Around the Interwebs

  1. Thanks to tracking devices, race photos, and the internet more generally, there’s a newish phenomenon that suggests mental illness may be contagious. Some people are so aggrieved by recreational runners and triathletes that post fake times by cutting courses, they lose their minds proving their cases. Case in point, apparently, this blog is dedicated to tracking the course cutting of a 5k walker. In related news, I have two weeks to perfect my July 16th half marathon course cutting.
  2. If I can get the Good Wife to slow down on the chocolate chippies, we will be entering the World Wife Carrying Championship in Finland next year. Looks to me like the “leg lock” is faster than the “shoulder ride”. 35E3BEDF00000578-3671604-image-a-90_1467482242015.jpg
  3. US Today’s Paul Newberry doesn’t have a clue. Of Missy Franklin he writes, “At age 21, she’s shaping up as one of the biggest flops of the trials. . . “. Only if you focus exclusively on her times. If you factor in her class and character, Newberry gets it exactly wrong.
  4. Just returned from a wonderful visit to NW Indiana (sissy and brah in lawh) and Chicago (eldest hija). Chicago visit included a private tour of the Newberry Library. Look forward to visiting this library on a future visit.
  5. Great profile of this year’s Tour de France winner.
  6. A man after my own heart.

On Sports Promiscuity

Like Cassius Clay, I grew up in Louisville, KY. At five, six, seven years old, I fell asleep listening to Louie Dampier and Dan Issel of the ABA Kentucky Colonels kicking ass.

Then a move to Talmadge, OH, close to LeBron’s hometown of Akron. My game was similar to his so NE Ohioans took to calling me LeRon. In fourth, fifth grade I fell asleep listening to the tail end of Lenny Wilkens’ NBA career with the Cavs.

Then SoCal where I patterned my game after Magic Johnson* and in 1986 bought a scalped ticket to the sixth game of the NBA finals in which my Los Angeles Lakers finally beat the dreaded Celtics.

Conventional wisdom is stick with your home team, but conventional wisdom is wrong. Like gender and race, “home” is a fluid concept. We move, life changes, the only reason to stick with your childhood teams is nostalgia.

If you think the Cav’s amazing come from behind, not NBA orchestrated, championship unleashed millions of lifelong long-suffering fans, wait until the Cubbies playoff run this fall. Nearly everyone you know will claim to be a long-suffering Cubs fan and we’ll be subjected to endless profiles of truly ancient people who’ve been waiting since pre-history for the Cubs to win it all.

Apart from LeBron, none of the Cavs are from NE Ohio. Odds are few or none of the players on your favorite, hometown team that you’ve always been loyal to are from the hometown.

Felony arrest records are another reason why fan promiscuity makes way more sense than unconditional love and loyalty. After Kobe’s infamous visit to Colorado, I began losing that loving feeling for the Lakers.

Then my Sonics were sold by that Starbucks son of a bitch, the ultimate wake up call. If teams can disappear based upon the vagaries of capitalism, you’d be pretty stupid to pledge blind fidelity to any one of them.

Despite my NE Ohio street cred, I dug the Warrior vibe the last few years. I was finding the bandwagon pretty damn comfortable. Love the long ball, the team chemistry, the high tech ownership, Curry’s daughter. So when the college senior watched the game with me for Father’s Day, and asked who I wanted to win, I told her, “Really, I don’t know, I’ll be happy for either team.”

Forty plus years later, after watching the upset and emotional outpouring, I’m definitely a Cavs fan tonight. By October, that may very well change.

 

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* One LA evening, the Gal Pal and I were standing in line at a Century City movie theatre when Magic got in line behind us. “Oh man, Magic Johnson sighting!” I said. Looking around hopelessly, “Where?!” “Ah, the only 6’9″ brother.”

Just Enough Media

• Outrage Over Six Month Sentence in Stanford Rape Case

• 50 Are Shot Dead At Gay Nightclub in Florida; Attack Is Worst Mass Shooting In U.S. History

• Donald Trump Slammed For ‘Congrats’ Tweet Following Orlando Massacre

I want to support my GLBQT friends this week by listening and learning, but I wonder, where’s my media exposure point of diminishing returns? When do we cross from informed to unnecessarily solemn, anxious, fearful?

Some error by being woefully uninformed. More error by passively succumbing to media saturation.

Ignorance isn’t bliss, but there are definite costs to our incessant listening, reading, and watching of competing media outlets whose main objectives are not to educate or enlighten, but to keep us coming back in order to maximize advertising revenue.

 

 

 

 

 

Non-Fiction Summer

With apologies to my fiction-centric eldest, it’s shaping up to be a non-fiction summer. The reading list:

  1. The End of Average: How We Succeed in a World That Values Sameness, by Todd Rose. Illuminating so far.
  2. If You’re So Smart, Why Aren’t You Happy by Raj Raghunathan. Likely to draw on this in the “Art of Living” writing seminar.
  3. Empire of Things: How We Became a World of Consumers, From the Fifteenth Century to the Twenty-First, by Frank Trentmann. This one’s a bruiser. You and and I are likely to have voted for ABT (anyone but Trump) before I finish.
  4. The Dance of Anger: A Woman’s Guide to Changing the Patterns of Intimate Relationships, by Harriet Lerner. Don’t ask.

Television season is being pre-empted by long, sun-filled evenings, meaning I’m down to two shows, which, like the NBA finals, are quickly drawing to a close:

  1. The Americans. First fell for Keri Russell when she was a University of New York student. If you didn’t get the Felicity reference, nevermind.
  2. Million Dollar Listing New York. Is this the end of Frederik’s and Luis’s relationship?
  3. Shortly it will just be Netflix meaning Halt and Catch Fire Season 2.
  4. And Grace and Frankie Season 2.

And this film tops the summer list. I understand if it’s too weighty for you and yours.