My Trip To The Mall

"I can't go into Abercrombie & Fitch. It's too loud." - Liz Lemon

I hate going to the mall. It's about the only place I go where I feel really old. It's filled with middle schoolers and high school underclassmen embracing their "freedom" from their parents. I'm used to feeling like a 12-year-old who couldn't sniff the inside of a bar after 9:30 p.m.

It also vends more than just chic clothing or sugary Mrs. Fields cookies or awesomely useless Sharper Image toys. It's the outlet of commercial cool, something that I, for better or worse, never bought.

It had been a long time since I had stepped foot in a mall other than Summit Place Mall in Pontiac, which has taken on the nickname of "Scummit Place Mall" since basically every store packed up and left 10 years ago. Yet here I was, in search of sought-after Christmas gifts Monday with no other choice than to venture to Twelve Oaks Mall in Novi. If you've never been to Twelve Oaks Mall, it's a slightly upscale retail center somewhere in between Scummit and Somerset (OK, so maybe that doesn't narrow it down at all). I was in the area, dropping off my delinquent brother with a suspended license at his work site, so I hopped over to Twelve Oaks with my mind set on a quick in-and-out experience. Here is my trip to the mall:

My first inclination that I was in over my head was when traffic backed up about 30 cars deep just to turn left into the mall. It was, after all, three days before Christmas, and if there's one thing Americans do best, it's procrastinate. (Seriously, can you think of anything more American than procrastination? Apple pie? Baseball? Chevrolet? Please.) After sitting in traffic for a solid 20 minutes, blissfully listening to radio talk show hosts and callers bash Rob Parker for his latest journalist-defaming antics, I pulled into the crowded parking lot. I circled in front of a mall entrance when I realized there was valet parking at the mall. Valet parking! At the mall! Because walking 2 minutes from car to mall will apparently trigger a heart attack with 100 percent certainty.

After parking and reaching the entrance with my ticker still fully functional, I started walking toward my destination. I had two gifts in mind — a Michigan State Christmas ornament for my Spartan alumna mother (a tree could always be a little greener) and a book about my grandpa's hero, Bo Schembechler. I knew the store where I needed to go, which came with a small stigma. It was the "M Den," an outlet of all things University of Michigan with a minuscule corner of green-and-white merchandise. I'm not proud of walking into any store with a Wolverine attachment. Even in a store in Ann Arbor, I feel a little queasy. After walking for a few minutes, my damp boots obnoxiously squeaking on the floor, I saw the large block "M" hanging above the store from a mile away. I wanted to throw something, anything, at it, hoping it would fall to the ground and spontaneously combust and burn to a pile of ashes. I sucked up my pride, zipped up my coat (I was wearing an MSU sweatshirt) and took the plunge into maize and blue.

Walking in, I felt claustrophobic as I was surrounded by Michigan apparel. Everything hurt my eyes. The clothing racks seemed incredibly close. I made sure no part of my body grazed anything with a Michigan logo on it. I withstood the incredible urge to punch employees wearing that awful shade of yellow that all Spartans have come to abhor. When I reached that beautiful green pasture of MSU merchandise (I'm sure this is the pasture being referenced in the 23rd Psalm), all anxiety calmed as I searched for an ornament. Not surprisingly, I came up emptier the U-M football team against Toledo (couldn't help myself).

After escaping the wave of maize-and-blue overload, I searched for my next destination: Borders Express. The store was on the other side of the mall next to Macy's, which took me on an adventure of sensory overload. There was the sound of kids crazily dashing around the area where Santa would grant their every wish. There was the sight of 50 women's clothing stores, each of which only seemed to have about 50 items of clothing in a store of 250 square feet (am I missing something, or don't you want something called "selection"?). There was the near-taste of Cinnabon, which is the last bastion of overindulgence compared to the 15 Jamba Juice knockoffs spread throughout the mall.

And most of all, there was one smell in particular. It was the odor of cologne, a wall of pungency that hit out of nowhere. It smacked my nose with the impact of fresh fertilizer. When it hit, I paused for a moment to look around. Nothing in the vicinity — a jeweler, shoe outlet, women's clothing store or Santa — would logically produce such a smell. I took a few more steps. The smell grew stronger. I felt like I was in high school homeroom again (if you're from West Bloomfield, you'd get that one). A few more steps and the odor continued to grow. I started to hear loud music muffled by the commotion of hundreds of shoppers bustling around me. Finally, I found the culprit. It was like smelling a skunk's spray and eventually stumbling upon the animal.

Abercrombie & Fitch.

If I didn't know better, I would swear they slather cologne on the floors and wall outside each store every morning. I couldn't help but laugh, remembering those dead-on words of one Liz Lemon (it is loud!). I walked by, peering in only to see a more-than-lifesize poster of a ripped guy with no shirt. Definitely not a place for me.

I continued on, passing by several mall staples. I resisted the temptation to enter Sharper Image, convincing myself that walking through there is like shooting heroin — it feels good while you're doing it but you're going to be mad at yourself afterward because you're too poor to buy anything. I embraced the permeations from Yankee Candle, which makes Abercrombie smell like a pile of steaming crap. I waltzed by Victoria's Secret, remembering the conversation I had with a friend about how awkward I would be in that store. During this walk, I looked around and saw more high school varsity jackets than at a Friday night football game. Nothing makes you feel like a 40-year-old more than walking among high schoolers. And I'm half of 40.

Finally, I arrived at Borders Express. I struck out again. No book. No luck. I decided I hadn't had enough of my mall experience, so I decided to try one last location for an MSU ornament: a sports memorabilia store named DC Sports. It was nearby, so I strolled in and spotted a table with sports-themed Christmas ornaments. Here was the ornament inventory by team/school:

MSU — Zero
U-of-M — One
Notre Dame — Two
North Carolina — Two
Dallas Stars — Two
Detroit Tigers — One
Detroit Pistons — Zero
Detroit Lions — Twelve

That's right. I counted it. Stood there and added them up. Twelve.

With three stores in the past and nary a bag to tote around, I returned to the Twelve Oaks entrance. At the door, I swear there were people waiting for the valet who I saw 20 minutes ago when I walked in the door. A three-minute walk to my car (still no coronaries) and I saw into the mass of cars wanting to get out of dodge. At one point, I tried to switch lanes for an easier left turn. I flipped on my blinker, contorted my body to look out my rear window and waited for a kind driver to let me in. First, an elderly woman blew right by me without an acknowledgment. Then a high school girl in a Lexus SUV on a cell phone. Then a guy my age with a girl in the passenger seat (he got a free pass because I'd be pissed if my girlfriend dragged me there). Then a middle-aged woman in a sedan. Finally, I forced my way into the next lane, much to the displeasure of the middle-aged man behind me. He was not very happy.

Neither was I.

The Frozen Chosen Is Blessed

I have the best Man On The Street adventures. Like "somebody should make a children's book about them" adventures.

I'm going to make a few points about my latest shenanigans on my bi-weekly escapade known as Man On The Street and let the text then speak for itself.

1. This text is only about 1/3 of my conversation with the three women.
2. I said absolutely nothing throughout the entire text (I only nodded my head).
3. Prior to this text, I was told I was a "frozen chosen" because of my Presbyterian background.
4. Woman #1 hugged me. I don't like being touched.
5. In no way am I religious.
6. I've never wanted to laugh in somebody's face more and had to hold it back for a painstaking five minutes.
7. The text doesn't do the rapidity of the speech justice. Imagine this as constant communication without a single second of pause.
8. I'm going to hell.

And with that, the text of my Man On The Street Encounter (coming to a bookstore near you):

Woman #1: You've got a dangerous job. That's why you've got to cling on to faith and cling on to God. When you wake up, you should start thanking him for another beautiful day and for pointing your feet in the right direction on what he wants you to go get. More than likely, it's the Word and something he wants you to do for God's people because there's children in the dark that don't know him and don't know he's there for them, you understand? There's just in the dark feeding off the devil and they need to be feeding off God's word and you've got it, you're carrying it. He picked you for a reason (rounds of 'Oh yes he did'), a handsome young man.

Woman #2: He's like, 'Oh my goodness,' he doesn't know what he's gotten into. He was just asking some people about the park.

