I love the Green Bay Packers.
I love Brett Favre.
But I am so freaking sick of it. Why, why, why is this news?
If you side with Ted Thompson (or Aaron Rodgers' mom) you think that Brett wavered every year, and they just needed to move on--couldn't keep playing the will he or won't he game.
If you side with Brett, you say hey man, he's played for 17 years and his body is beat up at the end of the season. Of course he's going to take a little time to think things over.
Seems to me this is all the fault of the media cycle we live in. The NFL wants to be top of mind all the time (wonder what kind of ratings the NFL Network gets in late May...) The season culminates with the Superbowl, but then the draft and free agency are right around the corner. Then it's on to OTAs, contract negotiations, retirements, etc., and before you know it training camp and the preseason is here.
I love football. But I think I'd love it more if I were able to push away from the table and take a break from it. (I realize that this choice exists. However, it's like ice cream: if it's in the house, I'm eating it.)
There's something to be said for seasons and seasonality. Why must we Floridinate (San Diegoize? Arizone?) our sports lives so that they're the same damn thing all the time?
Reporters have to ask the questions. And athletes have to answer, because they're entertainers. But are any of us folks really being entertained? Does anyone look forward to another story about Brett Favre's situation? Seems if we didn't have such media saturation this never would have become an issue.
Here's to the Olympics.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Meeting Pool
I never imagined it happening to me.
OK, that was not a good opening--too suggestive.
Two years ago I moved to PA from Cleveland. Being new to the area, with a new job, etc, I wasn't ready to make the big commitment to buy a house. Not to mention that I was nowhere near ready to sell my house in Cleveland, three doors away from Lake Erie. (Is "door" a unit of measure? I guess when it relates to proximity to a Great Lake, it works.)
So I was on the hunt for a rental property. Rental properties, as we all know, can really suck. Especially when you need to find a place that allows dogs. And I'm not about to give up Mo for a nicer domicile. But this story is not about how I found my dwelling. It's about the crown jewel feature of this particular property, a jewel that until this month was cloaked in a canvas shroud (and populated by dead spiders of massive proportion.)
The landlady (I don't know why that's a funny term to me, but it is) was skeptical about allowing her tenant to use the pool, what with maintenance, liability, and what have you. However, with Steph (that's the old lady, if I were a biker. Since I'm not, I guess I should choose another term. Like POSSLQ. Maybe not.) Anyway, with Steph on board and providing the full-court pressure, the landlady relented and allowed us to open the pool.
Now, I've lived on or around lakes my entire life, so I never saw the need to have a pool in one's backyard. And I always kind of considered it the height of decadence. (My 52-inch television is, of course, far from the height of decadence.) I admit to feeling a twinge of guilt to have such a tremendous resource right outside my door. I picture Scrooge McDuck.
And yet, with the mercury consistently topping 90 degrees, and the humidity that comes with living in Southeast PA, I really don't feel all that bad.
BTW, to all of you who have not yet come to visit: the fresh strawberry daquiris and golden margaritas (made with fresh squeezed OJ) from the Poolside Tiki Bar are not to be missed.
OK, that was not a good opening--too suggestive.
Two years ago I moved to PA from Cleveland. Being new to the area, with a new job, etc, I wasn't ready to make the big commitment to buy a house. Not to mention that I was nowhere near ready to sell my house in Cleveland, three doors away from Lake Erie. (Is "door" a unit of measure? I guess when it relates to proximity to a Great Lake, it works.)
So I was on the hunt for a rental property. Rental properties, as we all know, can really suck. Especially when you need to find a place that allows dogs. And I'm not about to give up Mo for a nicer domicile. But this story is not about how I found my dwelling. It's about the crown jewel feature of this particular property, a jewel that until this month was cloaked in a canvas shroud (and populated by dead spiders of massive proportion.)
The landlady (I don't know why that's a funny term to me, but it is) was skeptical about allowing her tenant to use the pool, what with maintenance, liability, and what have you. However, with Steph (that's the old lady, if I were a biker. Since I'm not, I guess I should choose another term. Like POSSLQ. Maybe not.) Anyway, with Steph on board and providing the full-court pressure, the landlady relented and allowed us to open the pool.
Now, I've lived on or around lakes my entire life, so I never saw the need to have a pool in one's backyard. And I always kind of considered it the height of decadence. (My 52-inch television is, of course, far from the height of decadence.) I admit to feeling a twinge of guilt to have such a tremendous resource right outside my door. I picture Scrooge McDuck.
