Down with the book hoodlums

Bet you thought I forgot.

Call it wag the dog, call it political posturing.
But we need a war we can win.
The Olympics are ending and that swell of nationalistic pride will soon get sucked down the drain like Michael Phelps’ competitors.
The war in Iraq? Ongoing.
The war on drugs? Too prolific, too costly.
Flicking the ears of smaller countries like Saskatchewan? Tastes great, less filling.
So I give you the war on library fines. You think I’m kidding?
Last week, a woman in Grafton, Wis., was arrested for not paying her library fines. The library was tired of waiting for the cash for “White Oleander” and “Angels and Demons.”
Apparently, she also had a copy of “Ignoring Librarians for Dummies” because library officials said she didn’t answer calls, letters and notices to appear in court.
Have you ever tried to understand anything a librarian says over the phone? Speak up already.
So officers came to the woman’s door, cuffed her and took her to the police station for processing.
Wait, wait, we aren’t going to win the war on library fines with those kind of tepid details.
Let’s try this.
“Shortly before the morning’s dawn broke on the land of cheese, a team of armed commandoes repelled from hovering helicopters to the home of 20-year-old Heidi Dalibor’s. Neighbors recounted the sound of shattering glass as the mercenaries crashed through the windows.
Disoriented by smoke grenades, they found her cowering in a back a room, clutching her copy of ‘What Looks Like Crazy on an Ordinary Day’ – an official Oprah Book Club selection.
Dalibor was taken to an undisclosed location where interrogation continued of where she got the books from and namely the surprise ending to Robert Ludlum’s “The Bourne Sanction.”
Yeah, you see, the stories practically write themselves.
Forget that Dalibor coughed up the $30 in overdue library book fines while her mother picked up the $172 bailout fee.
Think of the publicity, think of the photos.
The president parachuting through the opened skylight of a library behind a red, white and blue banner proclaiming, “Books returned.”
I’m crying here, people. This is beautiful.
If we’re not going to get the terrorists or the drug lords, it’s time to go one rung lower on the criminal ladder.
Hand over the Harry Potter book, Timmy.
That was due two weeks ago.

No clarity here

Let me get this straight. The Democratic National Convention is supposed to convince me to vote for one candidate, Barack Obama. But, after two nights of convention watching, my clarity is skewed. First, I thought Barack Obama's brother-in-law Craig Robinson was inspiring – why not him? Then Michelle Obama seemed very deserving of the nod and, after last night, why not Hillary or Chelsea? And when tonight has come to an end, well, it may be the Sabrett Hot Dog guy.

One, two, three shots, you're out

Here's a fun drinking game for night two of the DNC. Take a shot every time NBC cuts to Joe Biden in the audience. You'll end up with a good buzz and, if you're lucky, you might even be able to forget you're watching political speeches.

Unfair

Congrats to the U.S.A. basketball team on winning the gold medal. Compared to the 2004 debacle, they accomplished the feat with a lot of class. Despite that, it's time to turn U.S. Olympic basketball back to the amateurs. It's a lose-lose situation for the pro guys. Win? Big yawn, that's what you are supposed to do. Lose? Are you kidding me. You guys are a disgrace. It's really not fair.

Yo, McCaindrian.

As a media member, I got a release featuring a first look at the Republican National Convention podium. Oh, yes, I'll share. Do you remember Apollo Creed's get up from Rocky?

I'm getting deja vu.

Does that make John McCain "Mick?"

I'll take Iraq, thanks

As the Democratic National Convention rolls into town, Denver police have been warned of the dangers they should expect to find from protesters. The list includes cases of nails that can be used to flatten vehicle tires or thrown at first responders, metal and plastic shields with long screws, wooden protest sign handles (Swing, Mighty Casey) and chemicals possibly coming from balloons.
All a little ironic to me since my brother, currently serving in Iraq, is also a Denver police officer and, if not for that little detour, he'd be right in the middle of this mess. But, you know, for at least a few days next week, I think he's safer in Iraq.

A million alcoholics can't be wrong

While it's purely hypothetical since nothing will change, some of our nation's college presidents are again asking that the drinking age be lowered to deter binge drinking on college campuses. Because if you can drink, you won't drink. A million alcoholics can't be wrong. Sure, lower the drinking age but raise the driving age. Because teens with friends and text messaging are dangerous enough on the roads.

So when did you start listening to me?

On the eve of the Bejing Olympics, I opined that no one really watches the Olympics anymore. Of course, I was speaking for myself but also trying to sum up the feelings of a society that I felt had moved on from such trifling fare like synchronized rowing. Boy, was I wrong. An estimated 31 million people (including myself) watched Michael Phelps win his eighth gold medal Saturday night. That's pretty cool. Sometimes, it feels good to be completely wrong.

