“Hey Tee-im.”

It sounded vaguely like someone with a thick southern accent was calling my name.  I had a class to get to (it was the mid-1990’s at UMass-Lowell), so I continued walking.

“Tee-im!”

I turned around and did a double-take when I saw the tall African-American man smiling at me.

“Dwayne?”

It was Dwayne.  Holy cow.

I should explain.  I met Dwayne while the two of us were stationed at Keesler Air Foce Base in Biloxi, Mississippi in 1989-90.  Dwayne, who was from Alabama, was the shy type, but with a great sense of humor and an infectious, almost guilty laugh.  I was (am) your typical wise-acre and spent my time trying to make him spray soda from his nose.

Living in the dorms on Keesler was fairly uneventful.  We trainees went to class, kept our rooms clean, and went to bed at 11pm.  Other than the occasional game of ping pong or pickup basketball, there wasn’t much to do.  Dwayne and I would kill the hours sitting around his room, talking about the future and listening to music.  Our futures, in the short term anyway, looked to be quite different.

He was in the regular Air Force, so upon his graduation from Keesler he would be assigned to a base somewhere to begin serving his 4-year hitch.  He was hoping for Hawaii (everyone hopes for Hawaii) but had accepted the probability that he would end up in Nebraska, where his Alabama blood would have to adapt to the cold.

I was going home, and I told him all about how I planned to go to the University of Lowell (as it was known then) and become an electrical engineer like two of my brothers.  The Air National Guard was going to pay my tuition and life was going to be good (note:  I graduated with a business degree).

The theme music for our conversations was generally provided by Dwayne.  He introduced me to Public Enemy, Luther Vandross, and the Isley Brothers; all on tape, as the only radio options in Biloxi were 896 country stations and 1 classic rock station.

When we needed more music, or when we wanted to go to all-night weekend parties at the local motels, we would venture out into Biloxi.  This was a little more exciting than it should have been, since the local Racist White Men with Long Hair and Pickup Trucks Association didn’t like any of us Air Force boys.  The rumor on base was that the local men hated us because their women loved us - if only because we represented a potential escape from Biloxi.

The fact that Dwayne was black did not endear us to the locals any more, but luckily he was also 6’2 and had muscles in places where most people didn’t have places (to steal a line from the late Ron Luciano).  A stern look from Dwayne was usually enough to keep the confrontations verbal rather than physical.

My days in Mississippi came to an end in March of 1990.  I heard that after I left, Dwayne and some other Airmen rented a van and drove it to New Orleans, where it was promptly stolen, along with all of their clothes.  After that, I didn’t hear much from Dwayne.  There were a smattering of letters, and I would talk to him on the radio from my National Guard base once in a while, but soon we had lost touch.

Then, more than 4 years after I had last seen him, Dwayne was standing in the Registrar’s office at UMass-Lowell, shaking my hand.  He had remembered my plans; so when his Air Force hitch ended, he moved up to Massachusetts, joined my Air National Guard unit and enrolled at Lowell; just like that.

We made plans to get together, and I ran off to class, feeling a bit shocked and thrilled.

But, it didn’t work out.  I was busy with the social side of school, and Dwayne and I only got together a few times.  He was quiet and shy, and no matter how many times I invited him to hang out at my fraternity house, he just never made it over there.  He was in a strange place, and taking classes that were extremely challenging.  Soon, he joined a local religious group.  He was excited about the group – they were quite friendly - and tried to talk to me about it.

But, from my days working as a Resident Advisor, I knew that the group had been classified by the University as a cult.

I was alarmed and tried to warn him away from it - but he wasn’t interested in my advice.  We stopped talking so much, and the months flew past faster than even one of those Mississippi afternoons.  I was busy, he was busy.  When the semester ended, Dwayne dropped out of school, left my National Guard unit, and went home to Alabama without leaving a phone number or address.  I have not seen or spoken to him since.

