern Cal last night in Los Angeles, thereby restoring hope for the future in the Dukes and Tulanes of this life.

And He Smileth Not On The Razorbacks- I figured there was trouble brewing as I walked from my house to J's last night. The Razorbacks were down at War Memorial playing host to the Tennessee-Chattanooga Mocs. The air was notable for the lack of sound coming the base of the hill. Saturday nights in Little Rock are typically pretty raucous.

The second clue that things were amiss came around 7:30. We had walked up to a local restaurant to watch the start of the LSU game. We had just sat down when the place started filling up with disgruntled Hog fans. Turns out they had reason to be disgruntled. The Hogs stumbled around and beat the lowly Mocs 34-15 in a game they should have won by 30 or 40.

If they were a good team, that is. Which it is clear they are not.

Things are not going well up on the hill. Before the game plane was seen over the stadium trailing a banner that read " There's Nuttin' Like Being 0-2 In The SEC!" I walked home around 9:30 or so. I saw 3 drunk girls stumbling arm and arm ahead of me on Spruce Street. They were chanting "Nutt sucks Dick!" a completely witless phrase that nonetheless succinctly express the displeasure of these young fans with coach Houston Nutt and his hapless quarterback Casey Dick.

And as if it wasn't bad enough to struggle to beat a team that Tulane would have shellacked, they managed to get Darren McFadden hurt in the process. He bruised a rib. I bruised a rib once. It was excruciating. It still hurts me from time to time. A bruised rib on a then 49 year old lawyer is one thing. A bruised rib on a running back is quite another thing. A bruised rib on a running back that constitutes 80% of what passes (you should pardon the use of the word in conjunction with the Razorbacks)for your offense and you have the potential for a disaster.

Next Saturday they take on an Auburn team that has won two in a row and will be looking to avenge the ass-kicking the Hogs put on them last year at their place. It says here that they will exact that revenge. Well, it would be revenge if Arkansas were any good. Which they are not.

My Sunday Feeling

I am not exactly Mister Trial Lawyer. But I knew a sexual harassment/ hostile workplace case I defended a couple of years ago was toast when I read the Report of Investigation (known in the parlance as an ROI). To make a really long story short, the subject of the investigation and the Plaintiff were co-workers. They fell in love. They got engaged. She broke it off. He couldn't deal with it and kept trying to get her back during working hours. He would corner her and try to hug her. Juvenile stuff like that. But it was offensive to Plaintiff and she told him to knock it off. Predictably, he did not.

She eventually filed a grievance. The heartsick, and overly aggressive, former paramour was called in by his supervisor who told him to leave the object of his affection alone. He was told that the office was an inappropriate place for that kind of activity. The following is a paraphrase of what he said. No lie.

" But she won't let me come over to her house anymore. The office is the only place I have a chance to talk to her and try to get her back."

I read that and knew in my heart of hearts that when a jury got its teeth into my guy we would get rung up.

Much as did the New York Knicks and Madison Square Garden last week when a jury rang them up for 12 million or so over the termination of a black female exec named Anucha Browne Sanders. Browne Sanders alleged that the Knicks ran a hostile workplace. She alleged that symptomatic of this environment was the fact that she was referred to as a "bitch' by Head Coach and General Manager Isaiah Thomas. She also claimed that she was the subject of derogatory comments by guard Stephon Marbury, who if you believe Browne Sanders (and the jury sure did) is a misogynistic jerk who pretty much has the run of the place.

Anyway, I knew that the Knicks were toast when I saw a portion of Thomas's video deposition where he admitted that he didn't think calling a black woman a "bitch' was as bad when a black person did it. In other words, it's OK so long as a white guy doesn't do it. Thomas and Marbury are black.

Of course, the correct response would have been " Why no. It is never right to refer to someone as a bitch. I deny that I ever used such hurtful language in reference to anyone other than Ron Artest. And if I had known that Stephon was doing so or having sex with young office interns in a van, I would have given him quite a fierce talking-to."

But he didn't say that. Thomas and Marbury are black. Hence, the natural import of Zeke's testimony is that if they said it, it's not so bad. Connect the dots and hand over your employer's wallet, boys.

I am no expert in these matters but it seems to me that men most often get in trouble with women in the workplace a) trying to be funny and b) pridefully refusing to apologize for giving offense. They get in trouble when they hit on them too, but this doesn't happen as much as one might think. Having said that, people can and do form relationships on the job. I know some married couples that work together. Getting involved with a co-worker, while problematic (particularly if you or the office mate are married to other people), is not in and of itself a recipe for disaster.