We are all guilty

I kept pretty close tabs over the past couple weeks as the parents of Chandler Grafner met justice. To refresh, this was the boy who was starved to death while he was a kept in a closet like an animal. Child abuse has always been horrific to me but I don't think it had nearly the same impact until I became a parent, looked at my own child and wondered how somebody could harm anyone so precious and innocent. I was happy to see both parents heading to jail for a long time. But that happiness is short-lived. Sure, they got what they needed but we are all guilty for what happened to Chandler. This was a system that let a little boy down. It seems like every chance to intervene, to see the signs of abuse, to save a child's life were missed. That's too bad. I hope we do better next time. Have a good weekend.

No medal for you

Yes, we did take yesterday off from blogging – part of the aforementioned Madden day of mourning. How about these sour grapes some are expressing about the Olympic gymnastics competition. While the U.S. women have owed up to their silver medal flame out (not helped by injuries), others continue to grouse about the apparent age impropriety of the gold medal Chinese team. If the U.S. team can't beat a bunch of Chinese preteens or at least reasonably distract them with Hello Kitty backpacks, then they don't deserve a spot on the Olympic medal stand.

On hold

For nearly a decade, this week has been the week where I tap into my inner-geek and get my copy of Madden football for whatever video game console I have at the time. I'm sad to announce that it is on hold this year. No, I will not be outside Flatiron Crossings Mall tonight at 12 a.m. waiting to get my copy. This is because my wife and I continue secret contract negotiations on purchasing a new video game system that rhymes with pee. We hope these negotiations will be complete by Christmas time. In the meantime, my heart is with you, Madden. We'll get through this difficult time together ... alone.
P.S. Thanks for voting on the poll. That will be this week's column. Even though your lukewarm and apparently divided reception to it makes me think it's time to crank it up again.

Family Matters

Hey, Knowmers, this is a rare opportunity. Read this column for next week's edition of Spare Change. Then vote on it in the right corner. If you like it, it will be published in the Brighton Blade. If not, you're only going to see it here. Of course, as always, feel free to add any comments down below.
The following column is ostensibly about professional sports. Please stay tuned to the end of the column for an axiom on pro sports as they relate to everyday life.
Sorry about the disclaimer. I just know that professional sports are such a polarizing topic that, without a preface, I’d lose half of you before we even began.
Last week, a camera spotted a couple of Milwaukee Brewers baseball players pushing each other around in the dugout. This shouldn’t be too surprising. Given the amount of butt-slapping in professional sports, you had to know one thing would eventually lead to another.
But this wasn’t friendly, “doggy get off my leg” pushing. They were angry.
Generally questions are asked when people start pushing each other around, sometimes the police are even called. Our office, for instance, has a strict no-pushing rule.
So it made sense that following the game, a reporter, bored with the Wisconsin Rockies coughing up another game, asked Brewers manager Ned Yost about the incident.
Reporters often ask imposing questions, sometimes we even write stories. Yost, apparently not familiar with reporters, didn’t like this at all.
First he sang a line from a Sister Sledge song.
“It’s not a big deal,” Yost said. “For eight months a year, we’re a family.”
He declined to say whether he had all his sisters with him.
Unable to soothe the cretins, he used a Sopranoish mob reference.
“At times things happen, flare up, but it’s between the family. It’s in the family.”
At that point, I don’t know if you say fuggedaboutit or holler for Edith.
But the penultimate line came when Yost further explained why it was no consequence to anyone but “the family.”
“It’s a little bit rude when your neighbors are fighting next door for you to go knock on the door and ask what happened. We handle it ourselves. It’s between us and it’s nobody’s business. But it wasn’t that big a deal.”
But herein lies the problem.
I don’t normally go knock on my neighbor’s door and ask why they’re fighting? But my neighbors normally don’t charge my family 50 bucks a head plus $11 for a dog and beer to sit on their couch and watch them fight.
It’s a horrible cliché to say fans pay athletes salaries. If I cut the checks for athlete’s salaries, I find a way to keep Matt Holliday in a Rockies uniform and ship Carmelo Anthony to Seattle (yes, I know they lost their team).
Greedy businessman with television deals and skyboxes pay athletes salaries. Fans have been lost in the equation. We are spit on, given the finger or pummeled to a pulp if we stop by Detroit.
Still, as a fan, I take my child to baseball games then I have to explain to her why grown men are fighting each other in the dugout. Perhaps I shouldn’t bother. Maybe Yost could pen his “good fences” theory in children’s prose.
Changing the focus from Wisconsin where the brats are delicious and the quarterback is confused, I thought Colorado Commissioner of Education Dwight Jones made a great point a couple weeks ago when he suggested educators, not athletes, be our children’s role models.
Of course, it would never work. What with teachers working long hours to educate our kids and begging for a little of our respect while pro athletes shower fellow night club attendees with champagne and then deride us for not knowing how much pressure they really endure.
Plus have you ever seen a teacher try to dunk a basketball or run a respectable time in the 40? Good luck.
But, hey, who wants to hear about sports again anyway?