What might have happened if, very early on, I had taken him home to meet my family and to enjoy a dinner; if I had really tried to help him adjust to life in a strange place and to feel at home?  What if I had just been less stubborn about walking over to the dorms instead of insisting that he come to the fraternity house?  What if I had been less busy with things that I can’t even remember today?

I’ll never know.  I miss Dwayne sometimes.

For example, don’t be surprised if you see a number of large men walking around wearing golf shirts but no pants.  No, it’s not because you have inadvertently chosen to take a trip to Provincetown during Bear Week; it’s because the local mall stores do not sell pants to fat guys.

I know this because my wife and I went shopping not long ago and found that while most of the stores in the local mall carried a variety of golf shirts in size XXL, none of them carried pants or shorts for men of that size.  My guess is that they are catering to the bodybuilding set; since there are so many more people with huge chests and tiny waists than there are guys with a weakness for baked goods.  Don’t the executives from these stores watch the news programs?  Don’t they see the footage of fat people walking around all over the city, and hear the statistics that the trim news anchors relay in their “troubled” voices about the US obesity percentages?

Speaking of people who don’t read the obesity percentages, how about the owners of our beloved Boston Red Sox?  They added seats to the Green Monster, they upgraded almost every part of Fenway Park, but they left those <bad word> blue seats in the Reserved Grandstand?  The rows are not made for anyone over 5’7”, never mind someone who tips the scales more than the average fan did in 1912.

Sitting in the reserved grandstand involves placing one’s rear onto the seat handles (there for your comfort!) and then wiggling until the larger part of the bottom can be worked clear of the handles and into the seat.  Getting up is a similar process, which removes even the option of participating in The Wave.  By the time I finally achieve the standing position, the wave has already rippled past.  After several innings of this, my legs and hind quarters are good and truly bruised.

On the MBTA ride home (or during my morning and afternoon commutes), if there isn’t an end seat available, I generally choose to stand.  I don’t want the guilt of taking up two seats or of making the people around me uncomfortable.  Of course, these same people are often reading newspapers and spreading their arms into another seat area, but I digress.

It’s obvious why these environments have been slow to change.  Changing the seats in places like Fenway Park, on trains, and on airplanes (another beacon of comfort for the gravitationally challenged) costs the host organizations money.  Making room for fatter people means fewer people and fewer people means less income; I get it.  I don’t have to like it, but I get it.

What I don’t get is why, whenever I’m standing on a crowded train and someone in the car floats an air biscuit, I always feel a number of accusing eyes on me.  What?  Thin people don’t fart?  Sure, on a day to day basis I’m probably eating more than the skinny woman next to me, but the remains of her pickled egg and haddock sandwich are right there on her shirt.  Also, the guy standing next to her, the one holding onto the bar with his arm raised, is clearly is allergic to both showers and deodorant.  So stop staring at me.

Seriously, though, in a way I can understand the thought process of the people who stay inside and eat until they can’t go outside any more.  It’s embarrassing to be fat and to try to function in a society that isn’t tailored to people of my size.  In a way, I suppose that is motivation to lose weight and to fit in, but in another way it could easily discourage people from making the effort.  It’s easy to get tired of the embarrassment you feel when meeting new people (yeah, sorry, I’m fat) and when trying to fit into a world made for smaller people.

It’s a choice, really.  I am working to fit in and be healthier, but until I get there, please, just sell me pants.

I was happy to see US gymnast Shawn Johnson get a gold medal in the balance beam event.  I had been rooting for Johnson since the beginning of the Olympics, when I dubbed her “The Tank” because she looks like she could run through a brick wall.  Also, it may be a dumb reason, but because Johnson smiles all the time and her US teammate Nastia Liukin always looks like she just drank lemon juice, I root for Johnson. 

Anyway, Liukin had already earned a gold medal, so it was nice to see Johnson snag gold after a string of silvers.  Her smile lit up the arena, and, as an added bonus, Johnson’s mom flashed the “Heavy Metal Horns” hand signal from the stands after the result was finalized… 

…Watching The Tank win gold on the balance beam caused me to wonder:  Is it better to have big feet or little feet for the balance beam? 

