Visitors, brah.

Our house is quiet now.

Clarence occasionally screams, and the hum of the constantly running air conditioner blends with whatever's on VH1.

But last week, oh, last week was quite different. We had visitors: My parents, both sisters, Sarah's parents, Kurt and Jessica and two chihuahuas, to be exact. Ten folks, two dogs, a cat and a uromastyx = one big, happy family.

First a disclaimer: This post will in no way do justice to the fantastic time I had with everyone. I waited too long to post anything about it, and now I'm simply too removed from the pleasant feelings of familiar faces to give them their due.

But I'll try.

The first night, my mom kept asking me if I realized I lived in Florida.

My parents were well-equipped for the trip: They rented a Lincoln Towncar, the biggest boat-of-a-sedan perhaps ever created. Nobody would suspect they were from out of town in such a land yacht.

The Don spent his 50th here. He brought me an autographed Steve Sax baseball ('82 ROTY of the year, bitches!) and I gave him another bat (Garvey, Lopes, Cey, Russell) to add to his collection. We enjoyed a spring training game at the Indians facility, and welcomed Jack and Missy the following day with a another game at the Braves' home field.

Drinking beers in the bleachers with my sisters at a baseball game = tough to beat.

Sarah's parents arrived, and we all had a great day at the beach and at Disney World with the Cutsforths, traveling the world within the friendly confines of EPCOT. Where else can you find a British pub, a French pastry shop and a Mexican pyramid amid 1,000 souvenir shops?



Some random Disney observations: Space Mountain is faster than I remembered. There are not enough frozen banana stands. "It's a Small World" still sucks, as does "Peter Pan's Flying Adventure." Monorails are not utilized enough outside of theme parks. German food is delicious.



I love my family. You don't realize how much you miss them until they're around. I can't wait for May and Marisa's graduation.

This ...

Is Awesome. Well done, boys.

I'm sure glad a few snowbirds are still in town

So I'm driving into town to cover a baseball game today when I see a low-flying helicopter making a quick descent.

I live nowhere near an airport, so this was a rather curious sight.

As I moved up the road, the chopper appeared to be landing less than 500 feet ahead, right on the road. Cars are backed up in traffic, police lights are flashing, a crowd is gathered — and I have a camera in my passenger seat.

I'm on my way to shoot a baseball game, but I figured I'd try to play news guy and get a few shots of the action unfolding in our quiet town. I pulled around the traffic, behind a church that runs parallel to the road and parked my truck, scrambling to get the camera ready to shoot whatever's happening. I called our photographer, telling her I'd get what I can, but that she might want to rush down and get some usable shots.

Long story short, a bicyclist was hit by a car on a county road and was being life-flighted out, and though I was a few hundred feet away (the fireman watching the scene said to me: "You don't want to be any closer once that thing takes off") I got a few pics and felt pretty good about myself.

Then I got back into my car.

I stepped on the gas ... Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

In my haste, I'd pulled around the back of the church, and parked where the ground is basically loose sand. I'm stuck, and now, instead of getting a great news shot and exiting the scene to do my job, I look like an asshole who tried to get around traffic, and is now shooting a rooster-tail of sand into the air.

My tires are only digging deeper. The game's in the second inning. My breaking news moment is suddenly looking like it's going to be old news by the time I'm free.

Luckily, a random group of strangers came upon me in my time of need.

There was a young guy on a walk with his mom and an old man on an evening stroll with his wife. Without batting an eye, the guys are on the ground with me, digging in the sand, while grandma's in my truck, punching the gas. Another guy pulls up in a car and yells, "Hey guys, I'll go get my truck and pull you out!" Southern hospitality, indeed.

There happens to be a few planks of wood resting against the church, and, risking life and limb, grandpa's jamming the planks under my tires with me, telling his wife to punch it to get some traction.

A few hearty pushes later, and my truck is free.

I thank them again and again, offering them money, a drink, a ride into town — anything. They want nothing, accepting only my business card, which, on the back, has a coupon for two free weeks of newspaper delivery.

Luckily, during the struggle, our photographer arrived. Because the chopper had left, she snapped away in our direction, documenting the epic struggle between sand and machine.

I stopped my truck thinking I'd be the hero of the newsroom for being Johnny-on-the-spot on a breaking news story. I left the scene realizing I'd instead be known as the stupid Yankee who learned the hard way not to park in the sand. But I can't complain — I wasn't the poor guy on the stretcher.

I can't stop ...

