Tim Tebow and His Lord and Savior

Let me start by saying that I know very little of sports statistics and individual players.  Ask me to come up with 10 NFL players this season and I will get stuck at 5.  Ask me to rank those 5 by statistical success and the conversation is effectively over.  But what I do know is of those 5 I could name, Tim Tebow, for better or worse, would be one.

Why do I know Tebow? Because Tebow knows Jesus Christ. Not only is Jesus Tim’s personal Lord and Savior, but JC is also Tim’s right-hand man, his go to guy in the clutch, his ace in the hole.  I know this because Tim can’t help but tell anyone who may or may not ask that Jesus is his Lord and Savior. Tim can’t help but offer all things great and small or seemingly miraculous on field up to Jesus (and the cameras can’t seem to stop catching him in the act.) 

If the Broncos happen to win the Super Bowl this year, before Tim is going to Disney World, he is taking to his knees and giving a shout out to the Lord.

This seems to bother some folks.  His public displays of religious affection make a lot of media types uncomfortable.  Somehow his actions being broadcast into millions of homes weekly via public airwaves represents a gross violation of the separation of church and state.  If you ever want to catch a sports channel and not hear discussions of sports, catch it while they are discussing Tebow.  The very legitimate concerns of his pro-ball skills – he really cannot pass – are incidental to the very serious matter of his religiousity.

Personally, I don’t care to what Tebow attributes his inexplicable success of each game; Jesus, Buddha, his hard working mother who didn’t abort him, the red Powerade on the sidelines.  To me, his genuflections are no different than any celebratory touchdown dance by any other player.  Some of those have a little tip to God also.  I note the NFL penalizes excessive celebration and perhaps in time it will penalize all forms of player piety as well because of Tim.  But for now, it hasn’t and I view it no differently than countless other rituals pro-sports players do daily.  Jeter has a ritual.  He steps out of box after each pitch and readjusts the Velcro on his batting gloves with obsessive precision.

I recall a few years back having to endure Sammy Sosa constantly crossing himself before each at bat. To make it worse he had the audacity to kiss it all up to God each time, too.  In fact, I have had to sit through countless ballplayers and entertainment figures thanking God in some manner for their successes over the years. And like Tebow now with his Jesus, that other stuff then never bothered me.  Funny thing is it never bothered anyone else either.  Why Tim’s proclamation of faith is akin to prosthelytizing while other public figures’ affirmations are not reeks of hypocrisy.  Argue against it all or argue against none of it.  Selective application of censorship is tyrannical.

Like I said, it shouldn’t matter how Tebow handles his inconceivable gains and I suspect as long as the Broncos keep defying the odds, Management will allow Tebow to keep thanking Jesus.  Besides given how he ranks his career below his Lord and Savior, if anyone told him to stop or face suspension, Tim would drop in prayer thanking God for the opportunity he had to play ball, no matter how short it was.

The more we dwell on his actions, the more devoted to it he may become and therein is the problem with Tebow’s adherence to his faith.  He may take his Christian soldier marching onward a bit too seriously and begin to take pride in the status assigned him by his following.  Pride is a vice and serves to elevate our stature above that of God’s.  Pride is not a quality found in faithful servants of the Lord.  No prophet wanted the responsibilities thrust upon him by God.   Even Jesus sought a reprieve from His death before submitting to God’s will.   Tebow ought to keep that in mind before he chooses to   assume inhuman attributes afforded  him by his defenders.  Humility doesn’t seek the spotlight. Modesty doesn’t necessitate a response to every inquiry made of him. 

I know of two scripture passages in which Jesus discusses how we should pray.  One instructs us to lock ourselves away in a room where no one can see us.  The other offers up a humble sinner who lingers in the back of the temple too ashamed of his sinfulness to even lift his eyes to the sky as the manner in which God recognizes a humble and contrite heart.  Both instances criticize the very public displays of faith which seem to seek the attention and approval of onlookers over that of God’s attention.

Tim’s winning streak may not last beyond his next game but his props to Jesus will continue regardless. Detractors will be quick to jump on the next sack, interception and loss as a sign that faith is for the foolish. Maybe.  Maybe not.  If it helps someone survive another day, who are we to judge? But if Tim is looking to survive in the multi-billion dollar industry in which he has found himself, aside from some serious off-season re-training,  he might want to consider a humble and contrite approach to praising his Lord.

As the naysayers increase, and they will, Tebow no doubt will have the courage defend his faith. Here’s to hoping he also has acquired the wisdom to turn the other cheek more often not and the serenity to accept that Jesus already knows Tim is grateful for that unbelievable 93 yard, 4^th quarter drive before Tim even remembers to take to his knees in thanks.