Big feet mean more of a chance of catching some of the beam when you land; kind of like large softball gloves (not that I can imagine anyone doing the balance beam with softball gloves on their feet).  Little feet mean that the entire foot can be on the beam with no overhang, which could result in better balance. 

Since The Tank won gold on the beam with her little feet, and Alicia Sacramone (my favorite on the team) did poorly on the beam with her big(ger) feet, I will assume little feet are better for now.  That’s a very small sample size, though, so I will continue the research… 

…Another point about the Olympics:  I hope that the athletes featured in those Visa commercials are being paid at least as much as Morgan Freeman is making for narrating them.  That being said, I was sad to see that Mr. Freeman was in a car accident, and I hope he gets well soon… 

…I’d also like to wish a hearty get well to Carl Yastrzemski.  I always wanted to be number 8 on my Little League teams, and yes, I spelled that without looking it up… 

…In other baseball news, I have a number of friends who tell me that baseball is boring, and I try to argue with them, but it’s getting harder to win those arguments; especially when every hitter has their own little ritual in between pitches.  Guys step out of the box, fix their gloves, adjust their cups, tie their shoes, text their friends, and then step in, take a ball and repeat the entire process while the seconds of my life tick away needlessly.  Every.  Single.  Pitch. 

Not long ago, in my memory, only a few players had those rituals.  In the 70’s and 80’s, Carlton Fisk would hold his hand up for time while he dug a small well in the batter’s box.  In later years, Nomar Garciaparra would fix his gloves and kick his shoes after each pitch, and he stood out for doing so.  In fact, one year Derek Jeter aped Nomar’s ritual by fixing his batting gloves during an All Star game and got big laughs.  Now Jeter, along with every other batter, does this sort of thing before every pitch.  Honestly, how much can those gloves loosen from pitch to pitch? 

Truly, the rituals are a maddening waste of time (yes, even when Big Papi spits on his hands), and should stop.  The umpire should direct the batter to stay in the box unless a bug flies into the batter’s eye or there is some other special circumstance.  It couldn’t hurt in the general effort to make the game less boring… 

…I have heard in the media that certain unnamed politicians are considering a return to the 55 mph speed limit.  A lowered speed limit is, in truth, a ridiculous back-door tax on drivers, draped in the flag of improved fuel consumption.  This law would only grow the pool of drivers who can be pulled over and given insurance surcharges speeding tickets and make those drivers pay more for driving at what is currently a safe speed. 

Today, if a driver gets caught doing 75 mph on the highway; the fine is 50 bucks (plus the phony head injury fund tax and years of surcharges).  However, if the limit is dropped, that same driver will have to pay 150 bucks (plus the phony head injury fund tax and years of surcharges). 

Never mind that the guy doing 75 is probably being passed by a state trooper going 90. 

If the “powers that be” really want to help to save fuel, why not eliminate all toll booths?  How many gallons of fuel (and hours of people’s lives) are wasted in traffic jams caused by waiting for the right to pay for roads that have already been paid off?  I’m sure that removing the tolls would go quite a ways toward saving fuel and improving quality of life on the roads; but I doubt that is the true aim of the people proposing the 55 mph limit… 

…And finally, every year when Massachusetts holds a tax-free weekend, there is a sales spike in the Commonwealth.  Yet some people wonder why anyone would go out of their way for a mere 5% discount.  After all, they say, 5% is not so much in the grand scheme of things, so why wait for that weekend to buy bigger ticket items? 

First of all, many stores have sales that coincide with the tax-free weekend, but I believe that the sales increase isn’t just due to the sales and the 5%.  Instead, it is my belief that the consumers of Massachusetts feel a small twinge of relief on that weekend:  the freedom to buy things without the government’s hand in their pockets.  That is plenty of motivation to go out and buy, buy, buy; even if you’re only saving a measly 5%.