... playing this game.

Apple Shooter

A More Perfect Union

It's been an exciting day.

My parents are here, all the way from the great Northwest, to visit for a week. They pulled up to Grass Avenue in a Lincoln Town Car, bearing gifts of framed poster and an autographed Steve Sax baseball. Sisters arrive Friday, in-laws on Saturday ... It's going to be great to have everyone in the house, especially when a few bottles of wine are emptied.

Speaking of, I decided something today: I'd like to drink more wine. Red wine. The good stuff. Just having a glass tonight was relaxing and almost euphoric, and though I'm still up at 3 a.m. typing this post, I can see the benefits of a nightly glass to usher myself into slumber.

But the real reason I'm up at 3 is because I just finished watching/reading Barack Obama's speech on race and the flap surrounding his pastor's anti-American comments, which have circled Youtube and the news networks. I'm tired, but I feel ... inspired ... to write something ... anything ...

The speech was spot on. Obama responded to what's essentially a soundbite controversy with 40 minutes of elegant and thought-provoking words. He didn't shy away or try to separate himself from the pastor, instead he explained what was at the root of the pastor's comments, not to justify them, but to explain why such comments, such feelings, still exist in society today.

What Obama did today was extraordinary. He didn't pander. He didn't squirm. He didn't attempt to pull out a few one-liners or demonize anyone.

He challenged us to think.

He crafted his speech not as a sermon, or in a newspaper terms, an editorial or column. Instead, he wrote a straight-news story: He laid out the facts, presented the choices, and said, "Go ahead, folks. Figure it out for yourself."

He didn't insult our intelligence, instead he asked us to (gasp!) use it.

Example:
"We have a choice in this country. We can accept a politics that breeds division, and conflict, and cynicism. We can tackle race only as spectacle – as we did in the OJ trial – or in the wake of tragedy, as we did in the aftermath of Katrina - or as fodder for the nightly news. We can play Reverend Wright’s sermons on every channel, every day and talk about them from now until the election, and make the only question in this campaign whether or not the American people think that I somehow believe or sympathize with his most offensive words. We can pounce on some gaffe by a Hillary supporter as evidence that she’s playing the race card, or we can speculate on whether white men will all flock to John McCain in the general election regardless of his policies.

We can do that.

But if we do, I can tell you that in the next election, we’ll be talking about some other distraction. And then another one. And then another one. And nothing will change."

Obama's a great speaker, certainly. But this was less about a speech and more about an idea. The worst orator in the world could've said these words, and they'd still be powerful. I am deeply, deeply impressed by him today, more than I've been by any other politician I've ever listened to. I resisted the "Obamania" thus far, but he just might have earned my vote today (if I get the chance). Is there any doubt, after this speech, that Obama is tough enough to take on any political attack the right will throw at him? If he can speak with such candor and show such vision about as taboo an issue as race in America, is there any doubt he can rise above the usual politics when talking about other hot-button issues, as well?



Our dinner conversation tonight, before I watched this speech, touched on many issues surrounding Obama and Rev. Wright. My folks, Sarah and I talked about race, affirmative action, white guilt, black entitlement, class issues, etc. over burgers at Ruby Tuesday.

I look forward to watching this speech again. Only this time, with my parents sitting next to me.

Picture your Grandmother In Hell. Baking pies without an oven.

OK, so I've not Snoop-Bloggy-Blogg-Featuring-Nate-Blogged for a while now.

Where to start?

I played golf today, shot 86 from the blues, despite some horrendous shots. I'm the proud owner of Radiohead tickets. I watched the entire Academy Awards show for the first time ever. I've grown fond of Canada Dry ginger ale. I've grown a beard.

I spent an hour yesterday watching George Carlin's new HBO comedy special on YouTube. Absolutely hilarious. Here's part one of seven:



Well worth your time, my friends (McCain!), believe me. (Click on the responses to watch parts 2-7)

Work is going well, despite the fact that the parent company is, like most newspaper outlets, going through some tough times. No more overtime and no extraneous expenses, which means I'll be sending myself to Poynter's upcoming sports journalism summit, which should be a great learning experience (I'll say hello to Plaschke for you) despite the fact that it'll cost me a small fortune. The big race is coming up in less than two weeks, and I'll be putting the final edits on our 56-page race tab tomorrow. It will be nice to get that albatross off the deck.