Woman #3: But it was a divine appointment. God loves you and you have lots of power in that pen.

Woman #1: As soon as you're able to get to the Bible, just ask God to show you what he wants from you.

Woman #3: Yeah, just let the Holy Spirit guide you. God must rule.

Woman #1: Ask God what he wants from you. He'll give you the Holy Ghost to lead you in the right direction, the safe direction. I reckon he'll keep harms out your way.

Woman #3: He'll keep you from wolves in sheep's clothing.

Woman #1: Seek him first. Ask him for his armor. Say a prayer and just thank him for getting you home. Once you get a hold of God, he'll give you more wisdom than any schooling. He will and he'll show you how to work that schooling. You'll pass like that. But you've got to hang in there. He ain't lost. A lot of people are like, 'I found God, I found God,' but no you didn't. He was never lost. He chose you. He chose you to do that. You're going to be successful.

Woman #2: There's going to be some trials and tribulations.

Woman #1: Like I said, there's going to be some dangerous times but you're going to have the angels with you. God got you. God got you as long as you get him in the morning and get him right there at night. Thank you God for another day. He'll get you. You going to be all right. You going to be very successful.

Woman #3: "He all like, 'Hey I came over here.'

(Cackles)

Woman #1: Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid because God got you. He a good God. You great now and you recording his word, you write down his word. You meet people of different nationalities and that's what God wants, that bouquet of colors and nationalities together on that paper.

Woman #3: Truth in print is so desperately needed and that's where your courage is needed, to stand by the truth.

Woman #1: I don't know where you at with God. Only you know. Just ask him to show you where he wants you at. You've got to get him first. Pray first. Get it first and he'll show you where to go in the Bible and you'll go right there. It will tell you right where to go. Always have time for the Bible.

Woman #3: They take you places in the Bible that you never hear about in church.

Woman #1: Whatever kind of relationship, I don't care how hard or how down you like, 'Oh God why me. Help me and pull me out of this God,' always pray for him.

(Flying pine cone nearly hits me)

Woman #3: What did you just throw Michael? So let's just pray for Jacob and send him on his way. We ask you to bless us and rest upon Jacob as his name speaks volumes. We ask that you bless his hand as he writes in journalism and we ask that you give him favor Father as you guide his path.

Woman #1: There's an angel with him God

Woman #3: To protect him in all the things he does.

Woman #1: Bless and protect him God with the blood over his life and his journalism and the name of people and his family. Thank you God.

Woman #3: And his future family. Guide them. And so shall it be.

(Undecipherable whoopings and praises to God)

Woman three: You just got a blessing and you got no idea.

I really had no idea.

Jacktown U.S.A.

Sorry for the lack of postage the past few weeks. Inspiration has been evading me like it has a restraining order against me.

I realized that a large part of starting blogs such as this was to keep in touch with other people and to share stories about what life is like for those few months outside of East Lansing. And when I think of being outside E.L., there's no other place I would rather be than Jackson, Michigan. When you think about it, there isn't a single "Jackson" city that's desirable. Jackson, Mississippi? Too hot and too much in Mississippi. Jackson, Tennessee? Too much country music. The other seven Jacksons? None of them are in Hawaii, so they don't matter.

Still, the amount of comedic gold that comes from this little hole in the map ceases to amaze me. As I'm chasing down incredible stories about teen swim meets, Fourth of July parades and raucous local government meetings, I get to meet and see some of the most interesting people God decided to put on this Earth to make the rest of us feel better about ourselves. Not to say all of Jackson is sketchy -- there are some nice neighborhoods and the eight people that live in them. But for the most part, Jackson is a land that time forgot, probably because it's awfully forgettable. It's still living in the 1980s, when factories were still running and Michael Jackson was still black. With it comes the people and stories, as mentioned below, that make Jackson the birthplace of substandidarity. I made that word up.

-- A county commissioner who is running for township supervisor doesn't know how to work a computer. He doesn't want to know because he's afraid of junk mail.
-- A sign on U.S. 127 denoting a factory: Screw Machine Services. I've racked my brain and come up with six interpretations. Three are inappropriate.
-- I've seen three signs outside churches that make me believe I'm going to hell in a waste basket. God is watching, people. And judging.
-- The biggest celebrities to hit the town in my time in Jackson: Erik Estrada, Rich Rod and a guy from the Blue Collar Comedy tour.
-- The Independence Day parades aren't really parades. They're tractor pulls.
-- A woman running for the township board of trustees doesn't want to talk to me because she doesn't know the issues affecting her town.
-- In case you haven't heard this gem yet: A man stabbed his mother in the neck with a dinner fork. Then stole a bike from a neighbor's garage. Then got into an argument with a woman on the street. Then hit said woman in the head with 10 pounds of frozen chicken. He was in our paper for man on the street two weeks earlier.
-- In an attempt to find people who knew about an assault, I knocked on the first door in a neighborhood. A young woman answered. She said she didn't know about anything. She also said she was an "entertainer in Las Vegas." She proceeded to put on shoes and walk around to three houses. She called me sweetheart the entire time and commented repeatedly on how young looking I was. She might have been drunk. I decided against leaving my card. I don't have a card.
-- Side story: The best part of my day sometimes is reading the letters sent to the one-time editors of Dear Abby. Too many people have screwed up marriages.
-- The headliners for the Jackson County Fair? The Nuge and the naked girl from High School musical. Classy.
-- Completely unrelated to Jackson: Ryan Field signs off of the Tigers pre-game show by saying, "Stay classy, Detroit." An oxymoron from a moron.


This was a completely random and probably unnecessary post, but that's the report from Jackson, Michigan: The place that elementary school forgot.

Can I buy a facelift?

You know who's more consistent than Cal Ripken Jr., more tenured than the Dalai Lama and glossier than a swath of leather?

The only woman in the world who can buy you a vowel.

I remember back in the day, way back in the day, when I was just a young lad watching Wheel of Fortune. I would yell and scream and most likely make absolutely no sense as contestants purchased consonants and interpretated inane idioms. And through it all, there was Vanna White. What a name, like it fell from the heavens, landed on toddler feet and ordered it to reveal letters like it was her job. Which it is.

Even before I lost my baby teeth, I knew she was quite a woman.

Even when I was playing Wheel of Fortune on a disk and she was scrambled in yellow, purple and green, Vanna was there.

Even now, Vanna is still rocking out at the big board, albeit with a shorter haircut and what appear to be some performance-enhancing drugs lodged in her moneymaker (that's her face, people).

Vanna's story is quite the interesting one, according to Wikipedia, which, by the way, is the best thing ever, because anybody in the world can write anything they want about any subject, so you know you're getting the best possible information.

Her first husband was a Playgirl model/Chippendales dancer (because really, the two are just complementary) that was killed in a plane crash, she wrote an autobiography when Reagan was president, she made several critically-abhorred acting appearances and she's been referenced at length in songs by Nelly and Weird Al (which is the universal sign that you have arrived). Perhaps most importantly, the Guinness Book of World Records recognized her as television's most steadfast clapper, averaging 750 per episode.

She made her debut in the early 1980s and has shown no signs up letting up. At the age of 51, Vanna is still rocking out as the co-host of Wheel of Fortune, likely making enough money to buy the fricking alphabet. It'll be interesting to see what happens in, oh, 7 or 8 years when she's closer to collecting social security than cat calls. Still, I'll always tune in to watch Vanna do the world's easiest job (if you can think of something easier, I'll be forever in your debt), although I don't know what it's like to walk back and forth in heels all day.

Vanna, I'll always want to buy a "u".

Man In Need On The Street

I hate getting all sappy just about as much as anybody, but sometimes things just kind of make you stop and think about what just happened.

I was trolling the Jackson Crossing Mall for my bi-weekly fun-fest known as Street Talk (the south central Michigan version of "man on the street") today. I've done it before at the mall and people typically are pretty receptive (i.e. some say yes, some ignore you and some worry about their 'do). It was pretty ho-hum. I've kind of been in a rut the last few days at work, so there wasn't my usual hint of enthusiasm and awkward thanking for accosting you like a stalker and wanting to take a mug.

