Finally! Someone Gets It.

Well said, Dan. Well said.

“Privacy” is the name of Tiger’s 200-foot yacht, which just goes to prove yet again that you can’t make up in fiction the funny things that actually happen in sports. His Wednesday statement on Tigerwoods.com about this being an invasion on his privacy was vastly more interesting than his admission to “transgressions” — it is just about the first stand he has ever taken, on anything — but pleas for compassion and reason are usually drowned out by the noise that surrounds “Gotcha!”

The media and masses love hypocrisy — cops behaving badly, priests committing sins against God, politicians contradicting their platforms, humans being human — so too many of us will rationalize away our judgmental behavior now by calling him a fraud, cheater, liar and hypocrite and filing it under a public’s right to know, as if a public’s right to know about a guy who hits a golf ball somehow trumps an individual’s right to privacy in a free America.

But here’s where that falls apart: Woods never sold you family values; what he did was start a family. And then he took all his opinions and went on hid on his appropriately-named yacht. He didn’t build that image for himself. We did. His world has never been a whole lot larger than that golf ball. He might have lied to his wife, but he certainly never lied to you. If you bought him as packaged perfection, the only one lying to you was you. His commercials? That’s him selling us purity? No, it isn’t. That’s him selling us razors.

Dan Le Batard–Miami Herald

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Apartment Living

I’ve written about the trials and tribulations of apartment living before. It seems I have an almost otherworldly ability to attract loud and unruly neighbors. First there were those who remained in a perpetual state of heat—bunny-hopping their bed across the hardwood floors at all hours. Then there was the dog that never found sure footing. I can only imagine the scratches on that floor.

But now. Now! These people make those look like saints.

I’m sure it started as a means to entertain a yippy white hairball. Most things do start with good intentions. But it quickly became the fastest way known to man to make my blood boil. I don’t care what anyone tells you: Practicing rudiments on a hard wood floor to make your dog bark at 6:00 AM is never acceptable.
On a side note: I am somewhat glad they didn’t answer the door the day I stalked upstairs in my “Hello, My Name is High Maintenance” pajama bottoms. I would have been an ugly scene.

This went on for weeks. They’d drum, the dog would bark, and I’d beat the living he@@ out of the ceiling with a broom. We became a regular jazz combo.

Then one day it stopped. For a brief moment I thought I might have actually killed the dog. But I’ve willed myself to win the lottery countless times and that’s never happened…besides, the crazy thing thought the broom was part of the game (Oh WOW! Somebody’s beating on the floor—LET’s BARK!!!)

Honestly, I’m not sure what happened. But I hope it found a new, happy home 5,600,781 miles away.
In a normal world, with normal people, that would have been the end of it. (Sigh).

No sooner than the jazz combo stopped, tryouts for the Olympic gymnastics short program began…at 3:45 AM. For the life of me, I don’t know what they’re doing but it certainly sounds like they fall a lot…and like they haven’t missed a meal in…oh, 700 years. I’m at wit’s end. And people wonder why I can’t stay up past 8 PM!

To add insult to injury, I received a call at the office earlier this week from my apartment management company. The message went like this: “Hi, this is Stacy….I was just calling to let you know there was a little flood on the 3rd floor. But don’t worry, we’ve sent a crew out to clean it up and your apartment is fine!”

First of all, I’ve lived in this apartment, and dealt with this particular management company, long enough to know it’s never that easy. The last time I got a call like that the ceiling in my bathroom had fallen in and I spent months vacuuming up plaster. That was after the mushroom crop popped up around my door frame. I’m not kidding.

So I called Stacy back and I was quickly told what I’ve believed to be the case all along: My upstairs neighbors are the root of all evil.

It seems the owner of a once-particularly yippy white fur ball had left the water in the bathtub running. BECAUSE THAT’S SUCH AN EASY THING TO DO???!!!

What kind of uncoordinated moron does that?

They didn’t just leave the bath water running. They left it running for HOURS. So many hours, in fact, that the water seeped through my ceiling and came pouring out the only hole it could find: The light in my hallway.

This might not have been a problem…except for one tiny thing: Stacy told me the damage to my apartment was limited to my bathroom. So, you can imagine my surprise when I flipped on the hall light switch–the one that goes to the same light that saw countless gallons of water flow through it–which turns out to be the same one the maintenance crew never thought to cut the electricity to.

If you’ve ever read the warning on a hairdryer that tells you not to use it in the tub…and you wondered what would actually happen if you did… Let’s just say…if you’re lucky, like me, you’ll live to blog about it another day.

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Rounding Out the Top Ten

Last night, I was one in a sea of screaming American Idol-izers.

I thought about prefacing that statement with a disclaimer about dignity and an apology to those of you who’ve been led to believe I have semi-refined tastes.

But then I thought, “What the hell. I actually enjoyed it.”

In full disclosure, I didn’t buy a ticket to the American Idol Live concert. I was given a ticket–not that Danny Gokey knew the difference when I was clapping like a star struck 13 year old.

I’m typically not a reality tv fan (although I do admit to enjoying the occasional Real Housewives of New Jersey marathon), but there is an unwritten rule in the South–and that is if a contestant from Alabama makes it to the finals, by God, it’s nothing short of your civic duty to cheer them on. Just ask Ruben Studdard and Bo Bice…

This go-round was a little different. There wasn’t an Alabama native in the top 10–but there was something just as appealing to this “bless your heart, have a glass of sweet tea” gal…and that was a heart wrenching love story. Yes Sir/Ma’am I was a fan of Danny Gokey from day one.
But that’s not really relevant here.

I didn’t know what to expect from an American Idol Live concert. Admittedly, I half feared a full-on Copacabana musical event with gaudy costumes and forced dance numbers. “Here at the Copa…” Thankfully, the producers are producers for a reason. At least I believed that until Megan Joy took the stage…

And then I found myself asking “What in the flying fig newtons was that?????????” I now know exactly how far “Pretty” will take you…and at exactly what point “Pretty” will cause your ears to bleed.
I mean no disrespect. My own singing career consists of I-95 karyoke and that one time at Top of the Hill…in both instances I’ve been encouraged to keep my day job.

As the evening progressed, I quickly came to a realization: It sucks to be in the bottom five. No. Really. It sucks. You’re actually lucky if they turn the coliseum lights down when you take the stage. And you’re even luckier if the production team takes a smoke break during your set. Head-Scratching arrangement? Check. Overpowering synthesizer? Check. Screechy backup vocals? Check. Dizzying display of women’s restroom symbols flashing across the screen behind your head? Check. Heaven forbid America second guess the top five!

Strangely enough, all the production guffaws in the world couldn’t keep one of the bottom five down. I’m about to say something I honestly never dreamt I would: Matt Giraud rocked the house. It was the last thing I expected to happen. I was never a Matt fan. He was just too ho-hum for me…and there was that thing growing out of his forehead–I just knew, if ever in a heated argument with him, the words “Rhino Man” would escape me. I’m not proud of that. But now I’d take it all back…and I’d pay money to see him. Which is more than I’d say for the rest of them…

Except maybe if I was out one Friday night with the girls and felt like dancing–then I might pay a cover charge to see Adam do the Y.M.C.A. in Dupont Circle–(He so wants to dress up like the Indian!) I haven’t seen jazz hands like that since my performance class in college. And that’s saying something.

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