Sofi's Book - Draft

I just finished the draft of Sofi's Book. The writing part was easy, but I'm arguably the worst website designer in history, so it took me awhile. Anyway, you can see it too. It's at www.rwhiteside.net - you'll probably have to wait a few seconds for the pictures to come up; I did. It's still rough, with some grammatical and positioning errors, but it's a start. My daughter Sonja liked it, which is what counts. I'll keep the updates posted over on the website.

A No Rabbit Easter

We had a great Easter Sunday, without rabbit. I checked; we had some pig, some cow, some chicken, maybe a little turkey, beans, potato salad, coleslaw, onion rings, nachos, pickles, onions and sauce. Wore it out, is what we done. But there was no rabbit.

The completely and totally beloved Barbara went to church with some good friends and enjoyed herself immensely (I’m looking forward to going when I won’t feel like an Easter church meeting hypocrite). I met them all at the Blue Cactus restaurant afterwards for the BBQ, fellowship, and some phenomenally good bluegrass music. First, the restaurant review:

The Blue Cactus used to be a honky-tonk bar of the old school, which I visited often. Beer drinkin’ was required, floor-spittin’ allowed if you could find a clean spot, and of a Friday there was the usual country crowd; dressed up cowgirls and a few fellows with ironed jeans accompanied by lots of fellows with raggedy jeans and a beer-given certainty in their dancing skills. If you didn’t have some kind of a hat the folks would wide-eye you.
Today it’s a family kind of BBQ place, in the daytime at least. And the BBQ is good. The brisket needed a couple more hours in a moist smoker, but the ribs and chicken were outstanding. Sausage is sausage and that’s all I’m saying about that. The chicken fried steak was reported to be okay, but the gravy needed some work, mostly in the form of some cookin’ debris mixed in for flavor. You know, the Burnt Crunchy Bits, or BCB’s. A good gravy needs some BCB’s. The onion rings were good, but the grease should have been a little cooler to cook the onions more. Nachos were excellent.
The iced tea was adequate, and the water with lemon was real good. It had a bouquet of coyote, or maybe big dog off his leash and I think I detected just a hint of mesquite. The taste was pure recycled RiverWalk, and the lemon was tart with them big old brown spots on the skin. Matured lemons are the best. In the Sarge’s rating book, the Blue Cactus is a 3-visit Keeper just for the food and water. But the music made it an 8-visit Keeper.

I had never heard bluegrass music before. I was an over-50 world traveling been there done that bluegrass virgin. I loved it! When I was a kid in Alaska music was a serious hobby for me, even a potential vocation until I saw how hard it was to make a living and how rough that living could be. But I met some good guitar pickers of the 60’s hard rock variety. Saw Hendrix, the Kay brothers, saw that blind kid from Bethel, heard them all. And the Tennessee Valley Authority, five guys who were jamming bluegrass style yesterday were pretty much as good as any of them. Two of the best guitar pickers I ever heard in my life, a banjo player of world-class skill, and a great mandolin player. The bass-player was a young college fellow they had just called that day to fill in and who had never played the music before and he hung right in there, grinnin’ and fakin’ and doing it good. His Dad, Mom, and sister were sitting with us and were unmercifully hilarious, hootin’ and laughing and directing him like white-tails conductors when he sang backup on songs he’d never sung before. In my first hearing of bluegrass I believe I was real lucky to hear some experts. One of the visiting guitar players was a local doc, a chest-cutter who also happened to be the certified best guitar picker in Texas, and the normal guitar lead was just as good with a different style, more slides and minors, wandering off the page then walking everyone right back in. I heard about 8 layers to the music the first time I heard it. I’m going to listen to a lot more; I’m sure I missed a lot. Great, great music by the Tennessee Valley Authority.

I didn’t find a single egg, ‘cause nobody laid any. Close friends, good food, and great music. It was a day I’ll remember.

Horse Racing vs Cockroach Racing

The differrence between horse racing and cockroach racing is publicists.
That's it.
Update: and the size of the stands. maybe the jockeys, but i 'm not sure. And I guess whips are a little out of place when you're riding a carapace.

Sports Media Hurts Sports

The World Champion San Antonio Spurs have three games to play, and need three wins to have their best season ever. This achievement is in spite of the fact that Duncan and Ginobili have been hobbled the entire year with foot injuries. The other offensive superstar, Tony Parker, has stepped up with his best year ever, both on the court and off (dating an extremely good-looking lady from Desperate Housewives). Bruce Bowen, the defensive wizard, is as good as or better than the championship years. Unfortunately, he spent most of his time working towards his Masters degree and helping local schoolchildren, instead of in a courtroom or sniveling about another player. Yawn.

