Category Archives: Writing

Another Reason to Hate Abercrombie and Fitch

July 21, 2009 Christopher D. Bennett

Tuesday was the birthday of Ernest Hemingway. He is one of my favorite writers, along with Nathaniel West and Salinger. I borrowed this from The Writer’s Almanac because I found the information about The Moveable Feast to be fascinating and previously unknown to me.

It’s the birthday of Ernest Hemingway, (books by this author) born in Oak Park, Illinois (1899), the Nobel- and Pulitzer Prize-winning author of such books as The Sun Also Rises (1926), A Farewell to Arms (1929), and The Old Man and the Sea (1952).

Both U.S. presidential candidates of 2008 cited Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls (1940) as one of their favorite books. It’s about an American teacher, Robert Jordan, who volunteers to go fight in the Spanish Civil War against Franco’s Fascists. Robert Jordan is wounded in battle and contemplates shooting himself with his submachine gun to end the intense pain, but when the enemy comes into sight, Jordan does his duty and delays the approaching Fascist soldiers so that his own comrades can escape to safety. And then he dies.

John McCain wrote a book in 2002 called Worth Fighting For, a phrase taken from Robert Jordan’s dying monologue. McCain writes about how the character of Robert Jordan has always been dear to him, from boyhood through the time he was a prisoner of war in Vietnam. McCain said about Hemingway’s fictional character: “I knew that if he were in the cell next to mine, he would be stoic, he would be strong, he would be tough, he wouldn’t give up. And Robert would expect me to do the same thing.” During the campaign, Obama told Rolling Stone magazine that For Whom the Bell Tolls was “one of the three books that most inspired him.”

Hemingway committed suicide in 1961, shooting himself in the head with a double-barreled, 12-gauge shotgun, while wearing a robe and pajamas in the foyer of his Blaine County house.

He had a turbulent personal life. He told people that he despised his mother. He had been married four times and involved with many other women. He was often unkind to other writers whom he knew, and wrote vicious portraits of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Gertrude Stein, which were published in his memoir A Moveable Feast.

His memoir was actually published posthumously by his widow, Mary Hemingway, in 1964. She edited extensively the memoir manuscript, patching stuff together from various sources. She included things he’d explicitly stated that he didn’t want published, and excluded other parts of his unfinished memoir manuscript.

This month, July 2009, Scribner is releasing a “restored edition” of Hemingway’s memoir. The new edition is edited by Sean Hemingway, the grandson of Hemingway and his second wife, Pauline, a woman who was much maligned in the edition of the memoir edited by Mary, the fourth wife.

Sean Hemingway is a curator at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, and he has edited other anthologies of Hemingway’s writing. He is including parts of the original manuscript that Mary had cut out, passages that he says show his grandfather’s “remorse and some of the happiness he felt and his very conflicted views he had about the end of his marriage” to Pauline. The new edition, he says, is more inclusive and portrays his grandmother in a more sympathetic manner. Sixteen thousand copies of the new edition of A Moveable Feast are being printed in the first run, and Scribner is also releasing new editions of all of Hemingway’s novels with redesigned covers.

Hemingway said, “The writer’s job is to tell the truth.” In A Moveable Feast, he wrote: “I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, `Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’ So finally I would write one true sentence, and then go on from there. It was easy then because there was always one true sentence that I knew or had seen or had heard someone say.”
There’s a legend that Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to create a six-word story, and he said, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Inspired by this, an online magazine invited readers to submit their own six-word memoirs, a collection of which was published by Harper Collins in 2008 as Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure. Six-word memoirs include: “All I ever wanted was more” and “Moments of transcendence, intervals of yearning” and “They called. I answered. Wrong number.”

I recently returned Shannon’s copy of Six-Word Memoirs. It is a fascinating book and I recommend to anybody.

What is my 6 word memoir?

Feel free to guess.

History, Writing

Capital Punishment

June 30, 2009 Christopher D. Bennett

Today is the anniversary of the publication of one of the great literary works of the 20th century. Today is the anniversary of the publication of Gone with the Wind.

But as interesting as the story of the great villain Scarlett O’Hara is, the story of how Gone with the Wind came to be published is even more interesting.

From Today’s Writer’s Almanac:

In 1920, Mitchell fell off a horse and suffered terrible injuries. She sort of recovered from the fall, but she kept reinjuring herself in different ways, and a few years later she had to quit her job as a reporter with The Atlanta Journal and stay in bed. Her husband, a newspaper editor, would go to the Atlanta library and bring her back piles of books to read so she could occupy herself while bedridden. One day, he came home and said, “I have brought you all of the books that I think you can handle from the library. I wish you would write one yourself.”

