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When a multi-millionaire superstar shows what he really plays for - to win, as a team - why, anything is possible. In an era of pouts and steroids, this is why sports still matter: because anything is possible - just keep moving toward your goals!

The bitter part of the sweetness of life is made of bad decisions and laced with good intentions. It is part of the mystery: you make a choice and live with it, sure that you one day will wind up somewhere, hoping only that your end is as close as possible to where you planned it to be. Dreamers and fools think that it will happen just as they imagine it will, but the reality is that it very rarely is so simple. Life never takes a straight path to death, and as such the best laid plans are, indeed, still plans based on the hopes and aspirations you think you want, are sure you want – only to discover that when the day is done, it was nothing like you imagined it would be. It’s the journey that makes the struggle sweet, the experience that makes life and love and labor a thing of joy.

There’s simply no accounting for change. Like a river that flows and tumbles on its way to the ocean, change never pauses, always pushing forward to the ocean with violent grace and single-minded determination. You can jump in and let it carry you along, and live in the current of the world, or you can stand on the side and watch it pass, content in your place and time, happy to watch the river flow along without you. You can stick a toe in the water, pull it out, and debate whether or not it’s too cold to slide into the current, wanting to but afraid to all at the same time, never sure, non-committal and too scared to make a decision, to take a stand and either build your house along the side, or jump in and see where the water takes you. That is the great unknown; that is your defining moment. Jump in, or stay out. The water is cold, and dark, the current strong, and the only thing you know for sure is that on its way, the river carries with it only the rocks and pebbles it can hold, discarding the old and picking up new at each bend, leaving behind the large and heavy boulders as markers to where the river flowed.

Billy was not as old as he looked. Torn down as he was by hard and foolish living, Billy was young in his mind, enough so anyway to suck in the gut and flirt with girls too pretty and far to put together for an sad old clown like Billy.

Ah. Poor old Bill gave the girls the creeps, with his broad hints and never ending attempts at illicit romance. That large and sloshy gut, the rotten teeth, that thin and greasy hair, the smile that made little girls hide behind their Daddies. Divorced. Lonely. Hanging onto a job where no one really liked him, but no one really minded, either. An inconsequential speck, nothing to nobody except for the guy sitting next to him at Hooters on $1 Buffalo Wings night.

Billy is all about going through the motions, shadow-boxing his life along and hoping to land a blow. So it’s a curious thing, then, that someone as stilty and repressed as he could have such a moment of clarity, of clear thinking, of lonely logical and brutal honesty. We all get lucky, we all get that tap on the shoulder and the whispered words in the ear. And so — there he was, minding his business on the train platform, watching for the bright white light to bounce off the waves of heat dancing down the line.

Thank God, thought Billy. There it is. Only three minutes to wait. This train business is more stressful than driving! He looked around, saw a blond waiting at the edge of the track, and sidled up.

“Are you waiting for the 416, too?”

“Yeah.”

You bet, sweet cheeks. Billy got the message, and the converstation died like a whale in a bathtub. He inched away, away of the chill, not wanting to get cold. Brrrrr, he said. I will need to make a mental note of her face.

4:13

Damn. Why does it take so fucking long for the train to get here? He checked the schedule, making sure the time printed was 4:16 and not, 5:10 or something – which would have made him really happy. What made it worse was that it was really damn hot and bright on this platform. Made of white concrete and brushed aluminum, the platform shone like a brilliant concentration camp, and, unless you had dark sunglasses, it seared into your corneas and made you never, ever want to come back. Billy could feel a bead of sweat working its way down his back, dancing around moles and powering through hairs. God, how he wished he was home, to his dog, or back at work, or, better yet, at the bar. Stand here on the train platform or go to a bar and get drunk.

He turned his iPod up a little more.

Shit. He could barely afford the train fare. Since his car got impounded, his life had been shit, His girlfriend left, the boss was giving him hell, hassling him about the job he was doing, the Ex wanted her freaking child support, on and on and on it went until he just felt like he was gonna blow. That’s when he took the crowbar to the Ex’s Lexus – freaking whore, married with another kid on the way, it’s only been two years. Shit. She didn’t have to go and call the cops, either, she knew I was good for it. Fuck her, Billy thought. She knew better than to mess with the bull. And now she gets the horns – no child support for that bitch.

4:14

Oh fuck me!! Where is that flipping train! The light is still there! Arghhhh! Billy was ready to blow. Where the hell is it? Where is it? Billy was pacing inside his brain, and it was urging his feet to go along. Nah, I can’t. I have to look cool. Those dudes who pace, they end up jumping off the platform and screwing everyone. I can’t do that, besides, I have too much to live for.