And yet, with the mercury consistently topping 90 degrees, and the humidity that comes with living in Southeast PA, I really don't feel all that bad.
BTW, to all of you who have not yet come to visit: the fresh strawberry daquiris and golden margaritas (made with fresh squeezed OJ) from the Poolside Tiki Bar are not to be missed.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Bonnaroo Shopping List
This year, I'll be doing the shopping solo. Trusted partner in crime, wingman, person who reminds us to get some kind of fruit and encourages me to go easy on the beer, and makes sure we don't forget to get sunscreen, will be in class (of all things) trying to better him self. Ahem.
Who will I argue with about whether to get real eggs or egg beaters? Whipped butter tub or margarine? I will pause ceremoniously over each decision in JDW14's honor.
I will likely be at the Meijer (not Meijer's) near Centerville, OH. (What is that, Kettering?) This will be sometime around midnight Wednesday/Thursday.
Yes, the menu is hearty breakfast burritos and snickety-snacks. Get the rest of the food at the venues b/c it's too damn far to walk back and forth, and you'll miss a lot of good stuff. By good stuff, I mean the music as well as the corn dogs.
Simply potatoes (too much dust to plan on slicing 'em up yerself)
Shredded cheese
Eggs
Butter (should we try olive oil this year?)
Tortillas
Salsa
Avocado??
(Make sure I have seasonings in the camping gear. I might also need a new spatula)
Coffee (SBC, likely. Ground, likely. Tho I did get a camping grinder for Xmas!)
Tortilla chips
Pretzels
A few apples
A few oranges
Carrot sticks
Beer
Gatorade
Water
Ice
Sunscreen
Paper towels
Toilet paper
Light reading material (years past this category has included magazines, david sedaris books, whatever one can acquire from the Meijer media section)
Something for the sweet tooth that won't melt in the ungodly heat (twizzler?)
Gum
That's about it, but I will probably think of more tomorrow.
Who will I argue with about whether to get real eggs or egg beaters? Whipped butter tub or margarine? I will pause ceremoniously over each decision in JDW14's honor.
I will likely be at the Meijer (not Meijer's) near Centerville, OH. (What is that, Kettering?) This will be sometime around midnight Wednesday/Thursday.
Yes, the menu is hearty breakfast burritos and snickety-snacks. Get the rest of the food at the venues b/c it's too damn far to walk back and forth, and you'll miss a lot of good stuff. By good stuff, I mean the music as well as the corn dogs.
Simply potatoes (too much dust to plan on slicing 'em up yerself)
Shredded cheese
Eggs
Butter (should we try olive oil this year?)
Tortillas
Salsa
Avocado??
(Make sure I have seasonings in the camping gear. I might also need a new spatula)
Coffee (SBC, likely. Ground, likely. Tho I did get a camping grinder for Xmas!)
Tortilla chips
Pretzels
A few apples
A few oranges
Carrot sticks
Beer
Gatorade
Water
Ice
Sunscreen
Paper towels
Toilet paper
Light reading material (years past this category has included magazines, david sedaris books, whatever one can acquire from the Meijer media section)
Something for the sweet tooth that won't melt in the ungodly heat (twizzler?)
Gum
That's about it, but I will probably think of more tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Students Stepping Up
While the idea of test prep is still somewhat disappointing (idealistic bob wishes it weren't so important and life-consuming; realistic bob recognizes that at the end of the day, the SAT matters) I love this story in the NY Times about a student-led test prep class.
I love the story because so much of what we encounter in the admission office is over-involved parents: parents who make all the phone calls to the admission office, arrange all the visits, ask all the questions at the college fair, in the information session or on the tour, parents who actually complete the application, and then intercept the decision letter, and then lobby the admission counselor to change the decision when it's not favorable, etc.
I try and remind myself that this is better than the other extreme. These parents care about their kids and want the best for them...and that's better than parents who couldn't care less. But sometimes it's tough to keep that perspective. And don't get me wrong, I'm not at all advocating for parents to butt out of the process. My parents were invaluable resources, and if it weren't for their gentle nudges (and sometimes less than gentle shoves,) I would not have landed at the terrific school I attended. But it would be nice for the student to be a little more involved than we typically see.
