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Queen. No not Elizabeth, nor Nour.
Queen, as in Freddy Mercury's band. They sang a song called We are The Champions which gets played a lot when some team, be they professional, college or high school wins their respective championship. Obvious.
Annoying.
Why annoying? No, not because the song is 30 years old and it's been played ad infinitum.
Because I've never had it played for any team I've been on. That's why.
My earliest team sport was baseball, and from Little League (age 9) until Babe Ruth league (age 15) I was cursed to be on one cellar-dwellar after another. Granted, when one (like me) is on a lousy team, and one is only a halfway decent player (like me), one gets to play more than one might if one is a mediocre hitter (like me) on a team of thundering lumberjack superstars. So it does have its upside. But still, I might have liked to have spent even one measly year riding the pine on a championship team.
I've been on 3 softball teams as an adult, and they've all stunk. Yes we've had a few decent years. During one, we even squeaked into the playoffs, where we promptly lost.
My current softball team, in our town's over-35 league, started 4 seasons ago. The team's sponsor is a successful local plumbing company. The owner, who I know from my synagogue, asked me if I wanted in on it when he was forming the team. What I didn't know then was that he was asking a lot of other guys he knew from my Temple. This recruitment policy led to a a team of 6-8 Christian plumbers, 4 Jewish middle managers, and about 8-10 Jewish doctors and lawyers.
Which of course, left us with 3 decent players.
We won, I think, 1 game our first year. We played teams comprised of contractors and firemen and cops and got our butts whipped on a weekly basis. The only saving grace of all this was our parking lot. While other teams were pulling in with panel vans and pickup trucks, ours was rife with Lexus' and Mercedes. We may have lost a lot, but we had it all over the other teams in combined gross income.
Now in our 5th season, we've lost a few doctors to injury (or fear of same). We've lost a couple of lawyers too. But we've picked up a couple of big bats along the way to replace them. We picked up a good pitcher about 3 years ago, who has steadily gotten even better (although he does have occasional bouts of wildness). We spent the early part of the season cruising along in mediocrity, playing many close games but usually coming up short. Late in the season, however, we started to click. We finished by winning 3 of the last 4 games of the season, finishing with 6 and 9 record. Even I contributed, going 10 for my last 12 at bats, batting about .600 for the season.
We qualified as the lowest team for the playoffs, and were bracketed to play the regular season champs (who'd posted a 12-2 record) in the best-of-three semifinal. We shocked the league, sweeping them in 2 straight games.
Next up was the team who'd finished just ahead of us in the regular season standings. We'd beaten them once during the season, so we were feeling pretty confident, and it showed, as we gave up 4 runs early in the first game (of 3), but came back quickly to defeat them in that game. The next two games, however, we reverted to our early season form, giving up runs on walks and errors, and by the time time the last inning was in full swing, we were down by 12 runs and knew our season was over.
While I was disappointed about not having a championship trophy or a jacket to boast of, I knew I was less sad about losing than I would have been happy about winning. I knew we weren't truly the best team in the league, and had we won, it would have been a miracle that could have been chalked up to “getting hot at the right time.”
Still, it would have been nice, afterward, to go back to the bar and sing that stupid Queen song….

There are certain buzzwords that seem to pop up in popular vernacular in any given time period. Some buzzwords are advertising hyperbole like “Ultra” or “Mega.”
Some are business buzzwords like “paradigm” or “efforting.” Some word have been given birth by the internet, like “googling” or “surfing the net.”
There are fancier terms for simple existing ones like “sanitation engineer” for garbage man, or “executive assistant” for secretary.
Recently I was at the 19th hole at my local course, talking to one of the most wizened people I know. A local pundit and retired medicine man, Dr. Joe conjured the 3 words which I believe will become part of the popular vernacular in the next few years.
Remember you heard it here first.
I was distracted from our conversation for a moment, undoubtedly ordering another tequila, when Dr. Joe spoke the words, “orgasmic digital relief.” I did a double take upon hearing this, and said to Joe, “excuse me? What the hell did you just say?”
“Orgasmic. Digital. Relief.”
Perhaps it was the fact that I would have blown a .21 on any drunk-o-meter at the time, so the immediate meaning of these three words just wasn't readily apparent to me.
Did they mean jerking off?
Did they mean jerking off in front of a computer?
Was digital referring to the bits and bytes of the computer language, or fingers?
Was relief the exhale after the orgasm?
Or respite from an arduous task?
Most of the “new” stuff comes from the youth culture. We've all heard people over 40 say, ” I can't keep up with these kids today.” But here I was, in the presence of a man closing in on a hundred years old, spewing a newfangled expression that I know a paradigm shift in reference to menage é moi; efforting to advance the popular vernacular into an ultra new way to talking about spanking the monkey.