Aren’t you getting tired of reading about them and hearing about them? You’re not? Oh right, they’re only the 37th largest media market. The only thing you hear about the Spurs or San Antonio is when Phil Jackson or (pick a name from) ESPN radio bemoan the fact that the playoff finals might occur by the River Walk or in Detroit instead of South Beach and LA.

Surprisingly, this post isn’t about the Spurs or even San Antonio. It’s about sports media as we know it today. Media is business, and business is money. Money is generated by ratings, and ratings are generated from the most populous areas. Yada yada yada. It’s a pretty linear relationship, and it applies to news, sports, weather, and traffic. The only difference between Pardon The Interruption and QVC are the products they pitch. One yaps about handmade Amish pot holders and one yaps about Kobe Bryant or Barry Bonds.

So, bouncing straight past the next comparison between whores and sports media celebrities, let’s finally get to the question:

Are today’s sports media good for sports?

If you live in one of the crowded coastal areas, you’ll hear a lot of regional sports news. If you live in a crowded but otherwise isolated area such as Seattle or San Antonio, it’s local coverage only. If you live in the Heartland, you may not be able to tune in any kind of news about your team. So what’s a good sports fan to do? Well, how many Cowboys fans live hundreds or thousands of miles away from Dallas? The answer is: very, very many. How about LA Lakers fans? Same same. How many Seattle Mariners fans live in Baltimore? Eleven.

Small market teams find it almost impossible to attract good players on their way up, because players get paid as much on marketing power as athletic skill. No ratings, no huge bonus. Athletes in the very small prime-time career window want ratings of any kind whatsoever, be it sports highlights or gossip columns or courtrooms or commercials. Only when their “q-factor” starts to slide due to eroding skills, over-the-top behavior, over-hyping or any combination thereof will you see them moving to the smaller market teams who are desperate for star power to put butts in seats.

The argument that national sports media helps the big-market teams become more competitive than the small market teams is compelling. But is it bad for sports? I argue that the answer is a resounding Yes! I believe that the real problem is the influence of marketing power over athletic skills. Is Kobe Bryant the best player in the NBA? Athletically you have to rank him at the top but he’s only recently regained that status after the PR disaster of Colorado. Two years in the hinterlands is a long time for an innocent man. His skills weren’t dramatically lessened following knee surgery, but his marketing power was.

Matt Hasselbeck is a huge marketing power, and got gazillions in signing bonus, right? Well, no. The man works in Seattle. Tony Parker is a PR powerhouse, isn’t he? Well, no. The man works in San Antonio. Ugly people shouldn’t apply either. Remember all of Bill Walton’s national commercials? You don’t? How about Michael Jordan’s? You do?

When flash outweighs skills, the sporting aspect loses. Period. When TV sports celebrities hump an athlete’s leg because of his shoe deal while his team misses the playoffs, then my friends we are watching the Home Shopping Channel in baggy shorts.

If the Spurs win another championship and Gregg Popovich and Phil Jackson are in the same room at the same time, get ready to hear from the “Zen Master” my peeps. Coach Pop works in San Antonio. Screw winning, look at that Q! Look at the ratings!

Lisa, from Texas

I have a Texan friend, Lisa. I don’t have a lot of friends, but the few I have, I treasure. Anyway - Lisa.

First, she is gorgeous. Slim, blonde, blue-eyed, with a smile that just stops you cold. She was young when I met her, and she is slightly less young now (older than shit, Lisa), but still gets that second and third look when she’s walking around. And she’s tougher than your Grandma’s elbow. Many times I have seen her smile that big smile at men and tell them to urinate vertically onto a braided hemp product used to knot and secure, or when she’s had three more beers tell them to attempt an aeronautical intercourse activity with a motivated piece of cylindrical pastry. {for you non-military types that translates to “piss up a rope” or “take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut”} and they grin and bob their heads and just lap it up. I always sat back and laughed.

I’ve often thought that the best way to describe Lisa is “a two-fisted thinker”. She doesn’t suffer fools at all, not even for the moment of political correctness. She might not speak up immediately, but those of us who let the fool stroll out on our tongue know that at some time soon, Lisa will puncture our ego balloon.

Lisa worked with me a couple of times. I have had mature and successful men come into my office in tears because “Lisa was mean to me!” Either Lisa or I fired every one of them, or they quit real soon after that painful interview. Conversely, I sincerely believe that she is the best team builder I ever saw. For a mean-assed woman, I mean. When she has formed a team, they out-work and out-perform anyone around, and they love doing it. Lisa feeds them, cares for them, teases them, laughs with them, and they give it right back to her. Customers love her, and so does her team after the straphangers are gone.