My colleagues would agree that it's refreshing to see the students themselves stepping up to the plate--asking questions on campus, calling or emailing the admission counselor directly. The college search is often a rite of passage--the first big life decision in which a student is directly involved. Bravo to William Scott and his classmates for taking some ownership.
I love the story because so much of what we encounter in the admission office is over-involved parents: parents who make all the phone calls to the admission office, arrange all the visits, ask all the questions at the college fair, in the information session or on the tour, parents who actually complete the application, and then intercept the decision letter, and then lobby the admission counselor to change the decision when it's not favorable, etc.
I try and remind myself that this is better than the other extreme. These parents care about their kids and want the best for them...and that's better than parents who couldn't care less. But sometimes it's tough to keep that perspective. And don't get me wrong, I'm not at all advocating for parents to butt out of the process. My parents were invaluable resources, and if it weren't for their gentle nudges (and sometimes less than gentle shoves,) I would not have landed at the terrific school I attended. But it would be nice for the student to be a little more involved than we typically see.
My colleagues would agree that it's refreshing to see the students themselves stepping up to the plate--asking questions on campus, calling or emailing the admission counselor directly. The college search is often a rite of passage--the first big life decision in which a student is directly involved. Bravo to William Scott and his classmates for taking some ownership.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Madness
Yes, yes, I'll be filling out a bracket for the NCAA Division I Men's Basketball tournament. And it is likely I'll fill out more than one bracket, with different winners, for each of the pools I enter. I won't, however, enter multiple brackets in one pool, thus subjecting myself to the ridicule of people like Lisa.
But that's not what I'm here to talk about.
Last night, the Ursinus Bears took the next step in an exhilarating season by beating the US Coast Guard Academy 82-76, in overtime, to claim a spot in the Final Four of the NCAA Division III Men's Basketball tournament. It was a thrilling game, as the victors paired a balanced offensive attack with intense defense and rebounding (not to mention superior height) to overcome the Coast Guard's sharpshooting three-point specialists. The Coasties showed a lot of heart, nearly giving me a heart attack.
The only low point (for me, anyway) was one of the hometown cheers. Two nights ago, the Gettysburg student section taunted Ursinus with chants of "Safety School." (I know. Creative. Why the Hellferich Hooligans didn't respond with "scoooore-board," I don't know.) And so last night, chants of "Navy Rejects" rained down on the Coast Guard's impressive contingent of fans. Not only did I find this to demonstrate poor sportsmanSHIP (har-har), but generally it's just not a good idea to insult people in uniform. Ursinus students should mind their Ps and Qs next time they find themselves in a boat, as the chants may not have been water off the back to the good men and women of the Coast Guard...
Anyway, raucous student cheering sections will be raucous student cheering sections, I guess. But class never goes out of style.
Congrats to the Bears, and good luck in Salem, VA!
But that's not what I'm here to talk about.
Last night, the Ursinus Bears took the next step in an exhilarating season by beating the US Coast Guard Academy 82-76, in overtime, to claim a spot in the Final Four of the NCAA Division III Men's Basketball tournament. It was a thrilling game, as the victors paired a balanced offensive attack with intense defense and rebounding (not to mention superior height) to overcome the Coast Guard's sharpshooting three-point specialists. The Coasties showed a lot of heart, nearly giving me a heart attack.
The only low point (for me, anyway) was one of the hometown cheers. Two nights ago, the Gettysburg student section taunted Ursinus with chants of "Safety School." (I know. Creative. Why the Hellferich Hooligans didn't respond with "scoooore-board," I don't know.) And so last night, chants of "Navy Rejects" rained down on the Coast Guard's impressive contingent of fans. Not only did I find this to demonstrate poor sportsmanSHIP (har-har), but generally it's just not a good idea to insult people in uniform. Ursinus students should mind their Ps and Qs next time they find themselves in a boat, as the chants may not have been water off the back to the good men and women of the Coast Guard...
Anyway, raucous student cheering sections will be raucous student cheering sections, I guess. But class never goes out of style.
Congrats to the Bears, and good luck in Salem, VA!
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
A Classic
This is one of those classics I'd yet to discover (I'm somewhat embarrassed to say.) It's like when you hear a song from someone like Nick Drake that's so freaking good, but you'd never heard it before, and you're feeling like you've made this incredible discovery, and then you find out it's been around for 30 years and you must have been living under a rock.