I was recently at a business dinner at a very nice restaurant in
Boston. The occasion was for about 50 people who were involved with the
magazine “O at Home” which is Oprah Winfrey's home decorating magazine.
I had recently signed a hefty advertising contract with the magazine
and my company was taking part in a huge event for 5000 Oprah fans
(4972 women, 27 gay guys, and me).

In reality, I am not an Oprah fan. I mean, I don't dislike Oprah or
anything, I just have never watched the show. Well, once actually, when
I was visiting someone in the hospital and it was on the tube at the
time, but that makes me a Martian amongst these True Believers.

So in the few short hours of my exposure to the Oprah folks previous to
the dinner, I learned that Oprah has all these “special guests” who are
her regularly featured experts on a variety of subjects. This is how
Dr. Phil got famous- in fact he got so famous, he went off to his own
successful career. But there are about half a dozen or so of these
regular guests, and each one was going to be giving a seminar on their
particular topic at this event, which was called “O You!.”

I was attending this event with my company's Brand Manager Julie,
who while no Oprah fanatic, certainly had more Oprah Knowledge than me.
Julie and I got to the restaurant and we each grabbed a drink and began
mingling with the other guests. When we were directed to please take
our seats at the various tables, I saw Julie's name card at a table,
but mine was nowhere in sight. The hostess saw our confusion, and
directed me to another table about 20 feet away. I guessed they were
trying to create a social mix, but once I saw my card placed next to
the publisher, I figured my signature on the new contract got me a seat
at the cool kids' table.

So there I was, on my left was the publisher, a 40-ish guy whom I'd met
during our sales pitch sessions, and on my right, I saw a card with the
name Stacey London. Sounded somewhat familiar, but I didn't think
anything of it. A few minutes later, this cute brunette, probably
closing in on 40 sits down. I introduce myself and in all earnestness,
I say, “This isn't a line, but, you DO look really familiar.” She
smiles and casually mentions she “one of the seminar speakers at the
event tomorrow.” I get one of those “duh!” moments and realize she
looked familiar because her poster was all over the Boston Convention
Center this afternoon while we were setting up.

Stacey London has a regular cable TV show called “What Not To Wear” and is Oprah's fashion guru. She is famous.

Duh.

I quickly recovered wth a feigned, “Oh yes, those 20-foot posters I saw
this afternoon must be where I'd noticed you before.” I don't know if
she was being polite or bought my cover, but she smiled and gave a
laugh.

The other 6 people at the table consisted of Oprah's nutrition
guru, Dr. David Katz, his wife, and 4 other women from various other
advertising agencies. The conversation varied from topic to topic,
mostly about Stacey's current cause celebre, helping young women from
13-20 years old deal with body-image issues and find and maintain their
self-esteem. We discussed the fact that there are no good role models
for women in this age bracket that they can really identify with. Most
of the “successful” women who we tend to hold up as good examples are
older (like Oprah for instance) and that the only young role models we
have these days are skanks like Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie. Even
the somewhat less odious role models like, say Brittany Spears, are all
still (when they're not pregnant) a size 2 or less. There are no true
role models for young girls that they can identify with, that have
“normal” bodies, much less ones that might even be, dare we say, fat.

The topic was going round, and the conversation was lively. In
passing, I mentioned my daughter Sarah, who's eleven. One of the women
asked who Sarah looked up to. I tried to think of someone, but I first
had to try to give some background on my kids and my family's
lifestyle.

You see, we're freaks. Nobody in my family has ever watched CSI (anywhere). Nor Lost. Nor American Idol.
So I began by saying that they'd have to understand that my kids aren't
seriously into mainstream pop culture. That I'm raising a couple of
naive bumpkins in the rural exurbia 60 mile north of Manhattan. We have
chickens and goats and….

“You have what?” a few people interrupted in usinson.

“Um, goats.” I hesitated. “Well, we don't have them anymore, but we did have 2 for a couple of years.”

I might as well have said I didn't know who Oprah was. Or that I
believed Elvis was alive and had proof. The conversation- the
high-minded conversation- of a few seconds ago was history, totally
forgotten. Every person at the table was now enrapt with my goats (that
I again stress, I don't even own anymore). It was like someone
announced at a Noel Coward cocktail party that tonight's movie was Jackass 2.