The lady seemed nice enough looking. I'd fulfilled my quota for young white woman, young black woman, middle-aged white man, middle-aged white woman and so on up to the heptagenerians (if only people knew that I was consciously profiling them while shooting their profile). She was a perfect candidate: young enough where she wouldn't be cranky and remember the FDR era but also old enough to not pass for another soccer mom. I'm not saying she was good looking for a 70-year-old (I'm too young to know what a good one looks like), but I doubted she would shy away from a camera like it was going to steal her soul.

I started my approach. Her eyes gazed behind a pair of thick glasses. She had makeup on that extended from the end of her eyelid, the kind that older women and 15-year-old punk girls pull off with some form of poise. A Target bag draped her arm and she opted for the walking ramp instead of the stairs. Light didn't follow her down the ramp. The stairs provided better illumination. How was I to know she was taking a dark, difficult path in more ways than one?

We met in the deepest corner of the mall, where people were as sparse as stocked storefronts. If anything were to happen in our cove, only the employees in the adjacent Army recruiting station would notice. "Excuse me," I said softly. Our eyes met, mine more intently than hers as she fiddled through her new purchase. "My name is Jacob and I'm a reporter from the Citizen Patriot." Still fiddling. "Each week we do a thing called Street Talk where we ask some random people a kind of random question." A glance and a stare, the kind I can only imagine is what a deer sees when watching a hunter about to pull the trigger. "Do you mind if I ask you a quick question and maybe take a quick picture to go along with it?" A quick pause and a response.

"What's your question."

Success. If I can get past the photo part, I'm usually in the money like A-Rod. My carefully crafted question, written in my note pad as if I'd forget it after asking 10 people the same query, comes out with a large dash of "uh" and "um" mixed in nicely. "What are your thoughts on the Supreme Court's decision last week regarding the Second Amendment, which basically affirmed people have the right to own a handgun?"

She thought for a second and scrunched her face. I'd seen the scrunch before and knew what was coming. Either there was somewhere she had to be or she didn't want to talk about gun rights. And who could blame her? Who doesn't have somewhere better to be than talking about gun rights to a complete stranger in the most hidden part of a semi-crowded mall at 3:15 p.m.? Who wants to talk about gun rights that isn't a card-carrying NRA member or opposer anyway?

"I'm sorry, but I really don't know what's been going on with that."

Understandable. Not everybody is a newsophile. I began my escape, so as not to make the situation more uncomfortable than need be. I couldn't escape what she then said.

"My husband has been on life support for the past week so I've been in the hospital the whole week. I want to help you but I just can't right now."

She's not the one that should be helping me. I should be helping her. I should be dropping my notebook, tape recorder, pen and camera (OK, that one might be too expensive to let slip away) and carrying her bag to her car. Who doesn't need someone to carry for them every now and then? I should ask if there's anything else I can do to help. I should do these things.

I don't. Would anybody else? I kind of doubt it. But I don't know.

My detachment from our fleeting conversation is nearly complete. "Oh, that's OK. It's not a big deal at all. Thank you for your help." The stark line delivered once more.

She walks away.

I stop. Look back. Think about what just happened.

Killing Me Loudly

It happens every summer: Some absolutely moronic song that defies logic and common decency comes along and makes me want to pull a Van Gogh times two so that I don't have to endure its demented attempt at being catchy.

Yet society listens, radio stations blast it every 15 minutes (yeah, I'm looking at you 97.5), it runs during commercials for FOX's newest show that jumped the shark before production started and the pseudo-singer becomes the latest one-hit wonder.

This year — disgustingly — is no exception. The song, "I Kissed A Girl," is about a quarter-life female who discovers that cherry chapstick tastes good, especially when it comes from the lips of another chick.

Now normally guys aren't opposed to anything that is within a mile's distance of girl-on-girl action. But it's time to speak out against the dumbing down of our airwaves. I'd really like to meet the people who heard this song and said, "Let's plaster it all over the radio and wait for the idiotic public to become obsessed with it because they're too stupid to actually listen to real music." I don't claim to be a musical connoisseur by any means. In fact, I don't even like the Beatles (put that in your drug paraphernalia of choice and smoke it). But there has to be something better than this. I'd rather listen to Snoop Dogg or Justin Timberlake or (wait for it...keep waiting.....) New Kids on the Block.

Here's a sampling of lyrics from "I Kissed A Girl" (a note to my pastor if you're reading this: please stop here so that you don't think the entire world is doomed to hell.):

"I kissed a girl and I liked it
The taste of her cherry chap stick
I kissed a girl just to try it
I hope my boyfriend don't mind it
It felt so wrong
It felt so right
Don't mean I'm in love tonight
I kissed a girl and I liked it
I liked it"

I didn't think it was possible, but this makes Nickelback look like Bob Dylan, Fergie like Joni Mitchell and Daughtry like Tom Waits. The sad part is the people actually eat this stuff up like hot dogs at a Fourth of July party. On the way to work today, a woman called in to say that her 5-year-old can lip-synch the song. No wonder teenage girls are now getting pregnant by the dozen plus five (this might be a somewhat flawed argument because, after all, babies can't result from what Perry is preaching).

But you know what? Who cares. This song defies all attempt at being rational and intelligent, so why can't I do the same? It's a disgrace that such a mindless try at making "music" (does anyone consider this mindless background beat to be melodic?) makes its way up the charts. It's not the first time it has happened and it won't be the last. And yes, music is nearly completely subjective, but there's just some bit of objectivity that has to go off in minds that says, "I'm probably losing brain cells by listening to this."

I know that I listened to "I Kissed A Girl" just to try it and I didn't like it. You shouldn't either.

My ol' girl

I want to say sorry to you, old girl. I've tried, and I mean really tried, to give you the best life possible. I remember when I first met you, it was like a bird finally flapping its wings and taking flight. My parents introduced me to you and I never looked back (expect for that dark time where we had to be separated because of college). I've given so much to you, put so much time, money and effort into maintaining our relationship, that I can't imagine getting along without you.

I know, I could have done more. There was that time where I accidently jumped on you (sorry about that one). Oh, and remember when somebody hit you and I wasn't there to defend you? Sorry it took so long for me to get around to fixing that one. I could have spent some more time with you, but you were just too expensive (especially as the months have gone by). We could have taken more trips, ran away together more often, but I'm just not too adventureous and rich. I'm sorry I've always been kind of messy, but I'm a pretty busy guy (I figure it's a pet peeve of yours, but I appreciate that you've never said anything).

I have to say, it's been nice that we've been hanging out more this summer. There's nothing that brightens my morning better than waking up and hearing you start up again, even if you can be a little noisy. I know we may not be as close during the school year, but I don't mean to neglect you. That's just the way things work out, I guess. We'll definitely be tighter in the fall, though. We'll go places, like the library or the movies or the mall. You know, the places we've been going for more than three years now. Can you believe it's been that long?

Sure, we took a while to find each other. It took each of us about three-quarters of our lives to come together. But the time we've shared has been pretty special. I've given you nicknames, gotten angry when people hurt you, fought over you, spent way too much on you (I swear I'm not bitter about that one) and met amazing people because of you. You are my catalyst, the thing that gets me to the place I need to be in life. I can't imagine my life without you.

Here's to your first 100,000 miles. I've got to say, they were pretty special, ol' girl.

Life in the Semi-Fast Lane

This is a column I wrote for the Citizen Patriot that won't get published because the sports editor doesn't have a cell phone or an e-mail address I know of that can be accessed from outside the newsroom. Or maybe because it sucks.


When you go to Cedar Point and see some schmo sitting outside Top Thrill Dragster while his friends wait in line, I'm that guy.

I don't do anything that is fast, dangerous or involves jumping. If I could, I'd probably super glue my feet to the ground.

The word "extreme" just is not a part of my vocabulary. (OK, that's a lie. I just used it in a sentence).

So when a NASCAR official asked if I wanted to take a few laps around Michigan International Speedway in a pace car piloted by former stock car driver Brett Bodine — with speeds expected to reach 140 miles per hour — I had a few questions.

Does the pace car come with pacemaker? (No.)

Am I too young to write a will? (Probably.)