Like a Good Neighbor

This weekend summer finally makes it debut in the Garden State and countless folks from Southeastern  Pennsylvania will begin their weekly  ritual of  crossing  the Delaware and driving to the Jersey shore.  South Jersey doesn’t need an equinox to signal the arrival of summer, nor does it have to count the hours of sunlight.  It simply counts the exponentially greater number of PA license plates on its highways to know what season it has become.   Heat and humidity brings with it tail lights and traffic jams.  Every Friday afternoon and Monday morning between Memorial Day and Labor Day  most of South Jersey becomes a channel from the Main Line to the Shore line filled with refugee like numbers of Pennsylvanians backing up lines at toll booths, gas stations and Wawa Hoagie counters.  While New Jersey appreciates all that revenue from its neighbors to the west, it is hard to dismiss as ignorance, the way in which some attempt to get here.  Perhaps now is the time to review some of the more important unwritten rules of New Jersey roads.

There is no short cut to the Jersey shore that involves the extended use of back roads and secondary roadways.  The fastest way to get from point A to point B will always be the Atlantic City Expressway.  This road was designed with anxious shore travelers in mind.  Any other route, regardless of what the GPS says, no matter how long your family has been taking it, will add, at the very least 30 minutes to the trip and serve only to aggravate you and the countless New Jersey locals trying to move about their daily lives.  You trying to navigate through the crossroads of Hammonton and Somers Point means at least a dozen locals leaning on horns, yelling obscenities, and crossing over double yellow lines to pass you.   New Jersey locals don’t think twice about eating their own on the road. What makes you think you will be treated any differently?

Stay out of the left lane unless you intend to pursue a career in NASCAR. Most painfully long and slow moving lines of cars in left lane begin with a Pennsylvania driver out for what appears to be a Sunday drive.  If you live in Pennsylvania and ever have the urge to just get out and take a drive, take it to points west.  Points east are less scenic and more hostile.   And contrary to what many Pennsylvanians think, the left lane is not the fast lane, it is the passing lane.  New Jersey has a simple rule, occasionally posted for out-of-state drivers, but apparently not often enough, “Keep Right, Pass Left.” 

The left lane is not intended to be used as a Pennsylvania Express route or a high speed thruway.  If you wrongfully assume it is the fast lane, take heed that you are, by Jersey standards, not driving anywhere near fast enough to stay in it.   You should expect to be mercilessly harassed by Jersey drivers and law enforcement.  State Troopers are encouraged to harass PA drivers crawling in the left lane and in fact are often rewarded for doing so with rapid advancement through their ranks.

The posted speed limit is dramatically different than the real speed limit.   The posted speed limit on most New Jersey highways is 65 mph.  However, New Jersey locals understand that to be the suggested limit while going through construction zones or inclement weather. On an average day New Jersey drivers will exceed 65 substantially.  A Pennsylvanian doing 70 mph in the left lane is pitifully inadequate. That is barely an acceptable speed on many off ramps in New Jersey let alone the left lane.  Most experienced New Jersey drivers will proudly admit to exceeding 75 or 80 mph in the left lane whenever possible – whenever possible being miserably limited by Pennsylvanians who neither understand  “Stay right, Pass left” nor that flashing headlights from the vehicle bearing down on them means “get the fuck out of the way!”  The unintended consequence of not understanding these two basic facts will result in your car being caught between two New Jersey drivers fixing to put you into the Malachi Crunch (see Pinky Tuscardero, Demolition Derby, Happy Days).

Texting and non-hands free cell phone use is illegal – for everyone but us.    This law was written for out-of-state drivers with particular emphasis on PA drivers. Multitasking under extreme duress is an inherently Jersey trait.  You can't do it so don't try.  If you are caught with anything but the steering wheel in your hands we will tail your ass like Tommy Lee Jones did Harrison Ford’s fugitive.  However, your car phone should always be with you and you should have two numbers on speed dial, your personal injury lawyer and your auto insurance carrier.  And your injury lawyer should be the first one you call in the case of an accident.

Do not intentionally slow down, yell at, or use an obscene gesture in response to a Jersey driver seeking to get around you.  Much like someone wearing a Cowboy’s jersey to an Eagles game runs the risk of getting his ass kicked for simply disrespecting the Linc, you doing anything but complying with our requests that you move could result in you not remembering large chunks of your childhood when you later wake up in the hospital.

If these simple Jersey road rules are better understood and followed by all, this summer’s weekend traffic will move a whole lot smoother.  New Jersey and You. . .Perfect Together?  Only if you Keep Right, Pennsylvania.

Happy Birthday, Maripat!