“Why do you have goats?”

“I don't have goats. I had goats.”

“So this was a long time ago?”

“We got rid of them, I think, about 2 years ago.”

“Why did you get rid of them? And why did you have them? Did you get cheese from them?”

“Oh jeez, this a long story… I was really my wife's idea…”

“Your wife?! Your wife wanted goats?”

“Well, yeah. Even when we lived in New Jersey she'd said she wanted a goat. Of course, I thought she was crazy. (At this point, everyone at the table is probably thinking the same thing)
But when we moved upstate, where it was more rural, one Mothers' Day,
she'd gone to the feed store for some chicken food, and she came back
with a baby goat. She said it was calling her name - maaah! maaaah!-
and it was Mothers' Day, and it was reallly cute, about the size of a
cat, and had long floppy ears. It was adorable, so she bought it.”

“And then you got more goats?”

“Well, in reality, that one died a few weeks later. So Kate took
the time to do some research about goats, which said that they're very
social animals and need a lot of attention and company, so the next
year, she went and bought a pair.”

“And they lived?”

“Ha. Yes, these two lived.”

“What was that like? What do you do with goats?”

“It's like having two really big stupid noisy dogs. Basically, if they hear or see you in the yard, they don't stop Baaah-ing until you come over and give them some attention.”

“Attention?”

“Just like dogs. They want to be rubbed and talked to. Except that they start Baaahing as soon as you stop and walk away. And it's very plaintive and loud.”

“It sounds annoying.”

“Ohmygod, you don't know how annoying it is.”

“So is that why you got rid of them?”

“No, one of them got sick and needed physical therapy.”

“Physical therapy for a goat!?”

“Well, you know, they're prone to this disease called 'Founders'
which like shin-splints. They get pain in their front legs and start
walking around on their knees. One of the goats got Founders and she
spent so much time on her knees that her muscles knotted up so tightly
she couldn't straighten her front legs. We had the vet come out,
and…you can tell how bad off an animal is when the vet turns to you
after looking at the animal and asks, 'Do you love the goat?' ”

“Ooooh. That's not good.”

By now, this table of sophisticated TV personalities, heavy-hitter
advertising and publishing moguls are all leaning in, intently
listening to a tale about the fate of a 100-pound Nubian ruminant named Princess.

“Yeah, not good at all. Of course, Kate said she loved the goat, so we then hauled the goat, in the back of Kate's Audi wagon (smile)
to the vet's office, where they put the goat under anesthesia,
physically straightened her legs and splinted them, and then brought
her back home.. She wore the splints for a few weeks. We weren't sure
if she'd be able to stand after the splints were removed, so I had to
rig up a pulley-and-sling system to hold her up in case she couldn't.
Luckily, when we removed the splints, she could stand, so then Kate had
to give Princess physical therapy twice a day unitl she was all
better.”

“This is amazing. How long did this go on?”

“At least amonth. In January.”

“The winter? Your wife did this twice a day in the winter?”

“Uh huh.”

“So why did you get rid of the goats?”

“Lice.”

“LICE!?”

“They got lice that Sping. My kids had come home from camp with
lice the previous summer and it was a nightmare. So when the goats got
lice, that pretty much put us over the edge. In all actuality, it
wasn't a big deal- just some powder on the goats and the lice were
gone, and they're species specific so they wouldn't transfer to humans,
but still that was the end of our rope.”

“What did you do with the goats? Where does one get rid of a goat?”

“I can't tell you, but all I can say is recommend you stay away from the Chinese restaurants in my town for a while. (pause)
No, we brought them to the stable where my daughter takes her
equestrian lessons. They're good company for the horses. In truth, they
really did go to a farm upstate.”

Once the story ended, the mood lightened considerably and the
topics changed from high-minded social issues, to more mundane topics
like fashion and Stacey's on-and-off again engagement.

Later, I got up to go over to see Julie, and she mentioned I was at the
“hot” table, with all the “cool kids.” I doubt she imagined for a
moment that we'd been discussing cud-chewing livestock.

Our dog Gogi, a Puli, is almost 13 years old, and for the past 2 years
he's been aging rapidly. He's developed arthritis, his vision is poor,
and he's pretty much stone deaf at this point. Now if you're not
familiar with the breed, Pulis are small Hungarian sheepdogs that you
see in the dog shows with dreadlocks that make them look like
hovercraft mops. They're great single-person dogs, but not great family
dogs, as they tend to bond to only one person, and then just tolerate
the rest of the family.