Will Kyle Busch be on the track as the same time as us? (Please say no.)

Should I eat breakfast in the morning? (A long-time racing writer told me not to. I wondered if he was joking. I decided not to ask because he would probably would have told the truth anyway.)

Against my better judgment, I decided to put my nerves of aluminum to the test. On a beautiful Sunday morning, Bodine, Toledo Blade columnist Dave Heckenberg, NASCAR public relations employee Joshua Hamilton and I took three laps around MIS in a white Chevy Impala. Before we took off, I had a few final questions for Bodine, a racecar driver for nearly three decades and affable ambassador for NASCAR.

"Have you ever had a seizure?" I asked.

"No, I've never had a seizure, I can guarantee you that," he said.

Phew.

"I've been knocked unconscious 12 times though, so maybe my first seizure is going to happen right now."

Uhhh, what?!

"What happens if a deer runs across the track?"

"Well, we're going to try and not hit it. And that goes for people, too."

Hitting people in cars going 120 miles per hour usually isn't good.

"What would Dale Jr. be saying to me if he heard me asking these questions?"

"After he slapped you?" Heckenberg asked.

With that, I climbed into the car, effectively putting my life into the hands of someone I'd known for four minutes. I grasped for a seat beat, and then another, and then another. I wanted to be as secure as an underground vault at the Palms, but only found the one. I searched for the "Oh, crap" bar — you know, the thing you grab when you're with a driver who goes too fast, looks away too much or doesn't have a Y-chromosome — and settled on a handle.

We sped off, gaining speed into the first two turns. Bodine, who drives the pace car at every Sprint Cup race, pointed to the wall at turn two.

"I hit that wall and was knocked unconscious and my foot was still on the gas," Bodine said, gesturing to the faded skid marks that still darken the track's white paneling, the "Oh, crap" bar now firmly in my grip.

The weekend was a rough reminder for Bodine — he crashed into two walls during a practice run at MIS five years ago, a crash that resulted in a broken tailbone, his 12th concussion and an end to his racing career. He still has a video of the crash on his laptop, a reminder to others that he survived such a brutal event.

I prayed the mess wasn't a part our NASCAR experience.

We continued into the final turn, riding so close to the wall that you could touch it from inside the car (probably not a good idea). Bodine rattled off information about driving and what goes on in the minds of drivers at each point on the track.

All I wanted to hear was that he was going to put his second hand on the wheel as we rode at 120 miles per hour, six inches away from being six feet under.

After two more similar laps and three more very minor coronaries, we slowed to a stop at the start-finish line.

Brett didn't have a seizure, we didn't hit any deer (or people) and I didn't need a new pair of dry pants.

Bring on the Dragster.

Diary of a NASCAR Newbie

There's a tradition -- or so I'm told -- that first-time visitors to the infield of Michigan International Speedway are supposed to identify themselves by donning yellow "caution" tape in one way or another.

If such truly is the case, I should have looked like a mummified crime scene Friday.

I'm not a NASCAR guy. I wonder more about how car racing contributes to global warming than who has the fastest ride on the globe. I plug my ears when I hear a jet-like stock car come within 200 feet of me. I'm more interested in whether Tiger Woods can finish down the stretch at the U.S. Open than if Carl Edwards can defend his title at the two-mile track.

So when I ventured to Brooklyn for my first taste of NASCAR Nation, I left glad that I had more teeth than most of those in attendance. I looked like a fish out of water and flailing on the kitchen floor. My blue button down shirt signaled I was either displaying my feminitity, trying to bring a more cultured side to stock cars, or just a stupid idiot. Ironically, I was the stupid idiot there.

The wardrobe was tacky at best. There are more shirtless guys at the track than the beach -- and not for anybody's pleasure. Plaid was the new style and baseball caps were practically mandatory. Anything with a number 3, 8, 9, 48 or 88 gives you major bonus points. Just don't be caught with the number 24 on anything -- and it's not because of Kobe. I swear I even saw mini-confederate flags wrapped around the biceps of a high school freshman.

The people worship their athletes (yes, they're athletes if they have to answer to so many reporters as often as they do) as if they're members of the family. Dale Earnhardt Sr. fits somewhere between Jesus, God and the guy who invented Budweiser in the hierarchy of NASCAR fan heroes (the order depends on who you ask). Kids line up with miniature cars, credentials, t-shirts and anything capable of receiving a John Hancock during practice runs. Jeff Gordon is subjected to questions of why he isn't performing well this year -- he's in eighth place, right in the thick of NASCAR's goofy playoff.

Beyond appearance, it's the rides that turn the wheels of NASCAR. Buses have been morphed into RVs (I went into a guy's bus that had four futons, checkered linoleum tiling, a bathroom and no seat belts). RVs have been decked out in hundreds of thousands of dollars of purchases (mental note: Pimp My Ride of CTV would be brilliant. Has somebody done it already?). Campers have decks on top for fans to see the cars as they whizz around the track at you-better-not-blink speeds (is that how you spell whizz?).

Best of all, there's a camraderie among those in attendance that's reminiscent of one big family cookout (the kind where a whole pig gets roasted and Jeff Foxworthy jokes kill -- I've been to one or two before). I was offered beers twice, was told by random people that they could answer my questions without even knowing what they were, was brought into a stranger's bus (would have been creepy in any other situation) and learned how to literally apply the phrase, "No shirt, no shoes, no service," when Sprint Cup qualifying was suspended by rain.

Yes, NASCAR Nation has quite the character about it. I get the feeling it's actually not as boorish as I presume it to be, but it's still kind of early to tell.

Right now, I'm too busy being wrapped in yellow tape.

The Joys of Summer

My clock-thermometer in my room reads 80.6 degrees right now. It's 10:38 and I've had a fan going for a solid hour. As I so eloquently described to a friend earlier today, it's balls hot out.

I'd have it no other way.

I think I'd make a great bear. A black bear (because it's the best type of bear). Hibernation would be the coolest thing this side of clock-thermometers (which brings to mind other idiotically impossible yet amazing noun combinations — television-microwaves, beer-air conditioners, and toilet-coolers … take a second to figure those out). The winter just doesn't have anything desirable. It's cold, trees are barren, the wind is frigid, and hockey is played. There's an odious lack of odor, the sun doesn't have the same sensation, snow zips sideways into your eyes, the only thing you hear is teeth chattering, and somehow it tastes bad. In a sense (or all five senses), it sucks.

But when the calendar flips a few pages and months start to become less difficult to say (May, June and July aren't exactly going to be in any Scripps Spelling Bees anytime soon), there a different side of me that comes out. It's almost … nice. Summer forces a grin when you're driving down the road and you can smell summer, that aroma of flowers and allergies blended into one. It proves that in days, the best is truly saved for the last — the nights when temperatures drop along with the afternoon's stresses. It proves that even when it's hot enough to melt a spoon, you embrace the fact that it's not as icy as Danica after a spinout (talk about a cold person). Summer drenches kids in fun, a season when fire hyrdrants, slip-and-slides, and Super Soakers get their due.

I really have a soft spot for summer, for bonfires and swimming pools, for rounds of golf and rounds of beer, for days on the beach and days under the AC (for the record, that's my only soft spot ... that can be taken a few ways). Even when it's balls hot outside, it's nice to think how cool it is for it to be summer.

Contractually Speaking

Flip Saunders got the ax Tuesday as coach of the Detroit Pistons with one year left on his contract. A "lame duck" coach, Saunders received a $5 million severance to do whatever he wants for the next 12 months. I'm sure there are about 150 million Americans who would gladly buy out our nation's president, but alas, politics isn't like the NBA, where leaders can be shown the door and handed a big bag of money to boot. (Here's guessing there wouldn't be a problem collecting $5 million to oust Washington's largest lame duck.)

In the NBA, a contract is nothing more than a retainer, a vow that you will fulfill duties not until your agreement says, but as long as you're in agreement with management. Larry Brown, the NBA's version of a transient nomad, was paid $20 million to leave the New York Knicks. To go where he wants — maybe someplace nice like the beach, one of his many homes, or the eternal hell that are the Charlotte Bobcats.