She had asked me several times before about my thoughts on our relationship.  About the moments when I first realized I loved her and wanted to marry her.  And I would dutifully answer her, each time getting uncomfortable and slightly annoyed that the question had been taken up again.  I guess it was her way of reaffirming our relationship  but I always felt it was a little bit like a cross examination.  As if she were trying to split hairs and catch a discrepancy in my recollection.   There was never any slip ups as I recall, though each time I spoke it became more of  litany of facts void of the emotion that makes for good story telling.  I was getting tired of retelling it fearing that our little moment of sparked romance would become  forever a cliché.  Besides, most of our family and friends knew the story by now  as it has been retold time and again on many occasions including at our wedding where it was broadcast to the congregation.

Everyone knows we met at college in the campus chapel during Ash Wednesday mass.  Everyone knows I gave her my seat and, as the same campus Chaplin who celebrated that mass proclaimed five years later at our wedding, 'He gave her his seat and then gave her his heart.'  Like they say, the rest is history.  History -- a litany of facts, void of emotion, memorized for recollection at a later point like a quiz where your only reason for knowing it is to receive a passing grade.  I think I passed every quiz I was given on our history.  I was always good at history. And everyone knew our history, yet nobody understands the story.

It was an Ash Wednesday mass in the basement of  a modular house on the tiniest corner of the campus far removed from the rest of the college -- A very tangible reminder of the separation of Church and State. It was an ugly structure.  It really wasn't anything more than a double-wide mobile home anchored on an eight-foot high foundation.  In the basement was a makeshift chapel, cluttered with Catholic articles of faith, homage and veneration.  The pews were nothing more than folding chairs wedged in between support pillars and bookcases.    Every Sunday evening this place was overrun with usually hung over college students, many often needing to stand against the walls while breaking fire codes on occupancy.   This particular midday Ash Wednesday mass was no exception.  If anything it was even more crowded. 

When I arrived, five minutes prior to the start, I remember pushing through a few girls to stake claim on an end seat; one of the last seats available.  Mass had started and students were still filing in with their eyes scanning frantically for a seat.  Most ended up looking rejected as they were pushed to the corners of the room to stand.  The opening prayers were said and we sat for the first reading.  I remember thinking this is going to be a long mass and thought about taking off my coat because I could feel myself heating up.  I opted not to do it, because it would have been too disruptive. Besides if I left it one I would be prepared to leave right after I received my ashes.  I remember feeling a bit agitated about this religious disruption in my otherwise pleasant day.  I looked down at my feet and drifted off from the reading.

The door was popped open as if it broke a vacuum seal on the room pulling air out and drawing my attention at its direction.  That is when I first saw my future wife.  The cold air of February was rushing in behind her and it was truly a breath of fresh air in the stagnant room.  Immediately I was struck by her unassuming beauty.  Her face, like the air, was fresh.  It was unlike the many female faces I was used to seeing in this chapel week after week. She wore little make up and no hair spray.

I know, I know, you are thinking fireworks, music, soft back lighting and gentle breezes combining to make an ethereal image of the girl of my dreams.  Well, it didn't quite happen that way.

She stood in the doorway, enveloped by her hooded overcoat, looking much like everyone else rushing in late.  However, she was different.  As I watched her big brown eyes frantically scan the room for a seat, I began to follow the gracious curves of her round face, the cascading shimmers of jet black hair, the amorously filled motions of a red sweater that draped over a straight black mini shirt which covered black stockings tucked into flat black shoes with silver side buckles.  And even though in church, I instinctively gave her a very approving once over.  She was very attractive, anyone would have agreed.

Again, you are thinking, an instant attraction.  He gave his seat to a beautiful women with some subconscious ulterior motive of getting to her later in a more appropriate setting.  Not so.

 Before I could look any further something in her arms broke my gaze.  She was carrying a young girl, no more than 2, who bore an uncanny resemblance to her.    It turned out to be her niece but, being a product of my unconventional times, I thought it was her daughter. And this is where my world collapsed around me.

In the instant it took for  me to see this child, I began to think, 'how wonderful that this women no more than 20 years old, not only kept an unplanned pregnancy, but she had the pride and confidence to bring her to a place that might not look too kindly on her.'  And it was more than that, too.  The image of mother and child, like the classic paintings by the masters - the Madonna and Child inspired portraits through the ages -  captured the essence of tenderness, selflessness, and womanhood itself.  As I looked at her and the child, something deep in my soul stirred.  Something so pleasant and settling that it seeped through my veins until an internal voice broke my daze.  "This is the mother of my children."

