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.