Coaches regularly are compensated after employer breach of commitment, regardless of output. Flip Saunders attained the best winning percentage in Detroit Pistons history. His services are no longer welcome. Avery Johnson took the Dallas Mavericks to their first NBA Finals since dinosaurs roamed the Earth, and somehow he's off the bench and Erick Dampier still is. Phil Garner guides the Houston Astros to the World Series and he's left hanging no more than two years later.

In sports, loyalty is worth about as much as a 50 cent bus fare (or 60 cents if you're riding the CATA). People forget that the greatest coach in sports, Red Auerbach, spent six seasons on the Boston bench before a title was planted in the Garden. (Yes, Auerbach, not Scotty Bowman, is the greatest coach in sports. Notice the word "sports.") If Celtics owner had a six inch leash on Auerbach the way owners and GMs do in the modern era, Auerbach's fingers would be extremely lonely.

Not to say there aren't ties that don't bind anymore. Jerry Sloan has orchestrated the Utah Jazz for nearly two decades — but then again, if the news out of Texas has taught us anything, it's that Mormons have trouble letting go. Joe Paterno has roamed the sidelines of Happy Valley since JFK was alive and kicking (is it too soon for Kennedy family references yet?). Bobby Bowden has been graduating football players with felonies since before it became fashionable.

But it seems there should be something called "a man's word" in the sports. There are obvious examples of situations where coaches and managers and figure skating...I mean hockey...leaders should be let go. While the word of management officials can wane, so can coaches' words in the locker room (as was the case for Saunders). Disastrous downfalls deserve scrutiny, a word that ultimately lead to firings. Yet contracts are "supposed" to be a binding agreement between two parties. In today's appearance-driven society, though, short-term contracts are taboo. Even DeAngelo Hall gets a seven-year deal.

Contracts nowadays are nothing more than an agreement to no agreement.

A bunch of words without a single word behind them.

Obituary - Detroit Pistons As We Know Them

While there undeniably will be talk of the Pistons' six straight conference finals appearances, the Detroit Pistons as we know them and will remember them essentially boil down to four-and-a-half years of tragedy.

Sports, like ancient theater, toes the line of comedy and tragedy and eventually wavers off the crack toward one side or the other. There is no comeragedy. Oedipus gets his eye stabbed out (and takes a stab at his mother). Tragedy. Nick Bottom is turned into a donkey in a forest. Comedy. Medea slaughters her children like it's a pig pen. Tragedy.

Ultimately, the modern Detroit Pistons -- which consist of Rasheed Wallace, Tayshaun Prince, Rip Hamilton and Chauncey Billups -- will be seen as the court's version of ancient tragedy. This core group was believed to have shown so much potential in the few months after Rasheed Wallace's acquistion. They put on the greatest defensive exhibition in NBA history, holding five consecutive teams to below 70 points and creating a record so secure it's harbored in the Palm's underground vault, located right next to Wilt's 50 points a game and Oscar's triple-double season average. The exposition.

They upset what was supposed to be the greatest amalgation of talent since the 1980s in the Finals by defeating Kobe, Shaq, Karl and Gary, men whose singular monikers speak louder than surnames. They were the ultimate team, destined for multiple championships because they didn't need one player to win. They had each other. The rising action.

The 2004 Detroit Pistons were supposed to be the years away from the climax, which would have consisted of multiple championships for "the ultimate team." We knew there was supposed to be a bright future in store for the congregation of players, coaches, and newly revitalized Pistons fans. We didn't know that we had already seen the denouement.

Any other team would hoist six conference finals appearances and trumpet it far above their head, but the Pistons' ceiling never rose when the showings stacked up. Finally, when the number reached six this year and bowed out for the fourth time, nearly all will come tumbling down.

Changes will be made. Players will be traded, coaches will be realigned, veterans will retire, youngsters will take on larger roles and aging athletes will begin their ride into the NBA sunset -- also known as contracts with the Milwaukee Bucks and Memphis Grizzles. Like a colony of ants near an aardvark, nobody is safe. Chauncey Billups and his deteorating body could be shipped out. Rasheed Wallace's attitude could be gone -- and don't forget his effervescent game. Tayshaun Prince's arms could be shown the door (he already left his offensive game in the Orlando series, so there's no use in kicking it to the curb now). Antonio McDyess could have played his final game as a Piston, or a professional, if he can't emotionally invest himself in another championship run. All are expendable in Auburn Hills, with the possible exceptions of Rip Hamilton, whose jumper is worth each million of his contract, super rookie Rodney Stuckey, and Jason "Pogo Stick" Maxiell (tell your friends about that nickname -- it's a keeper).

Yes, change is coming on Five Championship Drive, and it's all because the road to the Palace isn't being renamed with a six. The team that showed more promise than Mark Prior's right arm four years ago likely will be hacked away by architect Joe Dumars, a great competitor who knows when to call it quits. Throughout all the changes in Detroit during the past four years -- the coaches, bench players and contracts -- the greatest switch came when the Pistons realized they had one. Yet too often, the switch short circuited and pride came before the fall.

This year was different though. This year, there were no excuses. The coaching staff was stacked, the bench was replenished, starters' minutes were down, and health was basically a non-issue. Players openly talked about no excuses, no reasons for failure, and they showed it. Most defensive plays were executed with heart. Hustle was palpable through the t.v. set. Fists were pumping, feet were moving, and bodies were flying. For about 15 straight games in the postseason, the switch was on.

But somebody forgot to pay the electric bill.

And so we're left with a team who has reached the summit, climbed back down, and realized how hard it was to make it to the top in the first place. Bodies are older, egos are inflated, bridges are broken (How many heart to hearts do you think Rasheed and Flip have had this year?) and traditions have been worn. In six years, the Pistons lived by the idea that if it ain't broke, don't fix it. But now, it's time for the contractor to break out the tools. Something needs fixing, and that means the end of an era -- one that produced a championship but left us wishing for so much more. An era in which opportunities were blown and titles probably were inexcusably lost. They reached the top, but could never return. And never will.

What a tragedy.

NBA Live (Blog)

So I missed the first quarter. Who cares. It was tied.

A live blog of Game 5 of the Pistons-Celtics series:

Second quarter

7:55 - Theo Ratliff gets dunked on by Kevin Garnett. He can expect to see himself on the walls of about 40,000 10-year-old Celtics fans in two months.

7:51 - Who is the smokin' hot chick with Bill Belichick? If I was here, I'd be checking my bathroom every day. Spygate is like an old habit — it dies hard.

6:23 - Tayshaun Prince returns from the Witness Protection Program for a dunk.

5:42 - Does anyone else thing there's something off about Ray Allen? The guy wins more sportsmanship awards than Shane Battier and he apparently spends all of his free time doing charity, but there's a strange edge to him that is borderline stalkerish. He seems like the teacher who's really friendly, and then you find out he's child molester friendly. Like Mr. Handell.

5:40 - Cheryl Ford tells me she doesn't want any part of my rec league team. Tells me nobody wants to watch women take a charge. Tells me nobody cares about the WNBA. Basically tells me everything I've been saying for the past 8 years.

5:25 - If the only part of coaching was executing in-bounds plays, Flip Saunders would be so much more important than he already isn't. Hamilton with an in-bounds layup.

3:54 - Kendrick Perkins is slowly moving up the Sean Ely "If I Could Shoot 3 NBA Players In The Face, I'd Shoot Manu Ginobili Twice" list.

2:58 - Forget Abraham Lincoln, Mother Teresa, and Albert Einstein. If I could have dinner with 3 people dead or alive, Charles Barkley and I would totally be breaking bread. Man I wish I could be in his Fave Five.

2:04 - An unspoken difference maker in this series has been rebounding. The Pistons have lacked a significant inside presence that pulls down offensive rebounds throughout the game (McDyess has been big in the fourth quarter, but not for 48 minutes).

1:22 - Garnett goes all Barnum and Bailey and hits a 21-foot bank shot with a tenth of a second on the shot clock. I give it about 3 more years until David Stern puts tenths of second on the shot clock. And makes the shot clock wear a suit to the arena.