The Megger is a huge Michael Phelps fan, in part because she swam competitively in college and therefore loves the sport, and partly because he is a tall guy in incredible shape who doesn’t wear much.  While I could take or leave Phelps’ physical beauty – after all, it’s not like he’s a female beach volleyballer - Meg’s enthusiasm for the swimming events has been contagious.  I try not to miss any of them. 

As the event was announced and the swimmers stood beside the pool jangling their arms, the television announcer attempted to set expectations for the audience.  He told us that one of the French swimmers had predicted that they would crush the Americans, and that, unfortunately, there was almost no chance that the US team would be able to prove them wrong.  He was of the opinion that Phelps’ quest to break Mark Spitz’s record of 7 gold medals in a single Olympic Games would end in this event. 

The race began, and at the first turn Phelps was doing well, but was not in his customary position in front of the field.  He finished his part with the US in second place, and handed the reins over to Garrett Weber.  It was during Weber’s swim, as he took the lead for the American team, that we began to lean forward and shout encouragement at the television. 

Weber handed the lead to the third US swimmer, Cullen Jones, who promptly gave it away to the French.  We slumped back into our seats as the French swimmer pulled far ahead and provided a hefty margin for the French anchor (and chief trash talker) Alain Bernard.  The announcer’s prediction seemed quite prophetic at this moment.  The US anchor, Jason Lezak, was doing quite well, but at the halfway point of the last leg, it seemed that he would run out of pool before being able to make up the distance. 

Then something began to happen.  The French lead seemed to vanish (as Hemingway might put it) gradually, and then suddenly. 

We were cheering again.  Hoping and rooting and screaming for a man we’d never met to swim faster in a pool across the globe. 

At that moment, there were no Russian tanks in Georgia; there was peace in Afghanistan and Iraq; China hadn’t lip-synched in an opening ceremony, showed us faked fireworks, or allegedly “fixed” the birth certificates of their female gymnasts in the name of “what was needed for the country”; and my wife and I weren’t annoyed with each other.  There were just men in a pool, straining to be the first to touch the wall, and us cheering them on wildly. 

Then, somehow, Jason Lezak touched the wall before his French counterpart, and we exploded with joy, screaming until we were hoarse.  The US had a new world record; Phelps had yet another in a string of gold medals; and we had just experienced the incomparable beauty of sport.  I love the Olympics.

As a 36-year old, I can feel my “coolness” slipping away, replaced with a certain doddering awkwardness that occurs when a person doesn’t keep their finger on the pulse of hip. But recently, in an effort to keep in touch with friends from college, I joined Facebook, which could only make me more “happening.”

On Facebook, you essentially create a profile of yourself and then add people you know – other Facebook users - as “friends.”

After a couple of days, I had about 20 friends and was feeling pretty good about things; that is, until I added one of my nieces (she’s 21) as a friend and looked at her page. 763 friends. Granted, she’s a college student, but 763 friends? If she contacted 2 friends a day all year, she would still fall about 33 friends short (29 short on leap years). Ridiculous.

I will comfort myself with the thought that her Christmas card postage bill must be outrageous…

…I have become convinced that On Demand on my cable system is a mixed blessing. The good part about it is that I have the opportunity to catch up on shows like “Mad Men,” which won a Golden Globe for best drama last season, but which I did not even watch once. With On Demand, I can catch up on the old episodes and not feel like I’ve missed the boat on the series.

That happened to me with the show “Lost.” I heard good things, but by the time I was ready to watch, I felt that I had missed too much to just pick up in the middle. So, I just never watched that show and will miss every pop culture reference to it for the rest of my life.

With “Mad Men,” I’ve been able to watch the first season (it’s quite good), but that leads to the bad part of On Demand. My wife and I will watch an episode, and at the end of the show, she’ll look at me and say, “One more?”

The sun will rise and set, fortunes will be made and lost, and other people will finally do that house project they’ve been meaning to do, all while my wife and I sit in front of the glowing box…

…In my last column (which had a due date before the trading deadline), I wondered if the Red Sox would fall victim to the whims and unhappiness of Manny Ramirez, or if they would follow the path of JD Drew (the anti-Youkilis).