So my animal-crazy family decided last year to get a real
family dog, what with Gogi seemingly on his last turn to the Big Dog
Run in the Sky. On Mothers' Day last year, we came home with a
wonderful standard harlequin (multi-colored, black/white) poodle pup
that we named Izzy. We arrived at Izzy, since we couldn't decide if he
was black-with-white spots or white-with-black spots, as in, “Which is
he?” I also thought it only fair that we name him after my grandfather
Isidore, since we'd previously owned a goat named Dotty, which was my
wife's grandmother's name.

We brought Izzy home, and in all honesty, at the time, we didn't
think Gogi would live another 3 months. Well, here we are, a year and a
half later, and while Gogi's arthritis is managed by pills, he still
gets around a lot better than I thought he would when we first brought
Izzy home. His main trouble is managing stairs, but everywhere else, he
does just fine. Perhaps not as quickly as he used to, but hey, neither
do I.

The practical problems of owning a 70lb adolescent water dog, and
an old, deaf 25lb sheepdog becomes evident in a few ways. First, since
he's deaf, Gogi uses the pads in his feet to “hear” the world around
him. This means that whenever something heavy drops to the floor
anyhwere in the house, Gogi thinks someone is at the front door, and
begins barking in welcome. This, of course, alerts Izzy to join in, and
in short order, I've got 2 mutts barking and yapping for a 30-second
stretch where no conversation or TV in the house can be heard.

The second item regarding Gogi's age is that when I take the pooches
out into the woods behind my house (no leashes needed), Izzy, ever
alert to deer, squirrels or chipmunks, immdediately takes off in hot
pursuit. To date, he hasn't figured out that deer can leave him in the
dust in about 3 seconds, and I don't think he's yet realized that
squirrels don't vanish into thin air when they get near a tree. Hey, I
give him points just for the joy of trying.

Gogi, however, even in his prime, could laconically sit on the
porch and watch a gaggle of wild turkeys casually stroll through the
yard, 20 feet in front of him, without even bothering to move, much
less give chase or even bark. So now, in his old age, he's even more
content to just sniff the ground for whatever interests him as he lags
behind or wanders seemingly aimlessly in the undergrowth.

So there I stand, a quarter mile behind my house, in the middle of
the autumn forest. Golden sunlight dapples through the half-bare
treetops, illuminating the leave-covered floor. I can see Izzy, darting
here and there, looking for prey (or a place to poop). I can see Gogi,
small and dark gray (he used to be black), rustling through the bramble
and leaves. I have no idea what he's sniffing for, but whatever it is,
when he finds it, he lifts his leg and gives it a few sprinkles.

After a while, I decide to head in. Izzy is always alert and aware of
my location. He turns and heads towards home as soon as I take my first
step in that direction. Gogi, in his own private Idaho, is still
rooting around, head down, oblivious to the two of us. When he was
younger (and could hear) he would stop on a dime and come when I called
him. Now, foolishly, I call to him, but of course he doesn't respond. I
try clapping and whistling, but to no avail. I even try stamping my
foot, hoping he'll feel the vibration across the 50 yards of earth, but
no, he just wanders on.

I sigh and take a few steps down the path to home, and wait for him to
notice that his blurry view of me is further towards the house than a
few moments ago, and that he might realize we're heading home. Usually
this takes a minute or two, and he begins heading out of the leaves and
back onto the path in my direction. At times like this I feel the same
way one does when an elderly person starts telling a story that one has
already heard a dozen times. One just smiles patiently and nods,
acquiescing to the demands of politely dealing with the aged, allowing
them their dignity. In the same way, I stop on the path every so often
to allow Gogi to catch up, give him an affectionate rub to let him know
he's still part of the family and that he's loved.

Well, everybody needs a vacation now and then, and it's been over a month since I last posted. What can I say? We flighty creative-types need to recharge the batteries to get the juices flowing again.
So the horrible realization I came to, upon recently examining blitzblog's site stats, is that I've had more hits in the past month, since I stopped writing, than I had when I was regularly posting stuff! I guess if this continues, I could just sit back and watch the hit-count climb, while I take up crocheting or something else.
This is similar to a time when I was at the checkout counter in a convenience store and I saw a Neil Diamond cassette for sale for $.99, and right next to it were blank tapes for $1.99, and I remember thinking that Neil Diamond could double his income if he'd just stop singing.
Despite the evidence that I should just shut up and stop typing, I am not sorry to say that I will continue this bad habit until nobody reads it anymore. You have been warned.