Halftime - Is there a less important job in all of sports media than that of sideline reporter? I mean, if Craig Sager and Jim Gray have done it, how important can it be? Kendrick Perkins was just interviewed and said his big first half is the result of being active. Really, I thought it was because you were in a coma KP. What a worthless job. Unless you're Erin Andrews. Or your face time keeps Bill Raftery from talking.

3rd Quarter

Pre-quarter - Jeff Van Gundy has given Perkins the nickname KP 43. No wonder he got fired from every job after two years.

10:52 - There's a serious discussion that Joe Dumars needs to have with himself this summer (because let's face it, Joe Dumars is like the Fidel Castro of the Pistons front office). Tayshaun Prince is undeniably a very good defender. But his lack of offensive ability in the playoffs the past three or four years is a major concern. It's awfully hard, especially when you're a jump shooting team, to have such a liability.

9:32 - Mike Breen says KP 43 needs 41 rebounds to beat Wilt Chamberlain's record for rebounds in a game. I think Mike was confusing Wilt's 41 rebounds with his "41 rebounds."

7:41 - Has there ever been a starting point guard in the NBA Conference Finals more hesitant to shoot than Rajon Rondo? He makes Eric Snow look like Allen Iverson.

5:27 - Flip Saunders, out in the middle of the court arguing a non-call, interrupts the Celtics cheerleaders' performance. Somewhere, Red Auerbach is doing barrel rolls in his grave.

5:10 - KP 43 gives a shoulder roll after blocking Jason Maxiell to turn over the ball. He's now right below Manu and Antoine Walker on the list. Assuming Chris Webber retired.

3:45 - Pierce makes one of the least dirty look dirtiest plays I've seen. It's like seeing a dog covered in mud. Or something like that.

2:05 - Really, Tayshaun Prince should not be allowed to touch the ball anymore. Ben Wallace does more with the rock in his hands than Tay right now.

1:30 - Whoever decided every game in this series would start at 8:45 should have to get up at 6 a.m. the next day for the two weeks.

1:19 - Is KP 43 an unrestricted free agent at the end of the year? You listening Joe?

1:15 - Apparently the Pistons left their poise on the tarmac at DTW.

0:40 - If you would have told me that my favorite announcer during the NBA Playoffs would be Jeff Van Gundy, a guy who'd I'd trust more with my taxes than my team if I'd never met him before, well then I'd put the mute button on for 2.5 hours every other night. But the guy is pleasantly entertaining.

0:06 - Were referee Ken Mauer and Steve Lavin separated at birth? Did they come out of the womb with a barrel-full of hair gel?

Fourth quarter

12:00 - A question that never will be answered, but perhaps should have been more than any other question in sports: Would the Celtics be in the same position as they are now if a cardboard cutout of Doc Rivers was head coach? Unfortunately, the world will never know.

10:15 - It's quietly an 8 point game. Then James Posey hits a three. I can see him being the Robert Horry of the 21st century — won a championship with the Heat and could be getting another one this year.

8:45 - What word best quantifies Rajon Rondo's shot-making abilities? Let's go to the thesaurus: appalling, base, flagrant, inglorious, shady, shameful, shoddy, unbecoming, unworthy. I vote inglorious. But you can't spell inglorious without glorious, so that's done. We'll go with shameful, because you have to spell shame in that. Or ham.

8:12 - Has Antonio McDyess pulled a David Copperfield or what tonight? I still love him, but maybe now I only want to get to first base.

6:55 - All of the sudden, this game has gotten sloppier than Lindsay Lohan with four beers in her. I should have my keyboard taken away from me for making an analogy with Lindsay Lohan in it. That's just lazy.

6:45 - Pistons are down eight, Celts have the ball and it's a timeout. I'm calling it now: Pierce drives to the hole and kicks it out to KG for a wide open 17-footer.

6:30 - Ray Allen turns the ball over. Nobody could have seen a turnover coming. Nobody.

5:51 - Lindsey Hunter has the most amazing set of hands I've ever seen. His wife must be the happiest woman in the world.

5:18 - Rasheed Wallace might have effectively signed his walking papers tonight. What a dumb tech.

4:30 - Chauncey Billups hits a 3 from Martha's Vineyard and then lets Rondo make a lay-up. I don't know which is more impressive.

4:04 - Has there ever been a quieter 30-point game in conference finals history than KG's monster game tonight? KP 43 still has a lot to learn.

3:30 - Ray Allen is a douche.

2:54 - Here's guessing Rajon Rondo didn't graduate from University of Kentucky.

2:38 - I hate KP 43 more than anybody, but Ken Mauer needs to have his whistle taken and put in time out.

1:58 - If Rodney Stuckey hits both of these free throws, I'll name my kid Rodney. Maybe it's his middle name.

1:36 - Rondo's free throw shooting: Shameful. It fits.

1:15 - Rodney Stuckey hits a three with one minute left to cut the game to one. My child is going to hate my guts so much.

1:10 - It's time to come up with my "If the Pistons win this game, I'll (insert random overexaggeration that I'll never do)." I'll take suggestions and maybe do it if you comment on it before the end of the night. I probably won't do it.

0:59 - Each team only has one time out with one minute left in the game. Is this the NBA?

0:47 - Ray Allen is really ruining this game for me. Just like eighth grade all over again.

0:08 - Rodney Stuckey doesn't just have ice water in his veins. The dude has liquid nitrogen. He's three years older than me and making free throws in the conference finals. (Side note — even if the Pistons win, they lose the rest of the playoffs if Rip Hamilton misses even a single game with an elbow injury.)

0:06 - I'm putting my computer down. I'm afraid I'll throw it if Stuckey hits a game-tying three.

0:00 - So the Pistons drop a game that I really think they needed more than the Celtics. There's no way Kevin Garnett is going to let the C's lose two games in a row, much less one on their home court. Here's hoping the Pistons and McDyess can pull out two in a row. And here's hoping Ray Allen's shooting hand falls off tomorrow.

I just can't picture this scenario working out to well for me.

I go into a job interview and absolutely nail it. Blow them out of the water. Make them come to my house and beg me to take the job. So after they've sufficiently groveled to the point where I feel like The Bachelor (by the way, SWEETEST JOB EVER), I modestly accept. Eh, I guess you can pay me. I'd do that for you.

Couples months later, before I've even lifted a pen or my first of eight daily trips to the water cooler, I quit. Gone. See ya later. I'm out of here.

Would anybody be a little peeved?

Now fast forward one year, and I'm out of a job and clutching to my employment dreams. I'd be a Wal-Mart greeter if they offered me $7.45 an hour.

Think I'm getting a shot at returning as The Bachelor? The answer to that won't come up roses.

But life really is that easy if you're Keith Nichol.

Nichol, the one-time Spartan recruit who bailed on MSU in brilliant Bobby Petrino fashion, has transferred back to his "hometown team," which, ironically, wasn't cozy enough to keep him from the beauty of Norman, Oklahoma. And the worst part of it all is that he'll be accepted with open arms.

As long as he can throw a 20-yard out in a five-step drop, that is.

College sports has about the same amount of loyalty and integrity as a WWE tag team on a pay-per-view special. O.J. Mayo promised championships for USC, but all he delivered was future NCAA sanctions. Kelvin Sampson racked up 100 recruiting violations for making impermissible calls to recruits, proving he's not the only Midwesterner whose cell phone could be classified as a concealed weapon. Bobby Bowden has produced enough convicted felons to fill a medium-security prison. And when push comes to shove, each will end up relatively unscathed — Mayo will make millions in the NBA Draft this summer, Sampson already has bounced back with an assistant coaching position in the pros, and Bowden will coach until he's 88, or at least a year after JoePa kicks the bucket.

Not to say that these situations compare with that of Nichol. You can't fault a 20-year-old stud quarterback for wanting to play and move closer to home. Transferring to a school you left high and dry isn't grounds for an NCAA investigation, as it shouldn't be.

But if MSU head coach Mark Dantonio lets Nichol waltz into the 2009 MSU backfield (which I don't believe he'll do), it will go to show once again that there's no shame in college sports. In almost no other profession can you quit on 100 fellow employees and warmly welcomed two years later. If Nichol wants to be a member of the Spartan family, he's got to be more saintly than Mother Teresa in the next 18 months. He's got to prove that he's flushed all the crimson and cream from his bloodstream and received a transfusion of green and white. He's got to be the team's biggest cheerleader from the sidelines next year. Hell, he should have to be a cheerleader next year.