And it was at that moment, that I unconsciously began to make that voice's statement  my prime directive.  I didn't realize just then I would fall in love with her.  I didn't know just then that I would ever see her again, but I did know she did not just randomly wander into this chapel.  She was there for a very monumental reason.   She was sent to fulfill some preordained fate.  My soul shivered as if it were brushed by the hand of God.  And that, while a very comforting sensation, scared me to death.  I couldn't help but look at her, stare at her really.  All within those few moments, my heart begged her to come closer but my head began countering, "No way!"  And, yet, I sat there motionless the whole time.  I just sat there staring at her, unable to even to move my eyes away to break eye-contact in the event that we made any, which we did.

Well, the eye contact made was more attributed to her frantic scanning for seat than her destiny to meet me. (Like I had said I had already staked out my exit from this mass and my seat was positioned in the direct path to and from the door.)    The eye contact at first was more of her general look in my direction as she instinctively followed the natural flow of the room.  Yet as she moved forward the voice in my heart kept saying "This is the one" while the voice in my head that said, "Shit.  You are going to loose your seat."    I sat up uncomfortably straight as these two voices argued back and forth.

 "Yes! come here!"  "No! Go away!" "Alright, here she comes!"  "Damn it!  I am not standing up through this whole mass!"

On and on this went as she stepped closer.  And that was when we really made eye contact.  I sat stiff with that wide eyed intense gaze that probably told her “yeah, there are voices in my head that I can't control.”  I tried to counter that look with a follow up look that said, “What? Is there a problem with dueling voices in my head?”  But I think the whole thing was coming off like “he’s crazy!”

She later told me she remembered thinking as she walked passed, "What is this dork looking at?"  So I was close in my evaluation of that moment.

She moved by me and I heard her position herself against the wall to my left.  The voice in my head let out a big "Yes!" and I settled back in the seat chalking up another victory for selfishness.  For that moment voice in my heart whispering that  she was my destiny  went silent.

At this point we were starting the second reading.  As I complained to myself that there is no liturgical need nor a Papal mandate that there be two readings on Ash Wednesday I was cut off by the sound of her repositioning the girl on  her hip - that sac of potatoes being tossed followed by a weight lifter's force of air kind of sound.  That hit my conscience like a hammer and along came the destiny voice again fully rested and very smug in its confidence now.  "Give her your seat, you selfish ass!"

Not content with its prior victory, the sit down voice quickly shot back, "Don't you dare move!"

"Get up now!"  "She is fine. Don't move!"   "You are worthless! You disgust me.  She needs the seat. NOW!"

I jumped up almost instinctively at my heart’s command as the sit down voice went down for the count.  For a brief second I stood still and then, like a really bad soap opera actor, I mechanically turned on my mark to face her.  We made eye contact again.  If I could have read her mind, no doubt it would have told me that at that moment she was fearing for her life.

I opened my mouth and stuttered out "Please.  My seat.  Here."  I awkwardly gestured with my hand to the scratched folding chair.  Again I sputtered, "Please take."

Realizing that I was not about to attack her, she quickly declined, "Oh, no. That's ok."

"No please, sit down.  I feel terrible."  I moved away from the chair and toward her.

"Its ok.  I am fine." She said this time smiling at me.

"I feel terrible. Please."  I already positioning myself in her spot forcing her to move toward the chair.  She got the message and started to move in on the chair.

"Really.  It is ok. I can stand." She said this as a mere formality now because she was in full motion to sit down.  She continued to smile and then said thank you. 

"I feel terrible." I muttered again.  I think I may have said it one more time as I continued to gesture to the seat before I realized that the exchange was done, she was sitting down and most of the people around us were looking at me and most likely thinking, as my wife confessed, "dork!"

I leaned against the wall.  That destiny voice hummed a happy tune and asked me if I saw that smile.  And I did.  I saw the beautiful, full, honest smile filled with both gratitude and surprise.  It made me smile as well.  A contentment filled me as I watched the last bit of her hair settle on to her coat  as she settled herself and the child into the seat.   I accepted in my head that I had done something very proper at that moment.  I did not however at that moment accept that this woman was my future but that voice in my head was still too tired from losing the seat to start another battle with my heart. All it could muster was a disgusted groan as it went to sleep again.

The mass continued and I received my ashes and left as planned.  I felt no lingering obligation to address, greet or further acknowledge this woman who had blown into my life and accepted my seat.    In retrospect, that first encounter was all that was supposed to happen at that moment.  That is not to say she didn’t occupy most of my thoughts for the rest of the day and most of the rest of that week.  She was there, quietly working with my heart to finish off my head.

We did meet again and it was in a more appropriate setting to spark a friendship and kindle a relationship but that is a different story from this wonderful moment.  And, as they say, the rest is history.