Lisa is a Marine, but out of the Corps, in the same sense that I'm a soldier but out of the Army and it’s a good thing the Marines are tough sons-a-bitches or they woulda’ had to learn when Lisa got there.

She rides her motorcycle, disdains folks weaker than she is, gets rid of less than productive workers, pisses off politically correct corporate bureaucrats, and prefers cats to dogs. If she works for you, she will test you just about every day. Flinging her shit right back at her is pretty much the only way I ever learned to stand her. One time I told her “Lisa, you should never miss the opportunity to shut the fuck up”. She didn’t shut up, but she remembered that command, ‘cause now that I’m feeble and retired she quotes it to me.

And I love her. I love the strength, the passion, the “Fuck you, you aren’t Texan” attitude. She is funny, profane, caring, and won’t return phone calls worth a shit. Just a good damned friend. I wish you all the same luck.

A Plan

So hey, you’re dying, huh?

Yeah, and so are you mudbone. I might get there a nanosecond before you do on the galactic scale, but we’re all headed there. I had a little stroke. The enormous medical book says that odds are I’ll have another one within the next year, and it will be a bigger one. I don’t have any money left after the disability czars at SAIC and Cigna threw me on the trash heap, but I’ve got a lot going for me that they can’t take away.

My left arm doesn’t work, but I’m right handed
I can’t walk some days, but both my feet still reach the ground, and I’ve seen a lot of people who don’t have feet, or legs either.
I can’t eat much, but I’m overweight and it’ll do me good.
I have a lot of pain, but I also have a lot of drugs, and military healthcare.
I lost the hearing in my left ear, but that means I can just lay on my right ear when the completely and totally beloved Barbara is watching one of those dumbass shows she loves, and we can enjoy being close.
I get to sleep with the most wonderful woman I ever met, the C&TB Barbara.

Here’s my plan:

I’m going to listen to the birds sing, every day while I still can.
I’m going to write what’s in my heart, with no worries about what I say.
I’m going to sue the shit out of my disability antagonists
When I save a little money, I’m taking my sweetie to the coast and watch the ocean, drink in its power.
I’m going to sit in the sun, and smile when I see snow on Channel 5.
I’m going to enjoy my family, from my Mom to my sisters to my kids and my granddaughter. Really, really enjoy them.
I’m going to love the holy bejesus out of my wife Barbara. She is the power source of my soul, and I dunno’ what I did to deserve her, but I ain’t giving her back.

That’s my plan. I think I’ll go work on it a bit.

The Cause of my Stroke

I think I figured out what caused me to have a stroke. A couple of weeks ago, completely and totally beloved Barbara, my Mom and I went over to Gruene, which is a little touristy town close to New Braunfels. It has a lot of character, and a dancehall that every local loves. It’s not air conditioned, it looks like it might fall down, and there’s always good music in the evenings of the Texas country persuasion. It’s also the place a young feller named George Strait got some stage time before he went off to Tennessee to impress the poohbahs there.

Anyway, Mom was in one of those shops where they sell all the tourist junk and C&TB Barbara and I were sitting on a bench outside. There was a little girl coming down the street who was just cuter than a bug. It was Sunday and she had on a white dress with lacey stuff at the bottom with red ribbons pulled through it, and her hair was tied up like puppy-dog ears and tied with red ribbons too. She was holding a leash with one of those Westy terriers attached and his hair was tied up the same way. Although C&TB Barbara doesn’t like Westies, she loves dogs in general so she asked the little girl what her name was. She said “Petal” and my sweetie asked her how she got that name. “When I was in my Mommy’s tummy she and Daddy were sitting in that park over there and some flowers from the tree fell on her, so they decided to name me Petal”. C&TB asked her what her doggies name was. “Porky” she said. So Barbara asked her why his name was Porky. The sweet little girl said “Because he likes to fuck pigs.”

And I laughed so hard I bet I busted something loose in that dried up walnut I call a brain. That’s why I had a stroke, I’m betting you.

Chasing the Geniuses from Way Behind

Writing is a funny business. I read the work of good writers, and I’m both awestricken and envious. In my opinion good writers are able to move their ideas around a palette of possibilities while keeping the points of their tale clean, clear, and easy to follow. Some of the great ones, Peggy Noonan for example, can make it look so easy that I just had to try for myself. I’m smart, if disabled and I love the act of creating an idea for others to see. But I’m also smart enough to know that I’m not a good writer yet. I’m a dabbler, an idea source without the discipline to convert it to crisp prose. I think I’m like the person who can envision or even design a beautiful set of cabinets, but can’t take the wood and create the product. Mmmmh, no, I am exactly that person.
How do they do that? Where do artists find both the creativity to form a piece of art mentally and the discipline to work through the hours, days, and months needed to produce a work that lasts in the memory of people exposed to it? Maybe they just keep doing it until they’ve built up enough mental muscle to keep themselves working on one idea until it’s formed, baked, and cooled before haring off on another idea that excites them. Or maybe they’re just geniuses who have better skills than me. Or both (.
I’m going to continue to dive into their work and wade into my own until I get it right. The first part will be wonderful and the second will surely be a lifetime mission.