March signals the month of visitors, starting next week with Brandon (and perhaps a Hemson/Lyndsay tandem?) and continuing throughout the month with four Gjurg's and two Cutsforths. I can't wait to show my family around town and spend my dad's 50th (!) with him. We'll hit up Disney World, catch a ballgame or two, hike around Highlands Hammock, visit a caged 14-foot gator and revel in the Florida sun.

And I swear, I will document it all.

Right. Here.

Seven Florandom Observations

1. Dirt is scarce. Soil, around here at least, seems more sand-based. I like it because it can give you an off-guard "I'm at the beach" feeling even if you're two hours from the coast. Also, for some strange reason, I like seeing sand on my tires.

2. Phantom cloud mountains. They'll sneak up on you when you least expect it. Probably easier to chop down with the edge of your hand, though.

3. The agriculture commissioner's name, which name appears on all gas-station pumps and most checkout counters, is Charles Bronson.

4. Irrigation in our neighborhood comes from odd-smelling well-water. If our (or our neighbor's) grass is being watered, there's a faint smell of rotten eggs. A which point, I scream "stinklers!"

5. People have absolutely no concept of fast lanes, or slow lanes, for that matter. On a three-lane highway, it's not uncommon to see three cars — one in each lane — all going the same speed. This is frustrating, especially when you're rushing to get to a high-school sporting event.

6. No dark beer.

7. The license plate game is nearly impossible to play. Florida has at least 50 different official state license plates. My favorite is "Save the Manatee."

Timestamp it, part deux

Watching the Super Tuesday returns.

John McCain is speaking in Arizona, and who's standing behind him?

None other than Charlie Crist, governor of Florida.

Mark him down as McCain's running mate.

Losing coach looks at me and says, "Damn. Looks like a football score."

Covered my first softball game of the season tonight: Avon Park 26, Sarasota-Booker 0.

You read right: A 26-0 SOFTBALL game. If it was a football game, it'd be a blowout.

Kind of tough to write a story about a game like this, but I'll try.

Timestamp it.

I want to get this on the record.

I think the New York Giants will win Super Bowl XLII.

I don't know why, but I do.

Shutter

I've been taking photos for the section.









If your wedding is sports-themed, I might be your guy.

All photos ©ABigCompanyThatWillSueYou

His favorite songwriter? You guessed it: Randy Newman.

I marked "see Art Garfunkel" off my bucket list tonight.

He sang the hits, talked down to the crowd a bit, did two encores, read some poetry and mentioned the venue's name ... wait for it ... twice. A solid outing by a half-legend.

Not sure if he understood the demographic of Highlands County, however.

If we were making a list, Art was probably the 13th youngest person in the venue. Out of 2000.

This crowd was older than the line at the voting booth. And Arty got a little peeved when the sea of retirees before him produced a few emphysema coughs. He tried to be nice while kindly asking for the sound of silence (zing!) ... but he also mentioned the lobby. Nicely done.

Sarah, the sixth youngest person in the crowd, was immediately offended by the comment, though nobody else seemed to mind. They were all still wondering where Paul Simon was.

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT: "This next song is an anti-war song. Nobody plays anti-war songs any more. War is really big right now."

HI, ME 5¢

Returned today from a getaway to Gainesville ... Hemson country.

I combed the local cemeteries for Tom Petty's grave, wrestled Tim Tebow, enjoyed some delicious cold pizza, and otherwise kicked back Gator-style with Ben and Lyndsay.

Attention: Mustachioed. I've found your messiah. He wore a powder blue polo shirt and favored clear dixie cups of light beer.

Attention: Self. Whiskey sours? Really?

Ben made sure I saw the sights; The Swamp and the O-Dome — two places where national championships, I'm reminded repeatedly, are cultivated. When Ben and Lydsay make their way south, I'll be sure to show them the raceway and Firemen's Field ... and then pretend not to notice the inevitable pity in their eyes.

On the recruiting trail

I was interviewing our offensive player of the year today (our paper has a thing called 'The All-Heartland Team,' which profiles a POY and runs down other standouts in each sport, each season), who happened to be a stud running back for one of our local schools.

I was talking to him about his college plans, asking him where he was planning to go.

"Anywhere they like to run the ball," he said. "Florida, Auburn, Oregon ..."

I stopped him dead in his tracks. "Dude, you need to go to Oregon State, man. Don't go to Oregon."

Not sure if it will change his mind, or even if the kid is D-I material (I can see him catching on somewhere), but I'll be damned if he goes to Oregon without hearing my opinion on the matter.

Mike Riley, you're welcome.