It comes down to professionalism. A professional person takes people as he or she finds them, without regard to race or sex. It may be a condition of a woman's employment that she has to work with men. It is manifestly not a condition of her employment that she has to work with jerks. Not even if she works for a professional sports franchise where the jock mentality pervades.

Plaintiff's lawyers always urge juries to "send a message" when they render a verdict. Occasionally, this is an encoded plea for them to ignore the instructions and the evidence. But I ramble. In any event, I don't much believe that the legal system sends messages. But it does establish precedent. They are two different things after all.

But if the Browne Sanders case sends a "message" to the professional sports world it is this: It is one thing to reduce women to objects as a player. It is quite another thing to do so as an employer or co-worker. The former is merely wrong. The latter is illegal.

By the way, I settled my case. Browne Sanders asked for 6 million in hers. The jury came back with 12. I am willing to believe that the lawyers for the Knicks are not fools. I have to believe that they pretty much collectively searched their briefcases for a small handgun when Zeke made his interesting views on cultural anthropology known under oath. I have to think that they urged their client to settle the damn thing.

But there's only so much you can do when you represent idiots. It was widely suspected up until this latest fiasco that the Knicks are run by idiots but this was just based on some of the trades they have made. No more. Their idiocy is now a matter of the public record.

Talk about a bitch........

Sic Transit Floaty

Our pal, and occasional contributor Floaty McDonald, along with his blog which you used to be able to link to from here, vanished without a trace under the cover of darkness. It was pretty obvious that a) he worked in media in Central Arkansas and b) he was really pissing some people off with his mordant views of local television which could have only come from somebody playing some serious inside baseball in the business.

Oh well. I hope Anne Jansen didn't have him whacked or anything. I guess he's a "him."

Come back when the coast is clear, Floaty!

There will always be a light in the window here at tmfw.

Dispatch From The Field

Polycarp: Who do the Razorbacks play Saturday?
tmfw: UT-Chattanooga
Polycarp: You ought to be ashamed.
tmfw: Tell it to Frank Broyles.
Polycarp: What? Was Galludet already booked?
tmfw: That was funny. As an aside, Houston Nutt knows sign language. His father was partially deaf. So is his brother. Come to think of it his brother seems to still be partially employed up there.
Polycarp: Huh?
tmfw: Never mind.
Polycarp: If they get Galludet on the schedule, Nutt can steal their signs. That's not fair.
tmfw: He'll be fired by then. He'll be pretty much fired by the first killing frost. Listen, as amusing as this is I must go. My excellent friend J is coming over to hate on Steve Spurrier while I cook on the grill. It is a Georgia Bulldog thing.
Polycarp: Tell her it is a "she needs to get a life" thing.
tmfw: To hell w/that. You tell her.
Polycarp: God no. I'm too young to die.
tmfw: There you go. Smart man. Bye.
Polycarp: Tell J I said, "Hunker down you Hairy Dogs" and all that. Bye.
tmfw: Will do. Bye.

Getting Back To The Middle

I am a tired boy. The real job has been really rock and roll. That's OK. It makes the day go fast. But the last thing I want to do is look at a computer screen. As I am doing right now. So I will be brief except for a couple of observations.

My body is about as worn out as my brain. I have joined a new gym. I am doing the trainer thing. He is doing his best to kill me although he assures me that I am making progress.

Back to the subject at hand....2 or 3 folks have e-mailed me over the last couple of posts. They want to know how "V' is doing. They want to know about Russell. Most incredibly, they suggest that I should have been a therapist in a former life.

Ha. It is to laugh. I am completely and utterly inept when it comes to relationships.

Here is what I told one reader who has struggled with working things out with her husband. Life is a metaphor for sports so here we go. This is what I told her.

There is a saying in tennis. " The center of the court is wherever you are." This means that if you get jerked way wide you need to bounce on your feet wherever you are at until the ball is hit. Then go. Go like hell.

You may lose the point but you won't get wrong-footed or get it hit at as you yaddayadda back to the middle. Try to put a stick on it. Make 'em hit another ball.

Keep your dignity. Work your way back to the middle of your court.

Fight your way back to the middle on your terms if you can.

"V" is fine by the way. As far as I know.