My Epic Fail on Wonderama

A friend of mine posted a link on his Facebook page to a clip from “Who Wants to be a Millionaire?”  It is a 30 second clip of a college student contestant who overconfidently blows his big moment on the very first question.  His just prior affirmation that he knows all about his lifeline options is a mere formality as he sits tall in the chair waiting to get started.  Meredith barely gets the question out and he is locking in his final answer.  He is that sure of it.  That $100 for this correct answer is what he is tipping the bellhop after he walks out of this show a Millionaire. 

The rest of the story is stuff viral videos are made of. He was on and off national television in little more than a minute.  Meredith was dumbfounded.  The audience was dumdfounded. Most of all the contestant was dumbfounded - or just plain dumb.

That great clip stirred up memories of my own game show debacle.   I was 7 and my “don’t you feel like a simple ass” moment was on the New York based, children’s program Wonderama –a 3 hour, Sunday morning program that ran the better part of 30 years and probably had as many hosts. In my memory the only host I knew was Bob McAllister. 

Each episode of Wonderama included education, music, audience participation, games, interviews and cartoon shorts. But more importantly, each episode included opportunities for kids to go home with brand new bikes, TVs, stereos, the most sought after toys of the day, and countless other really awesome stuff kids couldn’t live without.  Prizes were given out to those who answered Bob correctly or won a challenge of some sort.

Winning those prizes wasn’t as easy as the kids had hoped.  Bob had a twisted side to him and his most popular contest his for the pint sized studio audience was his Snakes in the Can game.  10 cans were lined up in front of a timid child plucked from the back row.  1 of those cans contained a lovely bouquet of flowers which, if the child picked it, made him the envy of the neighborhood.  However, to insure these kids would be scarred for life if they lost, Bob had each of the other 9 cans rigged with 4 spring loaded snakes which erupted in their faces as soon as they twisted off the lid.

Aside from filming in NYC year after year, Bob took all the cultish thrill of Wonderama on the road.   One fine Sunday afternoon that crazy train rolled into my hometown and every kid in the tri-state area managed to cram themselves into the multipurpose room of our community center.  Oh, there was magic in the air that day.  There was an almost electric charge so strong among us that had anyone farted, we all would surely have been blown sky high.  The room was arranged with chairs 4 or 5 rows deep in a full circle.  Ringing the chairs were tables piled high with prizes galore.  I had never seen so many toys in my life outside the three aisles at Two Guys.  We all were stupid happy like kids get and when Bob McAllister arrived in the center of the room, we piddled the floor with uncontrollable anticipation and glee. 

So much of that day is a blur anymore but I can still feel the excitement, the anxiety, and the awe of being at Wonderama.  Now there may have been cartoons to watch, songs to sing, good news stories to be told and even some jumpingjacks going on there with Bob but I couldn’t attest to that.  All I remember was the moment  I had a chance to be a god.

Bob introduced a clown to the audience.  The clown did some tricks.  The clown acted silly.  The clown worked the room with pranks and jokes for everyone in the front rows.  When the clown was done he exited through a side door to our applause.  Then Bob reappeared holding up an index card and the place erupted with screeches.  He didn’t even have to say a word and we were standing on our seats crying out, “Pick me! Pick me!” (I think Oprah’s audience is comprised solely of one-time Wonderama fans).    Bob announced the first prize, a 19” colored TV. 

Oh, it was splendid sitting there in all of its 19” of vacuum-tubed, rabbit-eared, pre-cable ready glory.  Free to one lucky child.  One lucky child who would, if skilled enough to avoid the terror of slinky snakes in the face or smart enough to master Bob’s questions, be the only child on their block with a TV of their own.  No more enduring the nightly news, All in the Family, Police Woman, Carl Malden with the parents on the only TV in the house.  The kid who went home with that was sitting pretty watching Saturday morning cartoons without having to get outside and play before Land of the Lost was over, before missing the Robotic Stooges.  Move over Steve Austin. The real Six Million Dollar Man was the kid with his own TV.

Bob kept that index card high above his head.  He waved his microphone like a magic wand and we all settled down.  He pulled the card down slowly and called out a number.  I don’t remember the number but after a bit of confusion and some murmuring around me, it turned out the number corresponded to my seat.  I was pressed forward by production assistants and found myself standing next to Bob with a microphone in my face.  Still shell-shocked, I gave my name and for the benefit of the audience Bob repeated loud and clear.  He then explained he was going to ask me a question and if I got it right I would get the TV.  That was it. No cans of snakes, no complicated word challenges or even a game requiring excellent hand/eye coordination.  Just a simple question.

“Jerry, remember the Clown we just saw?”  He prompted.

“uh-huh,”  I replied.

“Do like clowns, Jerry?”

“uh-huh.”

