Sometimes you just need to laugh

My wife and I went off to see the movie "Get Smart" last night. After getting over the sticker shock of paying $10 per ticket and $11 for mediocre popcorn and a diet coke, we settled into our seats. As it turned out, it was worth the trip.

"Get Smart" is no "Casalanca" but it doesn't try to be. If you remember the old TV series, you can take a pretty good guess what the movie is all about. It is simple, amusing fare. Steve Carell reminds you of Don Adams and Anne Hathaway is a worthy, gorgeous replica of Barbara Feldon as Agent 99. The surprise is Alan Arkin, who is best known as a serious actor but is very funny in the Ed Platt role of the Chief.

Sometimes you just need to sit back and laugh mindlessly. For two hours, we did just that. In a world full of $4 a gallon gas, a stock market that has slipped south all week and endless political brickbats, it was a wonderful break. I highly recommend it for that reason alone.

Man vs. Machine , part III

Well, I am presuming Aaron's adage (see previous post) that owning a Mac is going to my life easier is true. True to form, however, the transition isn't moving along swimmingly.

The first problem developed when I tried to access my msn email. I could get to msn.com but that was it. I ran into an odd message that I still haven't figured out. What it told me was I needed to download such and such because ... it was there.

Then, I tried to access into a ballgame via mlb.com. (It's a subscription service that you register for. Works fine at work and on the old computer.) No dice. I needed to download a bunch of things. I managed to download what was needed but installing them is another matter. It's not listed in my help manual. Neither is a phone number for computer-come-lately guys like me to call to get an answer. You see, Apple wants you to either go online to handle such problems.

My long-suffering wife, after hearing a few too many expletive deleteds uttered from the bowels of the basement, brightly suggested I head back to the Apple store where I bought the thing for advice. It's a sound idea but, being a stubborn male, I will try other methods first.

Getting used to a new system requires patience and, when it comes to computers, I don't have much. But I have matured. After last night's battle, I merely sighed, counted to 1000, shut the computer off and did not throw it against the wall.

Progress takes many forms.

Man loses to machine (again) ... and pays a price

I went down to my office in the basement the other day and clocked on my computer. Instead of the usual welcome, I got this blaring note: "YOUR COMPUTER HAS BEEN INFECTED. PLEASE BUY .... "

I don't want to name the product because if I do, I would have to identify it the way Red Sox fans remember Bucky Dent. Suffice it to say the new product was of little help (except to the company, which got $49.95 out of me) and I will be buying a new laptop this week.

My sister-in-law Shari's guy pal, Aaron, is a tekkie who was sympathetic to my frantic, profane calls. But there was little he could do except suggest I buy a Mac. "There hasn't been a virus made I know of that infects them," he said.

When you are spending your time and money on redoing your basement and turning your backyard from a jungle into a livable environment, spending a grand or so on a new laptop doesn't excite you much. And the macs I looked at yesterday are such thin little buggers you might swear Twiggy made them.

But, unless you are David McCullough pounding out 700-page novels on a typewriter, you have little choice in the matter.

So, something will have to be excised from the weekly budget to pay for the bleeping thing that Aaron tells me has an average lifespan of 3-4 years.

When times get tough, one grits their teeth and sacrifices. My first instinct is a painful one. Several years ago, I was introduced to Grand Marnier, a wonderful after-dinner drink. Unfortunately, they can be a bit pricey at the neighborhood saloon. So I am now wondering how much a shot of Boone's Farm cost these days.

Au revoir, mon chat

Polar Bear, the car, ran out of chances today. I feel bad about this but it happens to all of our animals. Today, Lynne and I decided he had to be put to sleep.

You don't make this decision easily. In fact, just yesterday we were discussing this with a friend of ours who had put their cat to sleep last week. She was noting that it was almost overwhelming to discover you had the power between life and death ... even for an animal.