Oh, by the way, you had a stroke

The nurse from my doctor's office called today with the results of my Echo-cardiogram and MRI and said my heart looked pretty good, and Oh by the way, you did have a stroke.
So I thought about it, then re-checked my insurance, then considered my lifestyle. I've always been of the philosophy that while I live, I will live. That's easy to do when you're young. But when you're 54 and retired and feelin' safe, you reconsider.

I guess I'll continue the bull riding, but stop the smoking. Maybe have extra lettuce and tomato on my cheeseburgers. Cut down on the vino. Mmmmh, did I say bull riding? I meant bullshitting. Ah well, such is li...SH..Thud.

OH SH..Thud

Well I was driving down the road one day
Tryin’ to sing a little higher
An 18-wheeler just up the road
Pitched a rock between its tires
And as I watched it float

I said them two words
what sum up The situation most

“OH SH..thud” shattered glass and brakes
That’s 300 bucks that I don’t own
And glass all o’er the seat
I stopped my truck and sat there
Thinkin’ about my luck

I guess them two words can best describe
Why it just ain’t worth a (fuck) darn

OH SH..thud – that mortar in Iraq
That blew my birthday iPod up and
Put steel in my (ass) back
And how the fellows laughed at me
When I got my Purple Heart
‘cause I ain’t sat down for three long weeks
Maybe it will help me start

I came home to find my girlfriend
Sleeping with my bud
I got my butt up on my shoulders
And then it was SH..Thud
He broke my nose and cracked two ribs
Without even getting up
But when I came back with the 2x4
All he said was “OH SH..Thud”

So I spent three months on the county farm
Never saw that girl again
My assignment to the States was gone
Not for someone from the pen

They busted me down to PFC
And sent my ass straight back
I’ve lost my birthday iPod
But I damn sure found Iraq

And so it goes, my buddy drove
The Humvee back to base
He drove over an old garbage sack
And it blew us into space
As I was goin’ out I heard my buddy holler
‘Look out Oh Mom hang on there, bud'
Then the biggest noise I ever heard
and me -
'OH SH..Thud’

No buddy, no left leg
No money comin up
Just two words sing my life today
OH SH..Thud
copyright April 2006 RM Whiteside

Update: The totally and completely beloved Barbara didn't like this poem/song. She said it's depressing, and she thinks it was a cathartic outpouring from my combat days. I think it's an oldfartic outpouring from a gimpy old soldier. We're probl'y both right.

Sharing Sneezewhackle for Sofia

Sneezewhackle, Sneezewhackle munchity munch

I have candy in my lunch
Sean wants some, that’s my hunch
Should I keep it or should I share?
It tastes so good but what is fair?

“Pleease Sofia, may I have a bite?”
Sean my friend you certainly might.
How about this red one, what a great sight

“Oooh that’s so good, thanks that’s great
My mouth is watering, I can hardly wait!
I told my Mom how much you share,
So she sent you some chips
And this big juicy pear.”

Oh Sean, whoopee! How great is that!?
I gave you some candy but I got more back
I share with you, you share with me
And that’s how friendship ought to be

Sneezewhackle, Sneezewhackle juwhappity flair
My day is better because we shared

A Priest, A Nun, and a Lawyer

So a priest, a nun, and a lawyer walked into a bar.
The bartender reached under the bar and pulled out a short shotgun with nylon grips and no choke at all. “I’ve had it with you guys! Get the hell out of my bar! I don’t want to be a joke anymore!”

So they were hustled out by a tattoo marketing rep and stood on the sidewalk.

“I just wanted a beer!” said the priest. And the streets ran with the finest beer.

“I just wanted for women to be free to express themselves however they wished!” said the nun. And women all over the city flung off various uncomfortable pieces of foundation garment architecture, took over every single job of importance, and began running a logical but very strict city, ‘cause they are smarter, meaner, and tougher than men.

{There was rejoicing in the streets, until 9:45 p.m., and nobody was upset except for the owners of airport bars who had never sold much wine or booze before. Everyone had to be home by 10:00.}

“I want a franchise!” said the lawyer, and convinced the last male judge to impose a writ of Eminent Domain to take over the bar.

And the beer stopped flowing, the women climbed back into clothes meant to impress other women, but they stayed in charge because, mmmhh they were still tougher, meaner, and smarter.

And the world sucked, thanks to that sumbitch lawyer.