Indy Rocks!

So I registered to vote in late November, when I got my official Florida drivers license.

Since my first exercise in democracy in 2000, I've never registered with a party, mainly because I think the two-party system is a joke. Also, as a journalist, I tend to live by the notion that aligning oneself with a party could allow people to question your neutrality — even if you are just covering sports.

Who knows, I thought, maybe I'll work in news some day (or run for office), so I better play it safe and keep bumper stickers off my truck, my signature off partisan petitions and my vote out of the primaries.

Then I moved to Florida. When I got my license, the DMV lady asked me what party I'd like to register with. "I'm an Indpendent," I replied.

I got my registration card a few weeks later, and, low and behold, I'm registered with the Independence Party of Florida.

Long story short, I called the election office today and asked them to change my status to "unaffiliated with a party," though because the elections books are officially closed as of Dec. 31, for the rest of time, when my future enemies look back at my voting record, I will officially have been a member of the Independent Party for a month.

Please vote for me anyway in 2036.

Huckabama

Like everyone else who's been mentally ready to move on from the Bush regime since the first Wednesday of Nov. 2004, I've been giddy with anticipation for the political season and impending presidential election.

It fascinates me, the future of our country.

The recent Iowa caucuses have only fed this feeling, especially with the relative-upset victories of Barry Obama and Big Mike Huckabee (maybe it's the sports writer in me that appreciates the game actually having a level of unpredictability).

I read the following on a message board I frequent, posted by one of the more respected members of said board. It was a view I hadn't heard — or thought of, for that matter — which, to me is WHAT THIS SHIT IS ALL ABOUT.

It's about the possibility of Iowa's choices taking it past the conventions and onto the national ticket. I figured I'd post it here:

I think what would be most intriguing about a Huck-Obama match-up is that both represent parts of the party that the establishment expects votes from, but doesn't really want as a candidate. The Bush family represents the perfect GOP candidate: a faux-redneck who is really a wealthy elite with an Ivy League education and blue-blood connections. Huck is the opposite. He really is a redneck. For years, the Repubs have wanted the salt-of-the-earth vote for their blue blood candidates, and now a salt-of-the-earth guy has suddenly hijacked their party. I suspect it's making a lot of people nervous.

But the same is true of Obama, in a way. The Dems have come to simply expect the African American vote -- (I know for a fact that Kathleen Kennedy Towsend once told a black leader, "Who else are you going to vote for?" which shows how stupid she truly was) -- but they didn't exactly run to get in line to support someone like Jesse Jackson. His campaign, from most Democratic establishment types, got a nice pat on the head. Thanks for playing. Now run along and drum up support for us. But with Obama the Dems are actually looking at the possibility that an African American could be the top guy on the ticket. I suspect it's making a lot of people nervous on the Blue Team as well, regardless of what they say in public.
—— posted by 'Double Down'

Interesting take. More to come.

Beijing 2008!

Can't wait!

Vegas

I might be mistaken, but I believe the last time I was at McCarran International Airport was following the Insight Bowl (an OSU victory over Notre Dame, no less).

The memories came flooding back as I walked past the bar where Raju and I decided to drink a few cold ones pre-flight. Raju, in all his glory, joined me in a yard-long Budweiser, afterwhich his already pronounced limp, slurred speech and crazy eyes were in full effect. How he got on the flight home, I'll never know.

Ah, the glory days.

You know what? I am mistaken. I think I've been here a few times since then. But I like the way this story goes.

Also:

T-Minus

I have a shit-ton of work to do tomorrow.

I should re-phrase: I need to do a shit-ton of work tomorrow in order to alleviate any stress from my four-day PacNW romp.

No problem.

My impending flight should make said work bearable, since I know that the light at the end of the tunnel is the dark, gloomy pseudo-sunlight of Oregon. Yes!

I'll be home the 24th-28th; ample opportunity to be with family, see some old chums, drink some good beer and explain 67 times why I moved to Florida, of all places. I'm really looking forward to all of it, and my mustache is ready for just about anything.

Find me.

Buy me a drink. Sing me a song. Take me as I come, 'cause I can't stay long.

Cold skull

I shaved my head yesterday.

No reason, really, but it felt good to shed a few ounces up top.

Anyway, I walk into the office today, and a couple folks drop the obligatory "nice haircut" or "hey, soldier" on me.

Then, my boss walks by, looks at up me and quips, "You don't have a thing for a young Jodie Foster, do you?"



Solid.