But the fact is Polar Bear wasn't well. Although it wasn't on a regular basis, he had occasionally been peeing and pooping on a new rug we had bought for the basement. This morning, I had just cleaned his litter. He had been nearby and whining a bit so I placed him in it. He jumped out of it, wandered a bit and then peed on the carpet. Maybe he had a cat version of Alzheimer's. Maybe it was an "up yours" moment that cats are known for. Either way, we can't have it.

Cats bring out different reactions than dogs. Dogs are protectors. Dogs follow a sense of order and fairly predictable. Cats are comforters. They are iconic and hard to understand at times. They like being mysterious.

I can't count how many times I came home to find Polar Bear staring at the wall. What was he looking at? Did he see something I couldn't? He never let you know his true feelings. Pete, the dog, is just the opposite. His feelings are always transparent. When he is happy, you can tell. The tail is wagging a mile a minute. When he in unhappy (or scared), his head is down and he is in his crate tightly.

I feel bad about this decision because Polar Bear has been in the house almost from the day we bought the place in 2000. But his weight had dropped in half in the last year and the poor guy did little but sleep and meow a bit.

Although it was a terrible, heart-rendering experience, I discovered animals have an innate instinct to adjust to any situation. I suspect Polar Bear knew something was wrong when he didn't raise a ruckus as we drove to the clinic. He was very quiet when the vet's assistant put in the tiny catheter and hardly moved when Dr. Troy came in to do what needed to be done. In the end, I think (okay, maybe it's hope) he trusted us that we were doing the right thing by him.

It was our turn to be the comforter.

Happy Father's Day, Tom

I never knew my dad very well. He was very ill when I was a kid and, even though I was 21 when he passed away, he never did get better and spent most of the time I knew him in various hospitals.

But I was lucky enough to have somebody involve me in the Big Brother program. I don't remember much about the first BB I had (his name was Tony and I have a picture of him but that's about it) but the second one I was hooked up with, a man named Tom Boyle, affected me greatly.

Tom doesn't need me to do this -- he has his own kids -- but he deserves this shoutout anyway: Happy Father's Day.

Tom never tried to take the role my dad would have had in my life but he was a father figure nonetheless. My wife once asked me what we did when we got together. I recall doing the things guys did together in the 1960s -- going to baseball games at Tiger Stadium, hockey games at the Olympia and U of D basketball games at Calihan Hall. I think we went to a few movies. I remember going to his house for dinner a couple of times and I have a memory of going bowling once.

Tom was a journalist and a public relations man by trade so he was in a position to teach me things in a profession I enjoyed (and later went into). He worked with me on the importance of good grammer and good writing. I suspect I got my joy of reading from him, too. But where we went -- and what we did together -- wasn't as important as something else. Tom simply listened to a young boy when he wanted to talk. It didn't matter what he talked about. Sometimes you just needed to know there was somebody to talk to. It was appreciated at the time and, four decades later, I still remember those talks fondly.

It would surprise a lot of people to know, thanks to Tom's gentle prodding, my handwriting is a lot better now than it used to be (I had a teacher once note it was the worst she had ever seen.) I became a better speller because he told me I needed to do so if I was ever going to get a job as a reporter. Not every encouragement worked. Despite years of going to old-fashioned Catholic Masses (and taking two classes in it), I am still lousy in Latin. Can't win 'em all.

A few years ago, I decided to track him down and, thanks to a nice man named Brad Simmons at Ford, I did so, finding him in Atlanta. We still correspond occasionally. He has his life and I have mine. But I know he is still there for me if I need him --and that thought is still comforting.

Sunday is his day. I am sure his wonderful wife, kids and grandkids will take good care of him. And that is as it should be.

But I wanted to say to Tom and to all the folks who serve as father figures for kids -- whether they be Big Brothers, teachers or simply a friendly neighbor, their work is appreciated. Have a great day.

Another politician goes goofy

There. Got your attention, didn't I? If you are looking for a diatribe or a tale about John McCain or Barack Obama, gotcha. No, this tale is about a guy whose name I don't know but who has a very common political ailment: he speaks loudly without thinking.