Then, the Sox traded Manny, a bunch of cash, and two prospects for Jason Bay. In Bay’s first game, he hit a pivotal triple in extra innings and helped lead the team to victory. When he was interviewed after the game about the standing ovation he received in his first at-bat, I expected him to gush about how great the fans are in Boston, and how different the atmosphere is from that in Pittsburgh (hardly a contender) where he has played his entire major league career.

Instead, he said that the standing ovation made him feel uncomfortable, and he was decidedly low-key in responding to every opportunity he was given to show excitement about his new team.

This could be simple humility on the part of the new left fielder, but I have a sneaking suspicion that he might be more in the vein of the cold, corporate style of JD Drew (who I actually like). Not sure that means anything, but it was my first observation. It would be understandable if he is just afraid to say the wrong thing and cause a media firestorm, as has been known to happen in these parts…

…As is my habit, I enjoy giving reviews for movies that everyone has already seen. That being said, Dark Knight was really good, and Heath Ledger’s performance was outstanding. It’s a real shame that he’s not around to receive the deserved praise for a job really well done…

…I have the incredible fortune of working from home a couple days per week. This is, clearly, a good thing, but there are certain drawbacks to sharing the home office with a dog who has never even read my company’s mission statement.

For example, my dog’s excellent sense of hearing alerts her whenever I am on the phone with a client. She then wishes to become part of the conversation, so she barks uncontrollably.

“Let’s open BARK Windows BARK Explorer BARK – Callie, be quiet – and then BARK click on BARK….”

It’s a challenge. Also, if there is a mailman or delivery truck anywhere in a mile radius of the house, it is the dog’s job to scare them off, lest they start to feel comfortable and help themselves to her food or toys.

Also, the dress code in the home office is very relaxed (shorts and a t-shirt, mostly), but the dog completely ignores them.

These are very small issues compared to the amount of gas money I’m saving each week, but I wouldn’t want anyone to think it’s all wine and roses in the home office. More like dog biscuits and nose prints on the windows.

The Yankees?  Rick, are they even still in the division?  The last time I checked, the Rays of Tampa were leading the pack, with the Red Sox on their heels.  Are the Yankees still in the American League? 

“Stop pretending that Red Sox fans don’t pay attention to where the Yankees are; you know we’re just two games behind and gaining.  Speaking of that, what the heck is going on with your beloved Sox?  They seem to be a bit shaky lately.” 

Well, the middle relief has been a bit of a trouble spot, and well, you see, there is this player named Manny… 

“Manny?  Haven’t you been making excuses for that guy for years?  ‘Leave him alone,’ you say.  ‘Let him hit and he’ll be fine,’ you say.  Are you actually admitting that you’re wrong?  At least when our star shows up in the papers for cheating on his wife, it doesn’t impact the team; Manny seems like he’s bringing everyone down with him.” 

I admit.  I was wrong.  I was a big Manny fan, back when I thought he was Happy Go Lucky Manny, who hit the ball and didn’t pay attention to the rules.  I thought that when he was left alone, he’d be fine, even if he didn’t always run out grounders.  I didn’t know that he would start punching teammates and attacking traveling secretaries; that type of behavior makes him a little less sympathetic to me.  Also, I wish he hadn’t channeled Pedro Martinez and whined about his contract option. 

“Oh, so when he wasn’t running out hits before, he was fine, but he punches one teammate and chokes one old guy and suddenly he’s a bum?  Do you honestly think that those were the first incidents of that kind with Mr. Manny Being Manny?  I suspect that this has been happening right along, but this is the first time that it’s been convenient for the team to make these incidents public.” 

Well, he punched Youkie on live television.  It doesn’t get much more public than that.  Did you see the column that Peter Gammons wrote about the whole Manny situation?  He really crushed Manny, called into question his integrity and character…it was pretty amazing to see him take sides so vehemently on an issue between a player and a team like that. 

“Well, as a Yankee fan, I can tell you that, although I have always enjoyed his work, Gammons has been a mouthpiece for the current Red Sox management group since they took over.” 