He then went out and got a Remington typewriter. When he presented it to his wife, Margaret, he said, “Madam, I greet you on the beginning of a new career.” She asked him what she should write about, and her editor-husband gave her the famous “Write what you know” line.

So she wrote about Southern belles, and she expanded upon family stories and the stories she’d heard from Civil War veterans while she was growing up in Georgia. The one-bedroom apartment that she and her husband lived in was cramped, and she called it “The Dump.” She would sit and write in every nook and corner of the tiny place, working in the bedroom or the kitchen or the hallway.

She told almost no one except her husband that she was writing a novel. When friends came over to their place, which happened often, she’d hide the manuscript under the bed or the couch.

But one of her Atlanta friends, Lois Cole, had found chunks of the manuscript lying around that cramped apartment. Cole was now living in New York City and working in the publishing industry. Cole told her boss at Macmillan, Harold Latham, that her witty Southern friend “might be concealing a literary treasure.”

Latham went down to Atlanta to pay Margaret Mitchell a visit and ask her about the novel. Mitchell denied its existence. He spent the day with her, following along on outings with her friends, and asked about the novel again in a car full of her girlfriends. Mitchell changed the subject. But when Latham got out of the car, all of her friends in the car kept up the questioning. One friend was adamant that Mitchell was working on a novel, and asked why she hadn’t shown it to Latham. Mitchell said that it was “lousy” and that she was “ashamed of it.” The friend goaded, “Well, I dare say. Really, I wouldn’t take you for the type to write a successful book. You don’t take your life seriously enough to be a novelist.”

That did it — Margaret Mitchell was furious and galvanized. She hurried back to her cramped apartment, grabbed the assorted piles of manuscript and shoved them into a suitcase, and drove it over to the hotel where Latham was staying. When stacked up vertically in one pile, the manuscript was 5 feet high. She delivered it to him in the lobby, saying, “Take it before I change my mind.”

It was published on this day in 1936, and immediately it was a sensation. Reports abound of people in Atlanta staying up all night to read Mitchell’s novel that summer of 1936. It revitalized the publishing industry. The next year, Mitchell won the Pulitzer Prize. Her book was made into a movie starring Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh, and when it had its premiere in Atlanta in 1939, Margaret Mitchell was there at the Loew’s Grand Theater with the movie stars.

The cramped apartment in which Margaret Mitchell wrote Gone with the Wind is now the centerpiece of the Margaret Mitchell House in midtown Atlanta, which reopens this weekend after a long period of renovation. There are tours of the apartment, historical performances, and a museum devoted to her life and work.

Margaret Mitchell never wrote a sequel to Gone with the Wind. When pushed on the issue, she merely indicated that the story was over and that Rhett would never take Scarlett back.

Years later, whores and thieves, plundered her characters and wrote sequels to Gone with the Wind. Although I do not support capital punishment, I do have exceptions. I do feel compelled to believe that the ultimate penalty is justified in cases where crimes against humanity have been committed – genocide and the raping of the characters of other authors after the creator of those characters has met their maker. Not necessarily in that order.

History, Writing

Happy Bloomsday

June 16, 2009 Christopher D. Bennett

Today is Bloomsday. There is a good chance that if you aren’t Irish or a Lit Major, that you have never heard of Bloomsday. To be frankly honest, until today I did not know about the existence of Bloomsday. But you can bet your bottom dollar that it will be on the Photography 139 2010 Calendar.

Perhaps the main reason I didn’t know that Bloomsday existed, is because it is related to James Joyce. Even though he is widely considered to be a genius, I have never really dug his writing. For years I have virtually ignored the rules of punctuation and nobody has slapped the label genius on me. Well, there was that time in 5th Grade when my creative writing stories about Superfluff, the super-lepus, were all the rage, but those days are far in my rearview mirror.

I’ve always considered people that claim that they enjoy the writings of James Joyces to be frauds. People who were pretending to like something so that they could project an intellectual image to the world. I also feel this way about anybody that claims that Woody Allen is remotely funny.

However, I have to admit I like the very basis for Bloomsday. Not necessarily why Joyceans celebrate today, but beyond that. To the reason why this day was important to Joyce.