Right now I'm in the midst of the final push for getting admission decisions out the door. At this point, we've accepted 95% of the students we can accept, so the final few places are meeting very specific needs. Most of the decisions we're making now are generating waitlist or deny letters.
It's not really in my makeup to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm bearing an awful lot in the next week or so. Of course, I know a lot of these students really don't care about whether they're getting into my school. At the same time, rejection always stings. It seems like it's often the first time these kids--or these parents--have been told 'no,' and of course it won't be the last--disappointment is not an infrequent visitor in life. Disappointment, or dashed hopes--these are actually good signs, because it means you had hope and optimism in the first place, which is to say life is fairly good, or at least your outlook on it is.
I couldn't put the sentiment better than David Nyhan did in 1987 in the Boston Globe, reprinted yesterday. Quoted below:
The college rejection letter
By David Nyhan
March 10, 2008
Former Globe columnist the late David Nyhan wrote the following column in 1987. Since then, it has been reprinted in the newspaper many times around this time of year. Nyhan died in January 2005.
THE REJECTIONS arrive this time of year in thin, cheap envelopes, some with a crummy window for name and address, as if it were a bill, and none with the thick packet you'd hoped for.
''Dear So-and-so:
''The admissions committee gave full consideration . . . but I regret to inform you we will be unable to offer you a place in the Class of 2012." Lots of applicants, limited number of spaces, blah blah blah, good luck with your undergraduate career. Very truly yours, Assistant Dean Blowhard, rejection writer, Old Overshoe U.
This is the season of college acceptance letters. So it's also the time of rejection. You're in or you're out. Today is the day you learn how life is not like high school. To the Ins, who got where they wanted to go: Congrats, great, good luck, have a nice life, see you later. The rest of this is for the Outs.
You sort of felt it was coming. Your SAT scores weren't the greatest. Your transcript had some holes in it. You wondered what your teachers' recommendations would really say, or imply. And you can't help thinking about that essay you finished at 2 o'clock in the morning of the day you absolutely had to mail in your application, that essay which was, well, a little weird.
Maybe you could have pulled that C in sociology up to a B-minus. Maybe you shouldn't have quit soccer to get a job to pay for your gas. Maybe it was that down period during sophomore year when you had mono and didn't talk to your teachers for three months while you vegged out. What difference does it make what it was? It still hurts.
It hurts where you feel pain most: inside. It's not like the usual heartache that kids have, the kind other people can't see. An alcoholic parent, a secret shame, a gaping wound in the family fabric, these are things one can carry to school and mask with a grin, a wisecrack, a scowl, a just-don't-mess-with-me-today attitude.
But everybody knows where you got in and where you didn't. Sure, the letter comes to the house. But eventually you've still got to face your friends. ''Any mail for me?" is like asking for a knuckle sandwich. Thanks a lot for the kick in the teeth. What a bummer.
How do you tell kids at school? That's the hard part. The squeals in the corridor from the kids who got in someplace desirable. The supercilious puss on the ones who got early acceptance or the girl whose old man has an in at Old Ivy.
There's the class doofus who suddenly becomes the first nerd accepted at Princeton, the 125-pound wrestling jock who, surprise, surprise, got into MIT. But what about you?
You've heard about special treatment for this category or that category, alumni kids on a legacy ticket or affirmative action luckouts or rebounders or oboe players. Maybe they were trying to fill certain slots. But you're not a slot. You're you. They can look at your grades and weigh your scores and see how many years you were in French Club. But they can't look into your head, or into your heart. They can't check out the guts department.
This is the important thing: They didn't reject you. They rejected your resume. They gave some other kid the benefit of the doubt. Maybe that kid deserved a break. Don't you deserve a break? Sure. You'll get one. Maybe this is the reality check you needed. Maybe the school that does take you will be good. Maybe this is the day you start to grow up.
Look at some people who've accomplished a lot and see where they started. Ronald Reagan? Eureka College. Jesse Jackson? They wouldn't let him play quarterback in the Big Ten, so he quit Illinois for North Carolina A & T. Do you know that the recently retired chairmen and CEOs of both General Motors and General Electric graduated from UMass? Bob Dole? He went to Washburn Municipal University.
The former minority leader of the United States Senate, Tom Daschle, went to South Dakota State. The speaker of the US House of Representatives, J. Dennis Hastert, went to Northern Illinois University. Dick Armey, the former House majority leader, took a bachelor's degree from Jamestown College. Winston Churchill? He was so slow a learner that they used to write to his mother to come take this boy off our hands.