Billy smiled at that thought.

Learned something new today: I am a talking head. That’s right. I who have spent 25 years writing have been tossed onto the vacuous nincompoop heap, an empty brain with chattering gums, spouting off and doing a little dance for the amusement of others. Pull a chord and watch me go – wheeee! I Am the Talking Head!

It was a casual comment, made by a man who meant nothing by it and who barely knows my name. And perhaps it was just a flip comment in general terms. But it makes me wonder how such a judgment was rendered, and why, when that person knows me only from what others have told him, why those others would attempt injury to my reputation as a knowledgeable person. Sadly, I do not wonder by whom, or for what reason.

But perhaps being classified as such should make me proud. After all, David Byrne is a talking head — I take deep comfort in that. And, really, I am far too ugly and bloated to ever qualify in that group. But if I am, then based on the apparent criteria so is every other expert brave enough to sit under lights, stare into a camera and share his or her knowledge. To me, a Talking Head is told what to say, one of those who gets a script written by others and mouths the words, parroting some anonymous writer’s thoughts and getting paid to do so. I do my own research; write my own stories. I come up with my own ideas, and the opportunity to be a Talking Head comes from writing and studying those things that people want to know more about.

And by the way, it’s not easy – at least, if this really is the definition of a Talking Head.

It’s a bittersweet thing, all in all, to enjoy a moment of victory, to enjoy the result of your labor, yet to be met with silence, evil stares and snide comments. I’m guilty of it too, as are we all, and I suppose that it is just part of life. People are jealous by nature, and when jealous, they do and say things to undermine and betray. The competitive world is full of people who get ahead by making others look bad on purpose, who are not content to allow their own quality to rise and be recognized. I felt it today when I walked through the doors; felt the negative energy, the hate and anger pointed toward me. There are things I do better than others, and there are things they do better than me. For a long time, the realization that this could never just “be” made me sad, and angry too, and I spent many hours thinking about how I could even the score. But I remembered some of the workplace trials my father went through – and they were the same. The jealousy, the maneuvering. The games, and the unquenchable thirst to control the board on which people play out their lives.

That’s what I’m doing. Just playing out my life, and my mandate to provide for my family. When I die, I will not think of the 15 minutes of fame I got on television – I will have forgotten all about it, should I be blessed enough to live a long and happy life. The success I achieve by doing that is a happy byproduct of hard work. I’m not smart, or even very clever. But sometimes I put it all together, and I get to enjoy the results. For those who resent that, I’m sorry, and hope that one day you can be content in your own skin, and leave mine – or someone else’s – alone.

The dog died. And that was it — no reason, no whys or explanation, she just died after one solitary night away from her family. The family had dropped her off at the local pet hotel the day they went on vacation, and the dog never came back.

They were back soon enough, stunned and mourning the loss of a family member, each wondering why such a healthy, happy creature such as she would just up and leave this earth. But there was no why, nothing to write down on the paper, nothing to fill that empty place that comes only when a loved one passes along; no way to reason it or accept it. Just here, then gone, leaving one plausible but unscientific explanation:

That dog died of a broken heart.
Dogs have no protective filter with which to view the world. They are totally loyal and completely open; they are what you see, an expression of the world around them. They are kind if shown kindness, loving if given love, fearful if made to be afraid, violent if taught to be angry. Granted, all dogs carry with them the engineered genetics of their breed and their inclination toward a certain personality, but it is their environment that dictates how the personality expresses itself. For her, she didn’t understand why she was put in a cage and sent away. Didn’t understand, and thought that she was unloved, unwanted and discarded.

And she just died at the thought of it.

In case you thought dodging bombs in Lebanon was tough, try avoiding a careening Winnebago in Iowa. That’s right – going on right now is the Blue Ox Back Seat Driver Competition. For the 37th year, motorhome owners will try their luck at navigating an obstacle course blindfolded by following directions over a radio. The event draws over 3,500 motorhome drivers from around the nation, and is perhaps the largest and most grotesque celebration of conspicuous fuel consumption.

Ahh. But wait a sec. There is something sweetly appropriate about this event. Consider: While the rest of the world is under siege from any number of calamities, while the US suffers from high gas prices, record hot weather and fat kids, thousands of blindfolded conservatives gather in an Iowa field. It’s perfect. Nothing says Bush America quite like a blind old freak behind the wheel of a Winnebago – especially when they start driving backwards.