Today is the day on which the action in the novel Ulysses takes place. The day is named after the main character, Leopold Bloom. That is why Joyceans celebrate today.

The reason that Joyce picked this day to set Ulysses was to commemorate the first date he had with his future wife, Nora Barnacle. She was an uneducated chambermaid. He met her for a stroll around Dublin on this day. Just a few days earlier, she had stood him up for a scheduled date.

Although I do confess, the cynic in me wonders if he didn’t use this day so he would never forget one of their anniversaries.

I thought I should include some of the genius of Joyce. Some of you will recognize this writing as the soliloquy of Molly Bloom. Some of you will recognize this from the Rodney Dangerfield classic Back to School.

“O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the
figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue
and yellow houses and the rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and
cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put
the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how
he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and
then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to
say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him
down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like
mad and yes I said yes I will Yes.”

Baier, Basketball, Carla, Dawn, Derrick, Family, FNSC, Jason, Monica, Movies, Music, Scottie D., Shannon, Willy, Writing

Saturday the 14th

March 14, 2009 Christopher D. Bennett

I have one loyal subscriber that incessantly complains whenever I post too many posts without pictures. He often sends me an email that in essence “boos” me.

I usually tell him that he is a big boy now and that he needs to use his words. But I’m quite certain that even he will be happy that this entry does not include any imagery, except whatever your imagination puts into your mind.

This story transpired on Saturday, March 14, 2009. The day after FNSC was victimized by the hype surrounding Black Market Pizza.

I am not saying that Black Market Pizza is to blame for my Saturday, but there was a series of low grade slasher movies that were popular in my youth that centered around Friday the 13th. Invariably, the person that survived the brutal onslaught of Jason Voorhees would wake up on Saturday the 14th thinking that the worst was behind them. They had survived the night. Then Jason or his mom or Tommy Jarvis would jump out of the lake and the nightmare would continue.

I woke up on Saturday the 14th feeling like the horror of Black Market Pizza was behind me. I had big plans for the day. Big plans! I didn’t know that something was still stalking me. Waiting to pounce and ruin my weekend.

Jason was picking me up at 7:30 in the morning so we could head to Best Buy to buy a dishwasher. Afterward, I was going over to my Aunt Lori’s to do my taxes. Then I was meeting Baier at King Buffet for lunch to celebrate the anniversary of his birth. Then I was heading to Rieman Music to see the remodeling work Derrick had done on the store. Then I was hoping to get the dishwasher installed. Then spend the afternoon watching the Cyclone women advance to the Big 12 title game. Then I was going to rest and relax for a bit. Then I was going to go to Shenanigans (yes, regrettably, I was planning on going to a Boone bar) for the birthday party of a friend from high school. The bonus of this party was that Willy was going to be there and he was allegedly going to be in full Dance Machine mode. I have never seen Willy dance, but I have garnered sworn testimony from his friend Kristy over the phone that he does indeed dance. But in the back of my mind, I still believe that he only talks about dancing. I was going to make a brief appearance at this party and then meet Shannon at DG’s to see Otter play. I’m not at liberty to say, but Otter just might be one of the bands that is playing Ames on the Half Shell this summer. I repeat, it was going to be a full day.

It started out well. Jason picked me up and we headed over to Best Buy. I had talked to Scottie D. on Thursday night, when he did expert work running cable to my office and living room, about coming over on Saturday to buy a dishwasher.

I had done some dishwasher research and new that I wanted both a stainless steel outside and a stainless steel inside. The outside is to match the rest of my appliances. The inside is because allegedly polymer tubs wear out rather quickly.

I swear that Scott said to meet him at Best Buy at 8.

At 8:05, we arrived in the Best Buy parking lot. We were greeted by a sign telling us that Best Buy didn’t open until 9. Since we had an hour to kill, I suggested we get some breakfast. I had heard great things about a little breakfast joint in Campustown called Angie’s Kitchen.

We killed an hour there with their food that can be best described as perfectly adequate.

We returned to Best Buy where Scott and I went over all of their dishwashers in stock. As it turned out, they had one dishwasher in stock, but it happened to be the dishwasher that I wanted.

Today was my lucky day.

We loaded the dishwasher up into the back of Carla’s van and headed to Lowe’s to pick up a few plumbing supplies.

When we got back to Boone we unloaded the dishwasher and Jason went to work on installing it. I went over to Lori’s to do my taxes.