The real world doesn't work the way the football world is working for Keith Nichol. But at the same time, that's not to say it shouldn't. Everyone deserves a second chance to repair the bridges that have been burned.

And if Nichol can go four quarters, he'll have 75,000 masons by his side in 2009.

Missing The Drive

Gut reactions from Pistons-Celtics game one:

The Celtics are going to win this series for two reasons (besides the fact that they're the better team):

1. Drive

No, not the heart that I so lauded no more than 24 hours ago. Both seem to have plenty of that. Drive as in dribble penetration and points in the paint. The Pistons struggle to score near the basket, relying almost solely on jump shots. The Pistons' best dribble penetrator, Rodney Stuckey, showed how invaluable and inexperienced his game is at the same time tonight. Stuckey's attack of the basket drew fouls, jump shots and defenders — but he was the only Piston within a Tayshaun Prince arm length of the paint tonight. The ability of Paul Pierce, Rajon Rondo and, most importantly, Kevin Garnett to wear the paint dry will pay off in the long haul. The number one rule in basketball: Championships are won in the paint.

2. Frontcourt consistency

There's no amount of money I would wager on Rasheed Wallace turning in a 20-10 game on a given night. Not even Charles Barkley would put down 10 G's on 10 to 1 odds. As hyper-talented as Wallace is, as driven as Antonio McDyess is, as freakishly athletic as Tayshaun Prince is, you can't take any of them to the bank. For the Celts, Paul Pierce offers a reliable crunch-time scoring threat and Kevin Garnett has 80% of Wallace's talent with twice the brains, a near-deadly combination when properly executed.

This isn't to retract the previous post. The Pistons showed some heart in fighting the Celtics to the end.

But in the end, talent always trumps heart.

Stomaching a Title

Hear that noise coming from Detroit? It's sounds like a rumbling — and it isn't coming from Kwame's bedroom.

No, that's the stomach of the collective Detroit Pistons. And it's clamoring like a pair of thunderstix in the hands of an ADD 8-year-old.

The knock on the Pistons has been the same for three years in a row: They only play when they want to play, and often that decision is made too late. But this team, a collection of wily veterans and new red, white and blue blood, seems as hungry as it has been since 2004, when Kobe Bryant and Shaquille O'Neal learned what it's like to virutally play 5-on-2.

Sure it's early. The first two rounds of the Eastern Conference playoffs are about as important as Flavor Flav's love life. But there's a new swagger about this team, one that desirably lacks swagger while hogging a arena-load of confidence. Maybe it's the youth injected into this team like a shot of speed. Maybe it's the stealth-like approach taken to dismantling a talented team such as the Orlando Magic without much fanfare.

Or maybe, they just haven't eaten lately.

It's been four years since the Pistons tasted immoral victory (and doesn't it seem more like four decades?). Since then, the turnover has been palpable. Gone are Mike James and Memhet Okur and Elden Campbell and Corliss Williamson and Tremaine Fowlkes (OK, maybe Tremaine was left off the playoff roster, but what a travesty). In are Rodney Stuckey, Jason Maxiell, Walter Hermann (hey, he played meaningful minutes, that freakish-handed Argentian). But most importantly, in is they have the hungriest man of all. In is a guy who acts like he hasn't tasted a home-cooked meal since Larry Brown was on his eighth coaching gig. In is Antonio McDyess.

(For the sake of full disclosure, I have no journalist objectivity when it comes to Antonio McDyess. I love him like a 4-year-old loves a lollipop.)

If the Pistons lose a series in these playoffs, nobody will take it harder than McDyess. If I was his kin, I'd put him on suicide watch (or at least make sure he doesn't start thinking about signing with the Lakers). It's hard to stomach the idea of the fiercest Piston walking off the court this year with his head limply parallel to the floor. If he does, McDyess most likely will be McDone in Detroit.

But as long as he's out there and fighting (and breathing, and not throwing up), I give the Pistons a fighting chance. They're not the most talented team remaining in the playoffs. In fact, they might be the least talented. But if the past nine games (of which the Pistons won eight) are any indication, what they lack in talent they are making up for with heart.

And with this group of men, the best way to their heart is through their stomach.

The Little Things

I always feel dumb when I watch a movie and it really makes me think about things. I guess I think I should be thinking about life lessons from books or stuff like that, but it doesn't seem to go that way very often. Maybe that's what is so amazing about film (and I'm not talking Adam Sandler-esque film). It takes us and puts us in places that we'd never even consider imaginable, let alone close to the first person. If someone said, "Tell me about movies," I'd probably say that they are stories, both real and fake, that make us realize how much there is and how much there was and how much there could be in the world.

Indulge me and take my latest venture into my affection for worldly cinema. "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly" is a true story about the editor of Elle, a famous fashion magazine apparently. He's on top of his industry when he has a stroke that essentially paralyzes everything except him brain, ears, and eyes. To put it lightly, that would suck. Imagine life not being able to move anything except one eye (his other eye basically shut down and was no longer usable). You can't talk, move, or eat. You can't play a sport or type on a computer or drive to the grocery store. The list could go on forever.

While this guy essentially couldn't do anything, he could do everything that so many of us can't or won't or don't. Maybe he can't move, but he can be moved. Maybe he can't talk, but he can speak. Maybe he can't hug, but he can embrace.

Sometimes — no, forget that, many times — we have as much vitality as could be physically possible, yet we are as close to death as he was. The man, who died a few years ago, blinked out his memoirs with one eye, a painstakingly slow process that produced 144 pages! He continued to live his life as much as possible. He was a father with three children, he tried to reconcile with his one-time partner, and he took in all the world had to offer him. He was enamored by the little things in life — a lighthouse, the wind, the laughter of children. If only we all were so lucky.

The question then becomes how can a man so close to death live so much more than most. How can someone with movement in only one eye walk so tall. It seems that in order to appreciate what we have, it all has to be taken away. It's sometimes funny to look back at the petty in life and realize how idiotically destructive it can be — how friendships are lost over inconsequential battles, how ties are broken by slight differences in opinions, how our constant desire to be better than others leads us to push people down.

I don't say these things from a pedestal. Rather, I say this in admiration of what I wish life could be. At times, we toil in that which frustrates, angers, and scares us, all the while ignoring what makes our lives worth living. It's sad to think that a man whose only conscious decision he can make every single day for years is whether to blink one eye can live a more fulfilled life than many.

Given, he only came to realize many of these things once everything was taken from him. Still, how did he do it? My guess is that his heart still worked better than any of ours. Now the question becomes how do we go about living the same life as him, understanding how to have the same heart as him, but with the capabilities we all have.

It's not a question that I know the answer to, but I do know that life would be a whole lot better if I did.

The Specter of Overkill

Would somebody please send U.S. Sen. Arlen Specter a letter, e-mail, fax, anything — heck, a telegram would suffice — telling him to just move on from the NFL's Spygate.

It's over. Done. Cooked like a turducken during a Lions Thanksgiving Day game.

Still, the once-esteemed Pennsylvania senator (I say once-esteemed because he's clearly offsides in this battle) wants to orchestrate a deeper investigation into the NFL's most scandalous story in decades. He's calling for an independent inquiry into the actions of the Patriots and the NFL's handling of reviewing tapes from Spygate.

The guy just doesn't know when to quit. He's like the guy that gets dumped one day and shows up at his ex's front door for a previously scheduled date the next.

The only person that's interested is him.

The greater public has put Spygate behind them. We've acknowledge another cheating incident that have so tainted sports in the past decade, and we're ready to move on. The NFL has finished its investigation and slapped Patriots head coach Bill Belichick on the wrist, albeit with a tree trunk rather than a ruler. Belichick has been mum on the subject for months now, though the same probably could be said for world politics, his personal life, or the status of Tom Brady's throwing shoulder.

But all alone in his little Washington office, the Pennsylvania senator is prepping for overtime.

Specter has anointed himself the world's most important middle school principal, charged with the task of rooting out cheaters. And he's starting at what he sees the highest point of society — an association that pays Terrell Owens nearly $10 million each year.