I have been wondering about Gammons for the past couple of years.  He wrote a column a while back about Rick Ankiel (pitcher turned outfielder for the Cardinals), gushing about him not only as a player but as a person…and then Ankiel was implicated in an HGH (Human Growth Hormone) scandal and I didn’t see a peep from Gammons about it. 

Speaking of that, are you concerned about the news of the HGH test that hit the papers the other day?  I’d say that someone like Jason Giambi – Mr. Yankee Porn Mustache – must be nervous about it. 

“Giambi is gone from the Yanks after this year, so he can go pro on the mustache growing circuit if he wants.  I don’t think that they test for HGH. 

“So, what do you think this year?  Do the Rays hang around?  Do the Sox get back on track, or do they continue following the Tao of Manny Being Manny?  Or do they become the Aloof JD Drew Sox?” 

I’ve had a bad feeling about this team ever since it became obvious that Hideki Okajima lost his magic amulet and became just an average reliever.  I figure that they’ll pull together after the trading deadline and push on to the wildcard…and then they’ll lose in the playoffs. 

“To the Yankees!” 

You wish.

*NOTE:  Ok, so my deadline is Wednesday afternoon and Manny got traded Thursday afternoon.  I guess that reduces the chances that the team will continue to be disrupted by him.

I stayed up on Tuesday night this week and watched the American League defeat the National League in the All Star Game, 4 to 3 in 15 innings.  The game ended at about 1:40 AM, and I might have dozed off during the 14^th inning, but I woke up in time to see the end.  Overall, it was a very good game.  There were stolen bases, runners thrown out at home plate, pressure situations, and a very high level of play.  It once again showed that the Major League Baseball All Star Game is head and shoulders above the all star contests for every other sport.  The players seem to legitimately care whether they win the game, and at the very least they don’t want to look bad, whereas in the other all star contests the players’ primary concern seems to be avoiding injury. 

So, it was a great game, the stars of baseball were on display, everybody wins right?  No.  Because the game was played on a Tuesday night, and the pregame festivities didn’t begin until 8pm EDT, no kids got to see the whole game, and wouldn’t have, even if it didn’t go into extra innings. This is an old argument; that kids (and people on the east coast who have to get up in the morning) don’t get to watch any of the big pro sports games any more because they are all played during the week and late at night (see:  The NBA Finals, the World Series).  When I was younger, at least the NBA playoffs would be played on Sunday afternoons, but now every big game is on a school night, and, at least in the NBA playoffs, weekends are very obviously skipped in the schedule.  The powers that be in the league offices of these sports might argue that their west coast audience is important, and that TV revenue demands that the game be played at night during the week. 

Why, then, is the NFL able to pull off having playoff games during the day, or at least the early evening, on Saturdays and Sundays, early enough so that every fan should be able to watch them?  Sure, the Super Bowl is on a Sunday night, but at least it starts before 7pm eastern time, so everyone gets to watch it.  Perhaps the ability to schedule events during family-friendly times exists because the NFL is so popular that it can afford to dictate terms to the TV people, but perhaps the NFL is so popular (and therefore valuable to the TV people) because they don’t alienate their young fans… 

…Speaking of sporting events and television, I saw the Heineken commercial where different people bring Heineken to complete strangers as some sort of “peace through beer” initiative.  After watching the ad about 736 times, I began to think about the people in the commercial who were not receiving beer. 

For example, a woman brings a tray with three bottles of Heineken into a steam room where there are at least 5 towel-clad gents celebrating her arrival by cheering and clapping.  Now, unless I’m mistaken, two of these hairy guys are not going to get any beer, so why are they so happy?  Is the very idea of such kindness in the world enough to motivate their elation, or do they think that the presence of a beautiful woman in their steam room is the beginning of some sort of bachelor party?  I wonder about these things.

“It just wasn’t a good day,” he told me. 