It turns out I will be getting a healthy return back. Enough to pay off my electrician, buy a new fridge and perhaps even buy a new camera. One of the great tragedies of 2008 is the fact that I did not buy a new camera all year. I know, brings a tear to the eye.

Today was my lucky day.

I returned home to pick up some stuff I might have needed for the trip to Ames. Jason had already finished installing the dishwasher.

I met Baier at King Buffet. Inexplicably, King Buffet is his favorite restaurant. The food was perfectly adequate and we had a splendid conversation about many of the days hot topic issues.

At the conclusion of our meal I bid Baier a fond aideu and then headed downtown to Rieman Music. Derrick and his minions have done an impressive job of remodeling the store. He has made coves for individual types of products. Plus he painted the place and took down the old town and country border that used to spoil the place. It is very nice, but don’t take my word for it. Head on down and check it out. Buy a trombone or two.

I left Rieman Music and headed for my couch. I didn’t want to miss a moment of the Cyclone women playing the Baylor Bears.

As I sat on my couch I started to feel sick. Although the women were not playing well and would ultimately lose, this was not the type of sickness I feel when I watch the Greg McDermott men play. With the obvious exception of when they played UNI. I felt pretty darn good that night.

After the game concluded, I felt worse. Eventually I got to feeling so bad that I didn’t even want to move from the couch. I sat there watching whatever was on the History Channel.

I had the sensation that I wanted to vomit, but I couldn’t. I checked the time and I sadly realized that I wasn’t going to be leaving this couch on this night. I texted Shannon to let her know that I was shafting out. She texted me back to relay hopes that I feel better at some point in the future.

I put the phone down and laid my head back down on the pillows. At 9:37, I got a text message. Admittedly, I did not know it was 9:37. I thought it was well after 10. I struggled to get up and read my text message.

My expectations were that the text was from Willy saying that he was “setting the dance floor on fire” and wondering if I was making an appearance. The other possibility was that the message was from Shannon letting me know how much fun I was missing.

But the message was from neither. It was from Monica Henning:

Jeff proposed to me tonight on our trip. I said YES. (Then she included an emoticon, but even when I am quoting somebody I can’t bring myself to use an emoticon. But use your imagination. It was a happy emoticon. It probably involved a colon.)

That was a pretty cool development, but I was in so much pain I couldn’t even think straight. I decided to send the congratulations on the morrow. I frequently use the phrase “on the morrow” when I am sick.

I laid my head back down and continued to inbibe what the History Channel was dishing out. What seemed like hours passed. Then something magical happened.

I had spent my free time on Saturday organizing 3 tubs. 1 tub for audio visual cables. 1 tub for computer cables. 1 tub for phone stuff.

The magic happened 4 times into the phone stuff tub. I instantly felt, not so bad. I picked up my cell phone to check the time: 1:45. Too late to drive to Ames or go to Shenanigans. I laid my head back down on the pillow. I was asleep almost instantly. I didn’t wake up for 12 hours.

I talked to Jason the next day. He had also been sick. We both agreed that we wouldn’t be going back to Angie’s Kitchen. I decided that next time I needed to get breakfast in Ames, I would stick with The Grove Cafe.

But I don’t want the tale of Monica’s engagement to be just a footnote to a tale of vomiting on a caller id box. It is pretty exciting that Monica is tying the knot. I heard a poem once and although I definitely didn’t write it, it is what I hope Jeff feels in 50 years.

Anniversary: One Fine Day
by Walter McDonald

Who would sit through a plot as preposterous as ours,
married after years apart? Chance meetings may work
early in stories, but at operas, darling, in Texas?
A bachelor pilot, I fled Laredo for the weekend,
stopping at the opera from boredom, music I least expected.
Of all the zoos and honky-tonks south of Dallas,
who would believe I would find you there on the stairs,

Madame Butterfly about to start? When you moved
four years before, I lost all hope of dying happy,
dogfighting my way through pilot training, reckless,
in terror only when I saw the man beside you.
I had pictured him rich and splendid in my mind
a thousand times, thinking you married with babies
somewhere in Tahiti, Spain, the south of France.

When I saw the lucky devil I hated—only your date,
but I didn’t know—he stopped gloating, watching you wave,
turned old and bitter like the crone in Shangri La.
Destiny happens only in plays and cheap movies—
but here, here on my desk is your photo, decades later,
and I hear sounds from another room of our house,
and when I rise amazed and follow, you are there.