I know what you think: Spare me the sympathy. It still hurts. But let's keep this in perspective. What did Magic Johnson say to the little boy who also tested HIV positive? ''You've got to have a positive attitude." What happens when you don't keep a positive attitude? Don't ask.
This college thing? What happened is that you rubbed up against the reality of big-time, maybe big-name, institutions. Some they pick, some they don't. You lost. It'll happen again, but let's hope it won't have the awful kick. You'll get tossed by a girlfriend or boyfriend. You won't get the job or the promotion you think you deserve. Some disease may pluck you from life's fast lane and pin you to a bed, a wheelchair, a coffin. That happens.
Bad habits you can change; bad luck is nothing you can do anything about.
Does it mean you're not a good person? People like you, if not your resume. There's no one else that can be you. Plenty of people think you're special now, or will think that, once they get to know you. Because you are.
And the admissions department that said no? Screw them. You've got a life to lead.
Right now I'm in the midst of the final push for getting admission decisions out the door. At this point, we've accepted 95% of the students we can accept, so the final few places are meeting very specific needs. Most of the decisions we're making now are generating waitlist or deny letters.
It's not really in my makeup to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm bearing an awful lot in the next week or so. Of course, I know a lot of these students really don't care about whether they're getting into my school. At the same time, rejection always stings. It seems like it's often the first time these kids--or these parents--have been told 'no,' and of course it won't be the last--disappointment is not an infrequent visitor in life. Disappointment, or dashed hopes--these are actually good signs, because it means you had hope and optimism in the first place, which is to say life is fairly good, or at least your outlook on it is.
I couldn't put the sentiment better than David Nyhan did in 1987 in the Boston Globe, reprinted yesterday. Quoted below:
The college rejection letter
By David Nyhan
March 10, 2008
Former Globe columnist the late David Nyhan wrote the following column in 1987. Since then, it has been reprinted in the newspaper many times around this time of year. Nyhan died in January 2005.
THE REJECTIONS arrive this time of year in thin, cheap envelopes, some with a crummy window for name and address, as if it were a bill, and none with the thick packet you'd hoped for.
''Dear So-and-so:
''The admissions committee gave full consideration . . . but I regret to inform you we will be unable to offer you a place in the Class of 2012." Lots of applicants, limited number of spaces, blah blah blah, good luck with your undergraduate career. Very truly yours, Assistant Dean Blowhard, rejection writer, Old Overshoe U.
This is the season of college acceptance letters. So it's also the time of rejection. You're in or you're out. Today is the day you learn how life is not like high school. To the Ins, who got where they wanted to go: Congrats, great, good luck, have a nice life, see you later. The rest of this is for the Outs.
You sort of felt it was coming. Your SAT scores weren't the greatest. Your transcript had some holes in it. You wondered what your teachers' recommendations would really say, or imply. And you can't help thinking about that essay you finished at 2 o'clock in the morning of the day you absolutely had to mail in your application, that essay which was, well, a little weird.
Maybe you could have pulled that C in sociology up to a B-minus. Maybe you shouldn't have quit soccer to get a job to pay for your gas. Maybe it was that down period during sophomore year when you had mono and didn't talk to your teachers for three months while you vegged out. What difference does it make what it was? It still hurts.
It hurts where you feel pain most: inside. It's not like the usual heartache that kids have, the kind other people can't see. An alcoholic parent, a secret shame, a gaping wound in the family fabric, these are things one can carry to school and mask with a grin, a wisecrack, a scowl, a just-don't-mess-with-me-today attitude.
But everybody knows where you got in and where you didn't. Sure, the letter comes to the house. But eventually you've still got to face your friends. ''Any mail for me?" is like asking for a knuckle sandwich. Thanks a lot for the kick in the teeth. What a bummer.
How do you tell kids at school? That's the hard part. The squeals in the corridor from the kids who got in someplace desirable. The supercilious puss on the ones who got early acceptance or the girl whose old man has an in at Old Ivy.
There's the class doofus who suddenly becomes the first nerd accepted at Princeton, the 125-pound wrestling jock who, surprise, surprise, got into MIT. But what about you?