“He was funny, wasn’t he?”

“uh-huh.”

“Jerry, think if I ask you a question about the clown you could answer it?  If you answer it, you win the TV.  You like that TV, Jerry?”

“uh-huh.”

“Now, Jerry, I want you to think about this for a moment. OK? OK, Jerry.  What color was the clown’s nose?”

I thought of it for a moment.   And in that moment my mind swirled and swirled while every kid in the room yelled out the answer that my ears, ringing with adrenaline, could not decipher.  “Wah! Wah! Wah!”  was all I heard. 

And in that moment I drew upon my mental image of the clown and the following process worked itself out in my brain:  Every clown’s nose is red.  His nose is red.  This is easy.  That TV is mine.  This is so easy.  Too easy.  Way too easy.  Is this a trick question?  Of course his nose is red.  Why wouldn’t it be red unless they want to trick me? His nose is red.  I know his nose is red.  All clowns have red noses.  It’s red.  I wonder how I get the TV home?

“Jerry, what color is the clown’s nose?” Bob asked again.

I smiled and stood tall.  This was my moment.  If I could have taken the microphone from him to answer loud and clear I would have.  I took a deep breath as Bob leaned the mic in close to my mouth and prompted my answer with a knowing wink and nod.

“It’s green,” I proclaimed.

Bob’s face, halfway into a congratulatory burst of praise, contorted uncomfortably. He stuttered and paused. Then he stuttered again.  “Ah, Ah, Ah, No.  No, his nose is NOT green.  It is red.  Red, Jerry. His nose is RED.”  He paused again looking dumbfounded before turning away from me quickly.  I am guessing now he needed to stifle a laugh.

Somewhere off stage I thought I heard someone - probably a guy wiping off clown makeup - cry out in disbelief, “Green!?”  The audience sat stunned; too stunned to react at all.  My answer was like a needle to their balloon.

Sensing my stupidity was much like a giant vortex sucking all the energy out of the room, Bob began to shoo me back to my seat.  He handed me a pack of playing cards featuring lesser known Hanna Barbara cartoon characters and thanked me for playing.  The assistants returned and swept me away from Bob who was running in the opposite direction scrambling to improvise something, anything, to get the party started again.

Wonderama as I remember it was cancelled a year after my 15 minutes of shame.  Bob is no longer with us either.  And even though I have no evidence to prove it, I suspect the clown was actually John Wayne Gacey.  I now have a TV in every room. I still can't watch Robotic Stooges or Land of the Lost. Then again, I haven't ever had to endure another evening with Carl Malden either. I survived that moment even if I am not yet over it.

Looking back, I probably would have been less scarred by opening a can of snakes.  A lifetime of indecision stems for moments like this and I have searched in vain for a green-nosed clown and some sense of vindication ever since.  I am only thankful there was no YouTube or advanced television video archiving techniques available to rocket my epic fail into cyberspace infamy.

Not This Time, Mr. Cameron.

Your cinematic genius put Schwarzenegger and “I’ll be back” into the American Lexicon.  You showed $1.8 billion worth of viewers the Heart of the Ocean was really a legendary shipwreck at the bottom of the Atlantic and you had an entire legion of tree huggers convinced that CGI giant blue humanoids live in perfect harmony with nature somewhere out in the Cosmos. Despite our personal distain for you as a person, your unquestionable gift to make really good movies has drawn us in to theaters again and again.  But not this time, Mr. Cameron.  This time, Mr. King of the World, you may have struck your iceberg and they call it Sanctum.

To be fair, James Cameron only lent his financial support to the aquatic spelunking adventure.   It was directed by someone whose name escapes me as it will escape everyone else because this should have been straight to rental gem won’t be launching any careers.  However, since Cameron seems egotistically fine with whoring his name out to market this movie he will bare the blunt force trauma I wish to inflict.

In the interest of full disclosure I have not seen this movie nor do I intend to ever see it.  I have suspected since the first airing of its namedropping trailer this flick would be an epic fail.  I just read through a handful of Hollywood insider spoilers which confirmed my suspicions.  Sanctum is a pre-apocalyptic Waterworld without the redemption of humanity subplot. It is 90 plus minutes of really neat Discovery Channel underwater shots in 3-D minus the animated prehistoric predator fish you wish would swim by and eat the entire cast.

Sanctum’s plot is painfully simple and predictable.  A group of overconfident scuba divers, none of which the audience will learn to love, enter uncharted oceanic caves only to have their single point of entry blocked by the wrath of Mother Nature.  Not being able to turn back they must dive further into the unknown in the hopes of finding another way to the surface.  Think Poseidon (remake or original) without the capsized boat.  Better yet think “The Cave,” that 2005 nobody saw it until it was on Showtime thriller of the same premise.  Except that The Cave had what some might hope to see in Sanctum but won’t.  It had a previously undiscovered species of translucent, flesh-eating, cave-dwelling predators who, as actress Piper Perabo painfully discovers right before her untimely demise, “can friggin’ fly!” 