Dawn, Jesse, Lowell, Teresa, Writing

Reading for a New Year

January 1, 2009 Christopher D. Bennett

It is a New Year and soon enough, it will be too cold to go outside and you will need to do more while you are inside than just watching the Cyclones play basketball. May I suggest reading. In fact, while I’m suggesting I’m going to suggest a few websites that are worth your time to read every now and again.

Teresa’s blog about crafts: Tea Time
Jesse’s website: WEBSITE DELETED
Lowell’s website: LowellDavis.net
Dawn’s poetry: Impassioned Versifier

I think you will find some stuff of interest in all of these diversions.

Bill, Faust, Frank, Lowell, Movies, Willy, Writing

Aesthetically Qualified

November 17, 2008 Christopher D. Bennett

Because I know interesting people sometimes the beget me more interesting people.

Such as Lowell begot Bill who then begot Willy who then begot Faust.

Frank from work met a guy while working at Best Buy that is a movie producer. Well, he is sort of a movie producer. He moved out to Iowa from some place out East and is trying to raise enough money to make a movie.

He hasn’t made the movie, but he has made a movie that is over 90 minutes long about the movie he wants to make. It includes lots of his theories on movie making. Lots of the sets he wants to use. Pictures of the women that are going to be in the movie in bikinis. Pictures of horses that will be in the movie. Pictures of dogs that will be in the movie.

However, nowhere in the sale pitch does he indicate what the movie is actually about. The closest you get to know what the movie is about is the discussion of the characters that will be in the movie and you can combine that with the sets that will be used for the movie and maybe get an idea of what is going to happen in this movie.

There is one exception. One little sliver of information that comes through. The producer does include 5 rehearsals of one scene from the movie. Here is the dialogue from that one scene, starring the producer as the lead character from the movie, talking to somebody that isn’t there:
(Try to imagine this being said with a Jersey accent, by a guy wearing a leather jacket and gloves.)

Johnathan Sinclair
What does that mean? What you just did? I saw that.
I see women doing that? What does that mean?
You pulled your shirt down over your butt. What does that mean?
Does that mean that you think your butt’s too big?
Or perhaps I’m not aesthetically qualified to give you the once over?
Or maybe I’m not financially qualified to give you the once over?
Babe, you’re like a fantasy world?
Like a dream world. Like a dream world.

I don’t think it is too big of a stretch to call it poetry.

Russell, Writing

Decline of Sports Journalism, Part Deux

November 9, 2008 Christopher D. Bennett

My friend Russell wrote this about sports media and I think it is brilliant. Even if you don’t like sports, you might find it interesting if you have had the sideline “bimbo” conversation with me.

Decline of Sports Journalism, Part Deux

As defined by the online journalism dictionary, Color commentator:”The color commentator provides expert analysis and background information, such as statistics, strategy and injury reports, on the teams and athletes…” From dictionary.com, Analysis: “A person who analyzes or who is skilled in analysis.”

A small apology: in a critique of sports journalism, I’m going to make a slight stretch and include sports commentators and analysts in the journalistic field, after all they are supposed to report information about the game, use coaches and players as resources, and provide the public with necessary information.

I know, I know.

I’ll admit I’m not the brightest cookie ever, and neither are most Americans. We just aren’t. Too much TV, too much beer, too many conversations on telephones that probably should have never happened, freaking out when Janet Jackson shows her breasts or the new Harry Potter comes out, but turning a blind eye to Darfur, Haiti, and a thousand other world crises. I’m not condemning America, for I too am guilty of bypassing world news for an entertainment sound bite and of watching a reality television show or three.

But come on. The sports know-it-alls have been phoning it in for a good four, five years now. The problem isn’t that we don’t want to hear them, it’s that they are continuing to say what we already know. It’s becoming the equivalent of going over addition and subtraction in a high school algebra class. The problem isn’t that America has gotten smarter, it’s that after telling us the same things five years running, hey, we’ve got it.

Here’s the kind of stuff that I mean. See if any of these sound familiar and I’ll just use football:

A certain team has bad running game: “The defense is going to sit back in coverage force them to throw underneath.”

Certain team has bad passing game: “It’s time to put eight or nine in the box, and force the weak quarterback to beat you.”

Certain team is good in all phases: “What makes it so tough is, you can’t defend these guys at all. You put eight in box, they go over the top with great wide receivers, if you sit back they’ll run in down your throat.”