“I was scheduled to take a 6am flight out of Logan to California for work.  I wanted to get an early jump on things, so I drove to Alewife T-Station at 4am.  I parked my car in the Alewife garage and immediately realized that I had left my cell phone at home, which, thankfully is about 5 minutes away from Alewife.  So, I drove out of the garage; luckily for me the guy at the booth was understanding when I told him that I had just gotten there and he let me out without paying. 

“Got home, grabbed my cell phone; drove once again to Alewife; parked the car, grabbed my bag; and walked down to the train, only to find a rather large gate blocking my entrance into the terminal.  It was 4:30am, and apparently the trains just don’t run that early.  I don’t know what I was thinking…perhaps that I lived in a real city where the trains run all the time, but it was at this moment that I first began to become angry.  The cell phone was merely an annoyance, but this really ticked me off. 

“Lugged my bag up the stairs; got back in my car; explained to the saint of a parking attendant that I had just gotten there and that the trains weren’t running yet – again he didn’t charge me – and drove to Logan Airport.  Thankfully there was almost no traffic and I arrived, parked, and was in the USAir terminal before 5am.  I felt better at this point, since there was plenty of time for me to check in to my flight, and since I was only staying for the day I didn’t have to check any luggage.  I’ve pretty much soured on checking luggage since a few weeks ago when I took a trip and checked my laptop, only to have it stolen.  That airline security is airtight. 

“Anyway, back to the story.  The USAir e-ticket self service kiosk couldn’t find my flight.  I tried it again.  No flight.  I looked at the itinerary I printed out from the web site where I purchased my tickets and, sure enough, it said USAir, but there was no flight to California with that number.  I asked a customer service person for help.  She looked at my itinerary, then looked back at me with pursed lips and said that my flight was being ‘handled’ by United.  The “you idiot” at the end of her statement wasn’t spoken, but it was there.  I’m not sure why I was the idiot in that scenario, since my itinerary said USAir and nothing at all said United, but apparently I should have just “known.”  She then informed me that I was in the wrong terminal.  United is terminal C.  It was 5:10am, and my anger was no longer hidden safely below the surface.  I’m sure that my face was red and I might have been shaking, just a little. 

“I ran out to the front of the terminal and tried to hop a cab, but the first three cabs refused to take me.  They said it was because it wasn’t a long enough trip, but thinking back on it, I guess the fact that I was in a state of rage didn’t help my chances.  The fourth cabbie finally agreed to get me there for five bucks.  I got into the terminal, got my ticket, did the security thing and made the flight; but the story doesn’t end there. 

“I had just settled into my seat, and the anger had begun to drain out of my system when a beautiful woman slid into the seat next to me.  She had long black hair, blue eyes, and was tanned like a lifeguard in August.  Once she got settled, she looked at me and smiled, just a beautiful smile, and my anger was but a memory. 

“We chatted for the first couple hours of the flight and really seemed to hit it off.  She laughed at my jokes and I laughed at hers, and the conversation was really easy and fun…and that’s when it started.  I noticed that I simply could not keep my eyes off of the woman’s feet.  I’m not usually someone who is attracted to feet, but I just couldn’t pull my eyes away from hers once she slipped off her flip-flops. 

“Her feet were perfectly tanned and her toenails were painted to perfection with red polish.  I’m not sure why I had to continue staring at them, but every time I tried to focus on my book my eyes just kept stealing back to her feet.  I became somewhat afraid that I might have a problem. 

“Suddenly, she moved her head closer to me, looked at me with almost an impish grin on her face and asked in a very seductive, yet playful voice, ‘Are you looking at my feet?’ 

“I have been waiting my entire life for an opportunity like that.  Any sort of witty response would have worked.  I’m sure of it.  Anything at all.  I could have said something like, ‘Can you blame me?’ or even played dumb with ‘You have feet?’ 

“Instead, I froze up.  I’m not sure if it was the shame of being caught doing something that could be considered a bit strange, but I just looked at her in horror for what felt like an hour and then I began to worry about not saying anything, so I blurted out, ‘Mblvkd?’ 