In The Cave the trapped divers need to find their way to the surface before either the creatures eat them all or their group leader, bitten by a creature, fully transforms into one and eats the cast himself.  I won’t spoil Sanctum’s not so unique but inspired from true events story other than to say people die but none that you feel sorry about and none at the hands of creepy looking monsters.  Translation:  Boring.  Not all real life stories are worthy of scripts and wasted film.

Perhaps, in an attempt to attract a demographic more inclined to let go of their disposable income in this economy, Cameron should have 1) had an all male cast of soap opera handsome actors; and 2)  renamed the movie “Sphincter.”  That way he could have at least touted the characters’ struggle to reach the surface as analogous with an individual’s search for self identity and a group’s struggle to live open in a society determined to keep them submerged in the dark, cold abyss of intolerance.  He could have used this as a vehicle to push the envelope in a Hollywood still only comfortable with writing one dimensional characters like ‘girl’s best guy friend’ or the flat retreads of the cast of “Queer Eye” (who themselves are clichéd imitations of stereotypical 70’s male fashionistas – cut to close up of Jack Tripper’s femininely pursed lips and flamboyantly batting eyelashes juxtaposed with Mr.  Furley’s near convulsive moral majority disgust.  Yet Furley is the one in the leisure suit and flowery ascot? But I digress…)

It would have been hailed by critics as the most uplifting movie since “Brokeback Mountain” and probably would have landed Cameron another Oscar nod. Yeah, he would have alienated a large swath of socially conservative potential viewers but let’s be honest about that.  It was Avatar’s not so subtle portrayal of the American military as nothing more than utterly heartless aggressors on the peaceful and oh so green Pandora that had already guaranteed their absence at whatever his next film would be.  So why not dive right in with an alternative lifestyle deep sea adventure?  Kind of like an episode of Johnny Quest but without the naively trusting minors and questionable motives of  the all male parental figures.

Too over the top, you say?  Absolutely, but hyperbole is an effective tool to drive home the point that anything probably would have worked better than what Sanctum is, a really bad movie with a big Hollywood backer. Sphincter would have made more money than Sanctum will and the Cameron moniker would have been associated with more favorable reviews. Any tweak of Sanctum’s plot would have worked better.  Rest assured Cameron’s ego is big enough to weather this storm. Much like his T-800 series Terminator, Cameron ‘will be back’ and soon enough we will all be memorized again by the creative wizardry and visually intoxicating marvel that is Pandora and an Avatar sequel. It really is inevitable. 

Negligent Embarrassment as a Defense

I am not a lawyer and the use of terms like negligent and defense are as legal (and likely completely incorrect) as I get.  But I don’t know what else you would call it.

Let’s say I’m walking and texting and I walk myself right into a mall fountain.  I get my underwear wet, ruin my phone, and hurt my ego but get out right away and leave the mall, looking around hoping no one saw me.

Now let’s say while no one present may have seen my quick dip it was caught on mall cameras and suddenly the whole world can now watch it over  and over and over again on YouTube.    

That would be embarrassing, right?

(It matters not what is posted online is a phone camera capture of a recorded closed circuit video or the image is so blurry and distant that little more than a shadowy figure of myself plunging and running is what the world has seen over and over and over again.  I know it is me national morning news programs are laughing at.  I know it is my inattentive stroll that has set the internet ablaze.  And unless I go public, I will be the only one who knows it is me.  Unless I go public…)

Yeah, this is not a hypothetical scenario.  It actually happened.  Some woman with ironic yet trendy glasses and a fashionable Katie Holmes bob cut  steel-piered it right into a fountain while texting on, one can only assume, the latest in smartphone technology – oh, if only  she were holding a  grande Starbucks latte of the month as well.

She was personally embarrassed for sure but she would have remained, despite the grainy video going viral, publicly anonymous.  Until she went public. 

Now the self-inflicted consequences of walking while texting has become actionable in a court of law.  Her claim of course is this is someone else’s fault.  The public ridicule she has endured – brought on by her outing herself to begin with – is not due to her clumsiness but of the unprofessional actions of mall security personnel uploading the video to the internet. 