Certain team sucks in all phases: “This team struggles in all phases of the game, and it starts with head coach. (or if head coach has unquestioned credentials, “It starts with the players.”)

My favorite, the pick for Super Bowl, or Bowl Game: Pick the two best teams from each conference, almost always, or pick a team that has won before. Though it seems obvious, the facts say otherwise: Since ’79 #1 seeds in college basketball have won the title just 55% of the time, since 2000 3 wild card teams have won the Super Bowl, same for baseball since 2002, of ten BCS champion games the #2 ranked team has won half the games. ). The point being playing it safe and going with the fav only gets it done about half the time.

When player says the wrong thing: “(Player’s name) is selfish and doesn’t care about the team.”

A athletic (certain cynical writers would throw race in here) quarterback is doing pretty well: “He’s a dual threat, uses athletic skills to buy time in pocket!” If he fails: “Relying too much on his athletic ability, needs to be more patient and make better throws.”

An un-athletic QB: “He goes through his 2nd and 3rd reads, and he is patient in pocket.” If he sucks: “He needs to move around in the pocket, he holds on to the ball too long.”

It drives me nuts if I keep going. (It’s a bit more fun translating these to common life, like say, the Researcher struggles with women: “He needs to be more aggressive and open up the offense a bit more.” Or on Obama: “This guy was the underdog at one point and he was counted out, but on the big stage, that’s when he demonstrated his heart and his leadership.”)

I put up with it for a while, I think we all did, because we were starved for sports highlights and information about our beloved teams. But with the inundation of sports shows and games, on like eight different networks, YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO SAY SOMETHING NEW.

Good thing they have a four-day camp put on by the NFLPA and NFL to teach ex-athletes a career in broadcasting. I’m surprised it lasts four days.

It’s frightening to me that ex-coaches and guys 15 years in the league who read playbooks 600 pages deep and know every nuance of the game can’t seem to give us anything but the same stuff I discuss with my dad at home. If anything, I could use the help beating him during our sports arguments.

Are they afraid if they educate us too much they’ll be out of the job? As if Joe Six-Pack (when he’s not plumbing) is going to rise off the couch, quit his job and take over a head coaching gig (insert your Raiders joke here)? But seriously, can this really be all they took from the game?

I have literally seen more than a few games when a commentator, doesn’t matter the sport, begins literally drawing a picture or writing words on the screen. Come on. That’s all you’ve got? I mean, show us why the deep post route freed up the crossing route, why his 3rd read was outside of the 2 second window a QB has to throw the ball, why the matchup zone slows a point guards passing skills, why drawing an infield in effects a pitcher’s selection of throws, something that makes the average fan feel like…oh, I don’t know…he’s getting only a slightly lesser quality experience than someone attending the game. That’s really what television is for. You’ve got cameras everywhere but up the quarterback’s you know what, HD quality pictures, and then you’ve got some huge guy in a suit saying “They really need to step it up here, Al. This is an important play.” Thirty seconds on the clock in a playoff game, ya think? Stuff like that makes me put on the mute button and cry, and when sports shows come on, I now watch only the highlights and then turn away.

If I want I can get similar analysis from drunk fans at the game. For instance “That coach is douche bag!” (Analyst: “I really just don’t like that call, Dan, post-play, of course) or “Come on Defense, get a stop!” (They need to buckle down here, John and get a stop.”) “Your mother looks like George Foreman!” (“He’s got to stay focused and stop letting his emotions get the best of him.”)

I also have an issue with these sideline reporter people, aka Something we found the pretty girl to do because what if they’re as good at us men at sports?

So-and-so is injured. Awesome. If it’s not a major player, we don’t care. If you don’t have information, we don’t care. Don’t tell us the hurt player is being evaluated in the locker room. We know, because it’s why he went in the locker room. (Unless it’s Manny Ramirez.) If the team is depressed or the coaches are trying to get people fired up, guess what? America could give a crap.

America would like to know, sideline girl, what adjustments are being made, to a specificity, if someone is being kept out of a game and why, or maybe if two players get into a fight. Truthfully, most guys really just like watching Erin Andrews smile because the information (which she has said she’s worked on all week) amounts to diddly-poo.