“She raised her eyebrows and her eyes widened as she slowly turned her head to face the seat in front of her.  I think.  I’m not completely sure, because I think I might have blacked out briefly.  What I do know is that when I came to, she was wearing wool socks and she was studiously ignoring me. 

“Like I said, it was just a bad day.”

Ok, ok, I realize that my “new” axiom totally rips off another well-known saying.  That was a conscious decision I made to help market my new invention, because if people are already familiar with the pattern, it will be easier for them to remember.  That is also why I used the word “kills” when there isn’t actual death involved.  It’s catchy.  This follows the pattern of the people who sell “Swiss Navy” watches on the streets of New York City.  Also, as far as I know, there isn’t a copyright office for clichés, so I should be on safe ground.  Now for the reason behind my invention: 

It seems that the news that we hear and watch every day is dominated by misstatements.  Essentially: “Did you hear what that person said?  Those other people are incredibly offended!  The horror!”  These issues will sometimes die down quickly, but sometimes they will acquire a life of their own and be the topic of hand-wringing conversations for days at a time.  The ramifications for these actions can range from no punishment at all to a loss of employment; the punishment has a direct relationship with the amount of hand-wringing that occurs. 

Politics is a particular hotbed for this sort of activity.  The most extreme example of this in recent memory was Massachusetts’ own junior Senator, John Kerry, who said, “I actually did vote for the $87 billion before I voted against it.”  Kerry had a number of other mishaps (like when he ambled into an Ohio store, opened his Ivy League mouth and said, “Can I get me a hunting license here?”), but the quote about voting for and then against the $87 billion could very likely have cost him the presidency. 

The current presidential race has been chock full of these sorts of statements (many of the below were found at politicalhumor.about.com).  Senator Barack Obama has chewed on his own foot a number of times:  He called his own grandmother a “typical white person”; calling female reporters “sweetie” a number of times (they hate that); he said that certain voters “…get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.”; and finally, he said, “I’ve now been in 57 states – I think one left to go.” 

Hillary Clinton chimed in with her own recollection that “I remember landing under sniper fire,” when it turned out that there had been none and John McCain asked, “You know that old Beach Boys song, Bomb Iran?  Bomb bomb bomb, bomb bomb Iran.” 

These statements - which in past days might have been simple slips of the tongue that were forgiven by the press corps - are now blockbuster news stories.  The quotes are repeated so much that they actually come to define the speaker.  After a while, simply due to these quotes, people come to believe that John Kerry is a flip-flopper, Barack Obama is kind of an idiot, Hillary Clinton is a liar, and John McCain is a war monger.  The person is simply defined by their sound-byte and world events are impacted by those slips of the tongue. 

Speech also seems to kill people who discuss sports; particularly when those people attempt to discuss race.  The earliest example I can remember is Howard Cosell, who said, while describing an African-American football player, “Look at that little monkey run!” 

But these types of issues seem to crop up every single day.  Within the past week or so, Don Imus, famously fired for his statements about the Rutgers women’s basketball team, created another flap with his comments about footballer Adam “Pacman” Jones.  Imus’ comments about Jones actually knocked another controversy (involving golf commentator Johnny Miller’s comments about Rocco Mediate) off the air waves.  And then Shaquille O’Neal lost his special deputy badge for performing a freestyle rap song that contained racial references. 

All of these comments were dumb, but I’d like to know how many hours of talk radio and talking head news shows were spent discussing the comments and what those comments might MEAN about the people who uttered them, and whether the person should be PUNISHED for their comments.  It almost seems as if the news companies throw every comment they can find against the wall in the hopes that one will strike a chord with the public and cause people to watch/listen to news programs and call talk shows. 

I find the entire process of weekly controversies tiresome.  To me, news is when something actually happens - like when Dick Cheney shoots a guy - rather than when something dumb is uttered.  Therefore, I would like to propose the following:  When you hear someone talking about something dumb that some famous person said, rather than discussing it in depth, stop for a moment, shake your head and say, “Speech kills.”  Then go buy another round.