Forget holding politicans accountable. Specter's got bigger Fins to fry.

The most aggravating aspect of the Specter of overkill is that amount of time the senator has dedicated to beating a dead horse (my apologies to Eight Belles). Specter has interviewed the world's most famous football peon, Patriots video assistant Matt Walsh, held television press conferences that make ESPN producers salivate, met personally with NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell, and done who knows what else to needle his way into the Spygate mix. (By the way, who invited Specter to this party? Should we be expecting Nancy Pelosi to badger Major League Baseball next?)

While Specter says he is "incensed" with the NFL's handling of the Spygate fiasco, imagine the Pennsylvania constituency he represents. Rather than addressing the state's trying economic times or the country's ongoing housing crisis, Specter spends his work days trying to uncover the inner workings of a sport scandal executed by an assistant golf professional in Hawaii.

If nothing else (and for the record, there shouldn't be anything else), you have to commend the senator's determination. When it comes to investigating the NFL and upholding the moral aptitude of athletics in the United States, the Pennsylvania Republican is religiously sticking to his guns.

Maybe Obama wasn't so wrong about Pennsylvania after all.

The Prodigal Jackson

After six days in Jackson, Michigan, I feel like I'm stepping into the hillbilly version of Alice in Wonderland each and every day.

In the greater West Bloomfield area, there were no smoke shops, the biggest dive bar was The Blue Martini, and there were Jews.

In Jackson, not so much.

Given, my dad's roots in the yeoman land of Lancaster (pronounced Lank-uh-stir, not Lan-caster) have me quite versed about areas where "You might be a redneck jerks" exhibit themselves every day. But Jackson's a whole different roasted pig.

How do I know? 10 observations from my limited amount of time in Jackson, Michigan — birthplace of the Republican Party and Polident (not really).

1. Jackson has an exotic dancer club on the corner near the abandoned train yard. It's an insult to skankiness everywhere.

2. The Leoni Township Lion's Club is holding its 51st annual Carp Carnival this month. Contrary to popular belief, and the pursuit of fun everywhere, this is not a celebration of me.

3. Saw an 25-year-old riding down the sidewalk on a pocket bike with one hand on the handlebar and another smoking a cigarette.

4. Asked to find a smoker who was against the new smoking ban and a non-smoker hailing the ban, I struggled to find the latter.

5. The town's premier tanning salon is called Tan-Fastic, which boasts 2 million tans sold like McDonalds boasts 99 million double cheeseburgers sold.

6. The Town Bar is as dingy as it sounds. Its owner believes our government is filled with socialists and Granholm should go back to Canada where she belongs. And you can quote him on that.

7. There's a sign for a house near downtown: $74,349 OBO.

8. The city's finest art gallery once was the home of the state's most notorious criminals.

9. Still haven't found a Jew.

10. Bike Night at Wooly E. Bully's Bar features slutty mechanical bull riding.

The Rebirth of Jesus

The old blog was looking kind of stale, so I've redone it all "Jesus Is My Homeboy"-style. Call it the revival. Just don't expect me to die for all your sins. And knowing all five of my readers (take that Colman), there are plenty of those to go around.

Plus, the old title is so stupid. I can't honestly believe I thought Tom Keller and Sean Ely were cool at one point.

With that, quick random musings from the day:
-- After two trips to and from Jackson, my windshield is a certifiable insect graveyard
-- The devil must be a radio deejay, because I've heard Coldplay's "Yellow" four times in the past week and a half.
-- Sixth graders. Worst. Quote. Ever.
-- Didn't make anyone cry today. Solid.
-- Asked an old woman how old she was. Might have made her cry after I left.
-- Discovered that Jackson never learned the meaning of pretentious.
-- I haven't been able to get my computer registered to get Internet in my room. I can only do that between 10 a.m. and 5 p.m. Monday through Friday. I work 9 a.m. to about 7 p.m. every night. I'm not sure how I'm ever going to get Internet.
-- I can't use gchat at work. Majorly pissed.
-- A photog came to my assignment today and stayed for about 3 minutes.
-- My new roommate hasn't left her room as far as I know since about 6 p.m. yesterday. I think she thinks I'm going to rape her.
-- I would like to apologize somewhat to every intern I made do man on the street. Somewhat.

The First Day Schedule

Today is a day of starts. Start of internship at Jackson. Start of summer-ish. (Re)Start of blog with world's greatest URL.

To start the restarting of jesuswasacarpenter.blogspot.com, an itinerary of my first day of work:

6:40 a.m.: Alarm clock goes off. The work world should start at 11 a.m. max. And end at 4 p.m.
7:00 a.m.: Stop hitting snooze button. Feel fear for the first time today. (This is for being late and getting fired).
7:30 a.m.: Begin cooking scrambled eggs with ham, mushroom and onion (I showered by this point).
7:33 a.m.: Decide cooking is a bitch that won't take all of my money. Only some.
8:00 a.m.: Leave for work. Pray for no traffic. And for my passenger side view mirror, whose capa was slightly detated last fall.
8: 40 a.m.: Arrive at front door of Jackson Citizen-Patriot. Leave pride at said door.
9:05 a.m.: Receive first assignment. Obit on woman with rare lung disease.
9:30 a.m.: Take tour of newsroom with kind secretary woman. Introduce myself with random combination of the words: I'm, Carpenter, Michigan, junior, Jacob, meet, day nice, State, first. Worry introduction was in that order.
10:30 a.m.: Get up nerve to finally get back in saddle. Make phone calls.
10:50 a.m.: Make contact with 86-year-old father of deceased.
10:53 a.m.: Make 86-year-old father of deceased cry. Hang up on him quickly. Officially bucked off the horse.
12:00 p.m.: Waiting on calls, remembering how annoying that is. Remember people could be burying dead person I'm calling about. Feel like a piece of crap.
12:15 p.m.: Wonder if I can leave for lunch. Decide to play it safe and maintain anorexic tendencies.
1:30 p.m.: Receive several calls back. Feeling good about story.
1:50 p.m.: Assigned story about lung and asthma day at elementary school. Wonder if boss thinks I'm a smoker and trying to send a message.
1:55 p.m.: Assigned story about stilt walker. Meet assigned photographer Dave Weatherwax. Resist temptation to laugh in his face while picturing Harbison kneeing him in balls. Wonder with what force one must be kneed in balls to cause impotence.
2:15 p.m.: Haven't stood up from chair in about 4 hours. Learn that like your leg, your ass can and will fall asleep.
2:30 p.m.: Tell boss story will be ready in 10 minutes.
3:10 p.m.: Finish story.
4:15 p.m.: Wonder if story will ever be read. Resist temptation to go onto Facebook at work.
4:17 p.m.: Decide Facebook and moon have equal gravitational pulls. Awaiting scientific test results.
4:45 p.m.: Story read. Receive compliment. BS love for obits.
5:00 p.m.: Watch boss leave. Wonder if that means I can leave.
5:55 p.m.: Speak up to fellow reporters about leaving. Given OK.
6:00 p.m.: Walk to front door. Locked. Put tail between legs and walk out other door.
6:05 p.m.: Survived first day without major problems. Decide it's going to be a good summer.
6:45 p.m.: Arrive at apartment to find two roommates. Decide I decided too soon.

Octogenarians and Coldplay

I've never really liked old people. I guess I just can't relate to them and I work at a more frenetic pace than they do. I've never really been good with death (which I suppose is due in part to the few times I've had to deal with it). I'm just not a nostalgic, heartwarming type of person.

But this, there's nothing you can do with this.



I have an incredible love and respect for documentaries. To me, it's like very extended journalism that's captured on film and edited. From "March of the Penguins" to "Murderball" to "Hoop Dreams," some of the greatest films are devoid of fiction or ceremonious "based on true events" stories.

This film, called "Young@Heart," is about a choir group of octogenarians who sing modern-day songs from artists such as Coldplay, The Clash, and Radiohead. It's playing at Sundance right now and hopefully will be picked up by a major studio. All I've seen are that clip and a trailer, but I'd encourage you to see this movie once it comes out.

Even if you don't really like old people.