I don’t understand the great fear of giving America too much information. I have yet to hear a sports show labeled “too intelligent for me.” I have yet to hear a sports fan say, “I’d just like four guys who laugh a lot and speak in general, simplistic terms.” In an age where people have access to more information than any point in history, why is the sports shows and TV producers prefer we have the opposite? From Peter King of Sports Illustrated:”..I don’t mean to harp on ESPN for burying the State Farm NFL Matchup Show, but here’s an example of what I’m talking about when I say it’s the one pregame show that should be essential viewing for the real fan, and how ESPN is foolish for putting it on…at 3 a.m. and 7: 30 am ET. ”

Now, I’ve seen the show, and I’ll admit I found it a bit nerdish. The two commentators are a bit too eager to break down, of all things, tons of game film. It’s kind of like being in a film session. But I got stats, in depth video replays and a host of terms I had never heard before. Some might call that expert analysis.

There are good commentators out there, and I’ve heard excellent analysis of the NBA by at least two female commentators (who seem to be intentionally stepping up their game because people are waiting for them to screw up). And certain commentators bring a homey feel to television, John Madden, Dick Vitale, Bill Raftery: guys who don’t have too much to say but seriously appear to enjoy the game, the idea of optimism being contagious. No major beef with them.

I read a quote recently and since I’m not a quote guy I’ll paraphrase horrifically: the more you know, the more you realize you don’t know. In saying that, you might think I’m alright with another player whose done enough drugs and alcohol to fill the Atlantic Ocean giving me simple tidbits.

But I’m not. In my quest for more information and better viewing pleasure I may find nothing but misery, but there’s not a damn thing wrong with letting America feel smart. And if they do try and it fails miserably, I’ll be the first to eat crow and go right back to watching Erin Andrews.

From Russell Kennerly AKA The Researcher

Jen, Writing

Jen’s Uncle

November 8, 2008 Christopher D. Bennett

Jen’s Uncle Jon passed away last Tuesday. He was laid to rest on Saturday.

Below are the words that Jen wrote to be read at his funeral. They are painfully beautiful.

To the world, Jon was introverted, shy, reserved, quiet –to me he was just “Jon”. Maybe if prompted to describe him in a few words I would say, “Jon’s not the kind of guy you can get to know just by meeting him.”

So as far as uncles go, Jon was the best. He was the uncle who was never too tired to drag the sled up the hill for another ride; who could spend all day at the swimming pool; who never tired of constructing forts in the basement. He knew the rules to every game (from chess to tennis) – and was always joyfully defeated by his seven and five-year old opponents. Days spent with Jon were full of fun and adventure…and if the night skies were clear, he would pull out his telescope and tell us the name of every star and crater in the moon.

Jon knew everything about everything. He knew the name of each flower, of every tree. He could tell you the variety of grass of every house along the street, as well as the seasonal pros and cons of each hybrid. He always knew the answers that “stuck” me on crossword puzzles (even at hospice on a morphine drip…and he could spell it!). Those of us who got to know him, knew he was funny, at times plain silly. Sometimes we just sat and laughed about nothing in particular. That’s the Jon I feel privileged to have known.

Jon loved classical music and Gilbert & Sullivan operas. When he wasn’t applying the subplots from HMS Pintafore to contemporary times, he was talking science. He could talk ad nauseam about thermodynamics, physics, and differential equations. In a recent discussion regarding my rowing team, I had told him that our goal time for a 3 mile race was 24 minutes…without hesitation he replied, “That’s an 8 minute mile or a little more than 11 ft per second.” Dumbfounded, I asked “why would you know that?” He just shrugged. I checked the math – he was right.

Jon has given me more than an thirst for knowledge or an appreciation of parabolic curves– he’s given me priceless (although sometimes painful) lessons in perseverance, strength, patience, hope, and faith, as well as countless other gifts that will only be clear with hindsight. It is for those bits of wisdom, gained by Jon allowing me to share in his journey, that I will always be grateful.

Olympic Sports, Russell, Writing

Decaying State of Sports Journalism, Part 1

October 21, 2008 Christopher D. Bennett

Earlier this year I started a group blog known as The Sports Proletariat. Little has actually transpired there since I started the blog, but every now and again, somebody lets slip something brilliant over there.

What lies below was written by Russell Kennerly. I liked it so much that I’m copying it over here so more people will get a chance to appreciate his genius.

Decaying State of Sports Journalism, Part 1

As I write this, a small fiasco has been made of Lou Holtz’s diatribe on the state of Michigan football coach Rich Rodriguez. His comment was “Ya know, Hitler was a great leader, too” when it was brought up that Michigan lacks leadership. I believe the point Lou was trying to make was that there are leaders who may be successful but go about it the wrong way.