Hey, I'm looking here

Last night a local newscast shared a heartwarming story about a girl with a massive facial deformity who's now much better. Great, touching human interest. Here's the problem.
When a newscast shares anything remotely disturbing, blood on the ground, Paris Hilton – they will preface it with "We should warn you the following images may be disturbing."
And most of them are not.
But then they throw up a very graphic photo of this child's face – prior to plastic surgery – with nothing to warn me.
Hello! I'm eating here.

What's in a name?

Naming a child, when done properly, is a daunting, soul-searching task.
When done hastily and, perhaps inebriated, it is a lesson in buffoonery.
Take, for example, the case of a New Zealand couple that temporarily lost custody of their sanity and, more importantly, their daughter, because they named her, “Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii.”
The artist formerly known as Talula is now back with her parents, who somehow dodged a child abuse resulting from stupidity charge, and she has a new name, “Sally Jean Shucks Corn from Nebraska.”
This is an extreme case. Most parents, excluding the Zappa family, exercise discretion in what they name their children. Most understand the tightrope walked in deciding a name. You want a strong name but maybe Proximo is a little too strong. You want a unique name but maybe Pumpkin Butter Drizzle sounds like a Rachael Ray recipe.
You also want to come up with a name that sounds successful. If you have aspirations of your child being a doctor, you don’t name them Cleon. Unless you live in the South, then you skip the medical degree and name the kid Dr. Cleon. If you think your kid might one day inherit a small fortune and be able to run for president, then you’ve got to give them a fitting name, not unlike John or Barack.
It’s fine for a Bernie to sell me a used car. I’m not sure if I want him selling an economic stimulus package to Congress. How seriously are other countries going to take us when President Roscoe Lee Jenkins III says, “We going to war.”
I think even envisioning a president named Kevin is a stretch. Lucky for you, there’s six more years until I can officially declare my candidacy.
My wife and I have agonized over a name for our second child. The difficulty is a bit of a surprise. The first child’s name came to us quickly, rolled right off the tongue. Maybe we expected similar luck this time around.
Instead, we’ve spent lengthy discussions batting around an endless list of names, with much of it to no avail. We’ve even thought about waiting until birth, looking in those eyes and letting this child tell us its name. The fear, of course, being that our child’s name actually looks like a theatre stage direction – Baby Cries.
The process, much like investing in airline stocks, can be over thought.
If you look at it as just a name (even though it’s clearly so much more) then perhaps the enormity of the job you have will escape you. This can be a blessing unless you’re stuck between Mallory and Moonbeam. May I suggest a middle ground with Moonory?
But if you start thinking about job resumes, newspaper bylines (a personal fave) and office nameplates, it becomes scary. There are few things that you get to bestow upon someone they will have for the rest of their life. Even the latest bad haircut I got will eventually go away.
But a name, good, bad or just plain hideous (provided it isn’t so bad that the courts have to legally mandate it be changed) sticks with you forever.
Even, after you’re dead, people can still come to your tombstone and ponder who would name their kid “Rootie Tutti Fresh and Fruity?”
Come to think of it, that has a nice ring to it.

Mars not worth a hill of beans

Obviously, I touched a nerve with my Olympic rant and I will never tread on such hallowed ground again. Is anybody awake out there? Maybe I will awake you with this startling discovery from Mars.
LOS ANGELES- NASA's Phoenix spacecraft has detected the presence of a chemically reactive salt in the Martian soil, a finding that if confirmed could make it less friendly to potential life than once believed.
Scientists previously reported that the soil near Mars' north pole was similar to backyard gardens on Earth where plants such as asparagus, green beans and turnips could grow. But preliminary results from a second lab test found perchlorate, a highly oxidizing salt, that would create a harsh environment.
Can we now stop exploring Mars and spend our billions of dollars on better things like a cure for a cancer?

Snooze-fest

Perhaps I'm going to be an ugly American and spout some ignorance or even arrogance, but is anybody really going to watch the Olympics over the next two weeks? Maybe I'm too ensconced in the world of professional sports and multi-million dollar athletes but I don't see the appeal anymore.