Quite frankly, I am shocked that mall security personnel would act in any manner other than entirely professional.  Paul Blart:  Mall Cop was a grossly satirical misrepresentation of that noble profession.  Anyone on a minimum hourly salary armed with little more than a whistle and collar clip walkie talkie is above ethical reproach.  Lady fountainhopper knows this, as we all do, and the actions of these individuals has besmirched the reputation of security personnel everywhere.  It is because a few rogue individuals wantonly disregarded their sworn duties and the public trust that this woman is embarrassed.  And because it appears their employers purposely turned a blind eye to if not fully encouraged their misdeeds, this woman’s embarrassment is due to negligence.

I can’t imagine what the implications of this farce might be.  Had she been around a decade ago, would any of us have had the chance to laugh ourselves hoarse watching America’s Funniest Home Videos?  Victims of unexpected groin shots would have filed a class action suit against ABC.   Then again, those clips of ball tap hilarity were submitted by the participants and were worth potential reward money.  Maybe that is the root of this woman’s beef.  She didn’t have control of the video’s release.  She doesn’t have ownership of her very public stumble in a very public facility cluttered with cameras that reasonably imply very little expectation of privacy.  Based on reports that she has a long list of criminal issues and probably a legal tab just as long, chances are she would tour the country diving into mall fountains 3 or 4 times a day if she could get paid for it.

We can only hope a cantankerous judge dismisses this in dramatic fashion as frivolous.  We can assume it will be settled out of court with a secret sum deposited into this woman’s defense fund.  We can expect to see way too many laws to prevent such embarrassments in the future. 

Look for thousands of local ordinances requiring malls to install railings around fountains.  Watch for state legislatures taking the two-prong approach to the matter; penalties for security personnel posting patron images on the internet no matter how funny AND construction codes prohibiting large open spaces of water in gathering areas of public facilities unless there is a historical, cultural or artist purpose to it.  Finally, count on the creation of a federal grant program to finance early warning fountain avoidance systems involving infrared sensors and wireless signals sent directly to smartphone reminding users to “look up” while walking.

Sign of the Times

It’s a metaphysical gut punch, really.  To wake up and be told you are not who you thought you were. To find out after all this time that which you believed to be you is not you but someone else.   Who am I?

I was a Pisces.  I was a fish; a happy, go-with-the-flow kind of fish. I was a dreamer, an idealist, a creative elitist.  I was in the world but not of it and that suited me just fine.  Today I learned it was all a lie.  Today I learned I was an Aquarius and of that I know nothing.

Aquarius, the water carrier, bears that precious and abundant element which gave me sustenance and a playground for 40 years. That element is now my responsibility. It is now something contained, something carried, something hoarded.  Am I a hoarder?  I have never hoarded anything except maybe for beer bottle caps and bicentennial quarters.  Do I want the responsibility of carrying the water? I don’t know if I want that level of responsibility.  That is too much for a Pisces to take on. But I am not a Pisces.  Apparently I was born to handle it after all.  Can I put the water down ever?  Can I drink it?  Is it all work and no play for the Aquarius?  My mother is an Aquarius (well, was) and I have never seen her play, ever.   It’s all so confusing and a Pisces does not like confusion.  It’s too turbulent and cloudy.  You can’t go with that kind of flow.

All those attributes I proudly pinned on my personality are now nothing more than false testimonials. I now know why all those essays and posters never won awards. They were done by an Aquarius and I guess they really did suck. 

I am a blank page.  A Pisces would know what to do with a blank page.  Does an Aquarius?   If I were an optimist I would see this as a new birth, a chance to start anew. But I am not an optimist.  I am a Pisces, or was.   I wonder how an Aquarius sees this revelation.   Does he embrace it or is he as skeptical as a Pisces, as skeptical as me.

I don’t buy this scientific finding that has shattered my psychic  worldview.  Somehow over thousands of years the moon’s position relative to the zodiac has shifted enough to upend the entire calendar of signs.  That theory is as hokey as global warming; as convoluted as Darwinism; as undetermined as the 2000 elections. 

What about all those living under the delusion of another sign?  I don’t see Leos surrendering their superiority to crabs.  I don’t imagine too many Rams will embrace fins over horns.   And Sagittarius suddenly accepting an entirely new sign not yet affixed with overbearing qualities and lacking the status, stature and standing they have come to know?  Please.  So why should I become a fish out of water?  If it weren’t all just pagan ritual it would be sacrilegious.

This is astrological anarchy.  This is an unalignment of the planets.  If we accept this we will accept anything – a fifth dimension, temporal rifts, quantum leaps with a device called Iggy, embryonic stem cell research.  I know I am one fish swimming against the tide, but maybe, just maybe if I swim hard enough I can turn it.   Maybe I can learn to contain that water; catch a wave upon the sand (and in turn solve problems like Maria).  Or I can just ride it.  I bet Aquarius is damn good surfer.