In a nutshell, here is what happened:

I was one of four public address voices at the Minnesota prep softball tournament last week in Mankato. The first day is a long one. The first game was scheduled to start at 9 a.m. and the last one was supposed to start at 7 p.m. Despite dark skies, we got off to a decent start and finished all the first-round games when the trouble began.

Although it was sunny in the morning, the forecast had been rotten all day. About 3 p.m., the predicters finally for it right. Rain and wind pelted the fields so fast they were a soggy mess in minutes. We watched this for a while from the dry comfort of the press box before going down to see what we could do to help. The answer, of course, was nothing. A half hour later, the director canceled games for the day.

She huddled with the umpire-in-chief and came up a plan to get everything finished the next day as scheduled. All games would be played except two Consolation Championship Games. (Those are teams that lose their first game but win their second.) They decide to award duplicate trophies for the prestigious 5th place finish.

The director made up new schedules for all of us. The starting times of the championship games were actually close to starting at the originally scheduled times.

Apparently that wasn't good enough for one fellow. I was told he was a school board member in some small area. I came across him outside the tournament headquarters as he was giving the director and her assistant an earful (in a voice that could have been heard in St. Peter, 10 miles away) on what a rotten job they were doing, how they were hurting the kids, how they were unfair to the parents, etc.

I strongly dislike people who speak in CAPITAL LETTERS to begin with. And I really dislike folks who do so while performing for other folks. (He had an admiring posse nearby cheering him on.)

Here's the point. The decision made can be reasonably debated. (Most can.) But decisions to shorten state tournaments are never made easily and are usually done for good reasons. In this case, there was the threat of more rain plus the fact there weren't enough officials who could stay a second day and work the games. If Mr. School Board Member had stopped for a second, he might have learned this fact. But, like many politicians, he was concentrating on style over substance. I have no doubt he went home and told the locals, "I told the director off. That's the last time they mess with me."

It's a general problem these days. We always presume we know more than the person in charge of an event, sporting or otherwise. We shoot first and ask questions later and never, ever admit we are wrong about something. And then we wonder why kids are so stubborn these days.

If that fellow has kids, I pity them. They may follow the old Harry Chapin and grow up like the old man. Just what the world needs -- more bullies who don't what they are talking about. In other words, a born politician.

R.I.P. to a broadcast professional ... and a compassionate human being

There have been a long of wonderful tributes paid to Jim McKay, the longtime voice of the Olympics, who died the other day at age 86. He was a journalist first and foremost, a fellow who didn't mind taking on unusual stories. I suspect he did this because he knew that even offbeat guys like Evil Knieval had a tale to tell.

I think of today's sports journalists and try to imagine someone like, say, Chris Berman, handling the sad story of the 1972 Olympics. The modern sports guy is taught that style triumphs over substance. The story isn't the important thing anymore. Guys like McKay must have hated this. But he, like many TV reporters of that era, had started his career as a print guy. He was a writer first and foremost and knew the facts must come first. The game or the athlete was the most important thing.

I remember a broadcast that displayed McKay's humanity, a trait not often seen in today's media. Although he wasn't much of a baseball play-by-play guy, he used to handle the call of the championship game of the Little League World Series on ABC. At that time, the title game was the only game shown and they didn't go into as uch detail as is done now.

In 1971, Taiwan was playing a team of inner city kids from Gary, Indiana in the title game. At that time, the Taiwanese kids were a lot better than most of the American kids. (They won five of six titles in that time period.)

On this afternoon, however, Gary (which had future major league Lloyd McClendon on their team) gave them a stiff test, taking the game into extra innings. But it all fell apart in the ninth as the Taiwanese team scored nine runs. As the Taiwanese kids pounded hit after hit, it became obvious how was going to win. McKay mumbled into his microphone something that has probably been felt by by every parent who has ever seen their kid be on the wrong end of such a rockslide. "You kind of wish they could stop and go home about now, don't you?," he said.

It is that kind of humanity we need more of in journalism, whether it be sports or politics, these days.

Jim McKay provided it every time he stepped behind a microphone. We need more of his type in our business.