Now, similar comments were made by ESPN’s own Jemelle Hill in July, when she commented that cheering “for the Celtics is like saying Hitler was a victim…” As a Celtic fan, I take umbrage with the comment (but we did win a record 17th championship) but not Hill’s use of Hitler in context, only to say that references to him should probably not be used in a humorous setting.

ESPN suspended Hill for her comments and rightly they should, if that is their standing network policy. But they have done nothing to Lou Holtz. Say what you want about the racial overtones of that decision, but the hypocrisy is apparent. You don’t fine someone for saying the wrong thing, and then three months later shrug your shoulders for saying the wrong thing. If anything, it reinforces Lou’s impression of himself as a wise football commentator, and means the rest of us will be forced to listen to him while waiting for the highlights, at least until he screws up again. It is widely known that Lou had a long friendship with Jesse Helms, who filibustered Martin Luther King’s birthday for 16 days and argued against desegregation of schools (and social security, which is just plain weird). In fact, you can go online and read Jesse Helm’s praise of Lou’s book. You can’t call Lou a racist, I’m simply saying it’s not too long for the old guy says something dumb. I think half the motivation for keeping him on TV is the executives are afraid he will go back to coaching again, maybe at their alma maters.

The problem with the Hilter incidents, the Imus comments, and several other on-air incidents is that this is a track that we have laid ourselves. I mean, think about the sports talk radio shows or those little fan comments at the end of online sports articles.

(A small aside about the fan comments, wow. From a report on the Broncos-Pats Monday night in no particular order: sexual comments, comments about the Red Sox, drugs, and a comment by a Broncos fan that his team could have come back if the Pats stopped getting first downs all the time, for a total of 572 comments. This is the reason mankind is doomed to fail.)

The host conversations themselves are generally filled with vitriol and demented comments, only for the sake of garnering ratings. Jim Rome has practically made acerbic commentary a work of art.

But ninety percent of the guys who phone in to these shows have little or no facts with their opinions. It mostly consists of “Yeah, I’m Russ from Iowa State, I just wanted to say our running game is pathetic and I’m tired of Coach Chizik’s silly play-calling” or “Barack from Illinois, I think it’s really just time for a change, Dan, I’m sick of the status quo.” It’s absurd! You can spend three hours listening to people across the landscape whine and mope and not hear one decent statistic supporting anything. On the other hand, what’s good enough for our President…never mind.

And the hosts of these shows indulge our rage, which in my opinion, begins boiling whenever our team has misses an open shot or incompletes a pass with criticisms and speculation and talks of the old traditions and quarterback controversies a boiling. Remember the days when Troy Aikman could go 1-15 his first and Peyton Manning went 3-13 as starters? How many fans would call for their heads by game 8 of those seasons today, all the while the hosts leading the charge?

This brings me to the crucial part of the conversation, which for me seems to be the delicate balance between being controversial and opinionated, as TV ratings demand, and crossing the line. Isn’t the point of having four to five people on a sports morning TV show to breed dialogue, arguments, and new lines of thought? But when one of these people says the wrong word, or lets loose something the public deems offensive, why then these people lose their jobs?

I’m not sure I understand it all. Allowing people to have free-formed, spirited comments was I believe part of the 1st amendment. So I disagree when a network hires them for bold dialogue and then slaps them on the wrist when the public deems a comment inappropriate. TV started this fire, the public fanned it, but what is the sense in decrying the whole thing when people start getting burned?

This is not to say people should condone the Don Imuses of the world or be startled when someone mentions Hitler or Mussolini in a monologue, but there is always that little button at the top of your remote, called the off/on switch. You don’t like it, turn off the TV, or go toa sports site and write some fan comments.

I for one can’t wait for Part 2.

Candid Portrait, Faust, Football, Iowa State, Writing

Stupid John Greenleaf Whittier

October 6, 2008 Christopher D. Bennett

I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to move my website to a different server. That is going to be a goal of mine in the next couple of weeks. Until then, I’m going to have to post all of the Kansas game pictures in the journal.

I’m going to start with a collection of pictures from before the game. It was another disappointing Iowa State loss, but I don’t wish to dwell on it. After all, John Greenleaf Whittier said it best in his poem Maud Muller:

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, `It might have been.`

Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.

For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
The saddest are these: `It might have been!`

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may
Roll the stone from its grave away!