Mulligans, Mother's Day, and the Man in the Mirror...

You Must Think the Sun Shines Out of Your MSG
One of the NYT columnists, William Rhoden, suggested the other day (it’s a PPV story, so I won’t link it) that it would be in the best interests of the NBA for the Knicks to be allowed to ‘write off’ all the ludicrous contracts they’ve provided, so that they can ditch all their stiffs, get under the salary cap (which otherwise won’t happen until 2010), and essentially start over. The argument being, of course, that NY is essential to the NBA’s success, and thus special dispensation is warranted.

One thing about New Yorkers: they’re often so self-absorbed that it’s hard to know when they’re being sarcastic. But I have a solution that doesn’t just reward (and perpetuate) ineptitude; if the Knicks (and the Celtics, and the 76ers, etc.) are so critical to the success of the NBA, why doesn’t the NBA ‘reclaim’ their franchises (buying them back at market value) and put them in the hands of some at-least-semi-competent management? They are franchises, right? If I owned a McDonald’s franchise, and started selling horsemeat quarter pounders, I imagine that McDonald’s would find a way to pull my franchise, for the good of the brand. What these teams have been serving up over the past several years wouldn’t even qualify as horsemeat, although another term comes to mind…

There are drawbacks, of course; the entertainment value of the NBA would certainly drop without the astonishing antics of Isiah Thomas, James Dolan, Danny Ainge, Billy King, the Maloof brothers, Billy Knight, Kevin McHale, whoever is running the Seattle franchise (if anyone), and of course the inimitable Donald Sterling. But that’s too much ineptitude spread across too many teams; I would suggest to David Stern that he designate two franchises as the official league buffoons (my votes are the Knicks and the Celtics, but I’m biased), relocate all of the above-named suspects therein, and tell the rest of the league to start taking this seriously.

When I Look in the Mirror
Have you noticed that, as the chastened GWB moves closer to his father’s more moderate policies and stances, he’s also taken on some of his gestures?

I can’t wait to hear him say ‘prudent.’ But come to think of it, I don’t think that’s a concept he’s familiar with.

And a Belated Closing
Not that there’s no value at all to the NYT; check this out (registration required), in case you missed it on Mother’s Day. God’s pretty smart, you know. Genesis 5:2 says that “He created them male and female. He blessed them and called them humans when he created them.” I just think a male, left to his own devices, would’ve made a different choice… and would have been much the poorer for that choice. Happy (belated) Mother's Day, and be thankful for the choices your mother made.

I Wanna be Frank Miller...

I've been a comic book fan since I can remember... literally. And even though I've always been able to write a little, I couldn't draw to save my life, and I could never figure out how to write a good comic book story without being able to see it on the page. Add to that, it always seemed like the guys who could write and draw their own comics did the most amazing work; Miller, Howard Chaykin, Dave Sim, Todd McFarlane... So yes, I have serious art envy.

But my new Mac came with this really cool little program called "Comic Life," that can help you make your own comics. So, with no further ado (clicking on the thumbnails will take you to the full pic)...






Maybe just a little dark? hee hee hee...

The Temptation of John

I do my best thinking in the shower. Write my best sermons, prepare my best lessons, develop my most creative ideas… I’m sure there’s some reason behind this; lots of routine stimulation occupying the conscious mind, allowing the subconscious to seep through, or something like that. Where’s Dr. Phil when you need him?

Thankfully not in my shower. After mentally writing two or three major opuses (opi?) and solving most of the world’s conflicts, all before rinsing and repeating, I stepped out to dry off. I had forgotten to turn on the bathroom vent, and the room was as foggy as the I-5 Grapevine in January.

My eyelid had a twitch in it. I’d had twitches before, and this eyelid had been twitching on and off for a week, but now it was going every two hours, flapping like I had a sparrow trapped under it. Being raised as a radical hypocondriac, this increase in symptoms set me to worrying.

Nerves? Allergies? Not enough sleep? Cancer. Probably cancer.

Maybe I just wasn’t getting enough blood flow to it… I began to wink and blink madly, trying to exercise my eyelid. If the college drama department ever does a stage adaptation of “The Pink Panther,” I’m in as Inspector Dreyfus.

While I was maniacally twitching and winking and blinking, I heard the little voice in the back of my head.

“I know what’ll work.”

I knew that voice… well, not the timbre so much as the intonation. I didn’t answer.

“Go look at some porn. That’ll get the blood flowing to that eye.”

Now, I’m (unfortunately) not completely unfamiliar with the effects of porn on the human body…at least the male human body. However, increased blood flow to the eye seemed, at best, unlikely.

“What?” I said.

“Your eye,” the voice said again, a little hesitant this time. “It’ll be good for your eye.”

“It’ll… what!?! That doesn’t even make sense!” I paused for a moment, watching the steam recede from the bathroom mirror. My eyes narrowed, squinting into the steam. “You’re not the regular one, are you?”

Silence.

I was more insistent this time. “You’re not the regular one, are you? Who are you?”

Long pause. Small voice. “Stu.”

Now it was my turn to pause. “Stu?”

“Stu.”

“Not Beealzebub? Not Zaphor? Not Slugmort, Voracium, Incinerus, Abraxus, Moloch, Damien, Volac?” I rattled off a dozen more names, but each elicited only a barely-audible “nope” from the little voice.

“You’re… Stu.”

“Stu.”

“And the regular one, the other guy, he’s…?”

“Promoted, I believe. On to bigger and better… oh, umm, no offense, I mean, I’m sure you were a fine, umm… sorry…” His voice trailed off.

I sighed deeply into the warm wet air. The eyelid twitch had stopped, at least.

“You’re new, aren’t you, Stu?”

Long pause. “I’m a temp.”

The steam was nearly gone from the mirror now, and I could see my own face. An expression of sheer, abject, bone-chilling… disappointment.

“So.” I said, almost audibly. The implication was not lost on me. “So my Christian walk is now so ineffectual, so unproductive, so feeble… that I get a temp as a tempter.” The mirror was clear now, and I noticed more ear hair than before. This was not turning out to be a very good evening.

A blurry image of what appeared to be Paris Hilton flashed through my mind. “Stu… Paris Hilton? That’s just sad.”

The voice sounded oddly remorseful. “I know, I… I’m not very good at lust. For some of the guys it’s like falling out of bed, but I never seemed to get the hang of it. I’m much better at PR. I’m hoping something opens up in PR.”

I was taken aback. “His Infernalness has a public relations office?”

“Oh, no, no,” Stu said, his mood brightening. “We tempt PR people. It’s easy work.” His tone was almost cocky now. “White lies, baldfaced lies, half-truths, deception, denials. Like falling out of bed.”

It was quiet for a moment. “Stu, I’m leaving now. I’m going to bed.”

“Bed?” He sounded momentarily confused. “Umm… Britney Spears?”

“Stu?”

“Hmm?”

“No, Stu. No.”

“Oh. Well, tomorrow, then?”

Another sigh escaped me. “No doubt, Stu… no doubt.”