You've heard about special treatment for this category or that category, alumni kids on a legacy ticket or affirmative action luckouts or rebounders or oboe players. Maybe they were trying to fill certain slots. But you're not a slot. You're you. They can look at your grades and weigh your scores and see how many years you were in French Club. But they can't look into your head, or into your heart. They can't check out the guts department.
This is the important thing: They didn't reject you. They rejected your resume. They gave some other kid the benefit of the doubt. Maybe that kid deserved a break. Don't you deserve a break? Sure. You'll get one. Maybe this is the reality check you needed. Maybe the school that does take you will be good. Maybe this is the day you start to grow up.
Look at some people who've accomplished a lot and see where they started. Ronald Reagan? Eureka College. Jesse Jackson? They wouldn't let him play quarterback in the Big Ten, so he quit Illinois for North Carolina A & T. Do you know that the recently retired chairmen and CEOs of both General Motors and General Electric graduated from UMass? Bob Dole? He went to Washburn Municipal University.
The former minority leader of the United States Senate, Tom Daschle, went to South Dakota State. The speaker of the US House of Representatives, J. Dennis Hastert, went to Northern Illinois University. Dick Armey, the former House majority leader, took a bachelor's degree from Jamestown College. Winston Churchill? He was so slow a learner that they used to write to his mother to come take this boy off our hands.
I know what you think: Spare me the sympathy. It still hurts. But let's keep this in perspective. What did Magic Johnson say to the little boy who also tested HIV positive? ''You've got to have a positive attitude." What happens when you don't keep a positive attitude? Don't ask.
This college thing? What happened is that you rubbed up against the reality of big-time, maybe big-name, institutions. Some they pick, some they don't. You lost. It'll happen again, but let's hope it won't have the awful kick. You'll get tossed by a girlfriend or boyfriend. You won't get the job or the promotion you think you deserve. Some disease may pluck you from life's fast lane and pin you to a bed, a wheelchair, a coffin. That happens.
Bad habits you can change; bad luck is nothing you can do anything about.
Does it mean you're not a good person? People like you, if not your resume. There's no one else that can be you. Plenty of people think you're special now, or will think that, once they get to know you. Because you are.
And the admissions department that said no? Screw them. You've got a life to lead.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Nader-cisstic
Can one get any more irrelevant than Ralph Nader?
Obviously Mr. Nader has not been paying attention. Had he taken the cue of other washed up icons who have attempted to reemerge on the public consciousness, he surely would have chosen that most democratic of vehicles, the reality show. Witness the arc of Hulk Hogan, Flavor Flav, Bret Michaels, Run, any member of any past cast of The Surreal Life, and any past competitor on Dancing with The Stars. All of these once-famous stars have re-captured the public imagination, squeezing another 15 minutes out of our collective attention tube. In so doing they have both reminded us of their singular brilliance and showed us another side to their personalities. Who didn't love seeing Jerry Rice dance across the ballroom after years of dancing away from potential tacklers?
Or look to Al Gore. Defeated, bearded, obscure Al Gore, who went from sheepish loser to Nobel Laureate. Why? Because he hit us where it counts: directly in front of our glassy eyes.
The fact that Mr. Nader chose a mainstream Sunday morning news program to announce his candidacy, rather than launching a new reality program (imagine a house with Nader, H. Ross Perot, both Doles, and Michael Dukakis, for example), shows just how out of touch with voters he really is.
Obviously Mr. Nader has not been paying attention. Had he taken the cue of other washed up icons who have attempted to reemerge on the public consciousness, he surely would have chosen that most democratic of vehicles, the reality show. Witness the arc of Hulk Hogan, Flavor Flav, Bret Michaels, Run, any member of any past cast of The Surreal Life, and any past competitor on Dancing with The Stars. All of these once-famous stars have re-captured the public imagination, squeezing another 15 minutes out of our collective attention tube. In so doing they have both reminded us of their singular brilliance and showed us another side to their personalities. Who didn't love seeing Jerry Rice dance across the ballroom after years of dancing away from potential tacklers?
Or look to Al Gore. Defeated, bearded, obscure Al Gore, who went from sheepish loser to Nobel Laureate. Why? Because he hit us where it counts: directly in front of our glassy eyes.
The fact that Mr. Nader chose a mainstream Sunday morning news program to announce his candidacy, rather than launching a new reality program (imagine a house with Nader, H. Ross Perot, both Doles, and Michael Dukakis, for example), shows just how out of touch with voters he really is.
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