Odds and Ends

Why doesn't the NFL Network just go ahead with a season of "Big Man Dance Competition"? They've teased me with two years of great fake commercials. I can't be the only one who would tivo this show.

Jason Lee has reached the echelon of artists where I'll give anything he does a chance, along with Bill Murray, Chris Guest, Wes Anderson, and the entire cast of Sports Night. Just the sight of his moustache in My Name is Earl is enough to double me over. Without him, Kevin Smith would barely be famous.

I think there's a reason that Donyell Marshall and Ludacris have never been photographed together. Nobody can convince me that they're not the same guy.

Who's had the most retirements: Keith Jackson, Sugar Ray Leonard, or the Rolling Stones? This is why I need to hire a stat geek.

As I watch the new Wendy's commercials, all I can think is "there's no way Mini Me can finish an entire double cheeseburger."

Speaking of Mini Me, do you think he's made enough scratch yet to furnish his house with little-people-sized toilets?

Would somebody please explain to me the difference between Andy Rooney and Tom Green? Both have tried to make a career out of saying and doing things to annoy their audience. Why is Andy still around while Tom languishes in obscurity?

I wonder if the Sports Guy can sue me for using too many of his column formats, especially when David Letterman was gracious when Simmons ripped off his ideas. If Bill ever reads this, I hope he's not feeling litigious.

If someone accuses you of having "a case of the Mondays," you shouldn't be held responsible for whatever you do next.

What is it about college football that makes people root as hard against the teams they hate as they do for the teams they love, even if the former has no effect on the latter? A Notre Dame loss makes my Saturday worthwhile.

Whatever happened to Craig Kilborn? He had an amazing decade-long run, hosting the Feelgood Edition of SportsCenter, then moving on to front the only talk shows I went out of my way to watch (The Daily Show and the Late Late Show) after Letterman's fastball started losing velocity in the mid 1990's. Suddenly, Craiggers quit the Late Late Show last year. To do what? Ranch work? Where is he now? Somebody needs to get me in touch with Kilby, if only so I can find out if he's always been Dennis Miller's vocal twin, or if one of them is just doing an impression of the other.

If you don't know anybody running a marathon and go more than four blocks out of your way to spend a few hours standing around in 50 degree weather cheering on emaciated strangers who may or may not be completely nuts . . . well, you need more to do.

If I were ever to go into the adult film industry - a moral and physiological impossiblilty - my name would definitely be Nook Logan.

Will Ferrell could start a media empire with just his SNL celebrity impersonations. Tell me you wouldn't buy/watch the following:
-Robert Goulet ringtones (dinkle, donkle, dinkle, donkle, someone's calling you, GOULET!)
-The Coconut Bangers' Ball CD, featuring covers of Who Let the Dogs Out and Thong Song. Ferrell could release 8 of these albums and they'd all go platinum
-Celebrity Jeopardy! hosted by Ferrell as an embattled Alex Trebek. Guest impersonators must include Norm MacDonald as Burt Reynolds, although the peak of comedy here would be the real Sean Connery as a contestant.
-A frat pack movie tracing W's college years and ownership of the Texas Rangers. Yes, I know this could never be made, but the protests alone would give it Jurassic Park-level publicity.
-Finally, the coup de grace . . . an entire season if Inside the Actors' Studio, with Ferrell never breaking the James Lipton character. Just imagine him saying things like "You are a blinding, brilliant light from heaven," and "I am born anew in your genius," to somebody like Paul Walker. Appointment TV.

My dad has started taping Lovie Smith's press conferences, just in case he's ever battling insomnia.

What's more pathetic: that the dad from "Clarissa Explains it All" has been reduced to being the straight man in Cars.com commercials, or that I recognize the dad from "Clarissa Explains it All"? Do you think Melissa Joan Hart even returns his phone calls?

Just a word of advice: if you go to a bachelor party, don't be the guy that drinks more than the bachelor. Nobody likes that guy.

Tiger Woods' van dyke (remember kids, a van dyke is the real term for the moustache/goatee combo) is the newest inductee in the "Bad Sports Facial Hair Choices Hall of Fame." Fellow members include Dave Wanstedt's half moustache, Rod Beck's fu manchu, and that time the East German Women's Swim Team forgot to wax.

Here's a mini-PSA for female readers: even the smartest man you know is sophomoric at heart. The word "poop" makes all of us laugh. We will not grow out of this.

My favorite Val Kilmer performance of the last few years has to be as the Geico caveman who lost his appetite.

Hardcore Bears fans weren't upset about Kyle Orton getting trashed on the bye week; they were upset that he managed to spill half a bottle of Jack down the front of his shirt. Drinking isn't a game, rook . . . it's a skill.

As his body of work grows, there's an argument to be made for Peter Griffin passing Homer Simpson for "funniest cartoon dad of all time" status. I'm not saying he's there yet. Just that he's making it a ballgame.

Whatever happened to Nelson de la Rosa, Pedro Martinez's little buddy from last year's World Series run? Is he walking around the Dominican Republic, dejectedly wearing a Mets jersey and wondering why Pedro would take him around that clubhouse too? Or did he just assume that he would be on the Red Sox payroll after Pedro left? Since everybody last year was calling him "Pedro's Little Buddy," would it have been too much to ask to put him in a tiny Gilligan hat? I'm brimming with questions about this.

I can't be the only man of my generation who learned a quarter of what he knows about football from the Madden games.

Okay, I'll be the first one to admit it . . . whenever I hear somebody say "Alright, stop," I have to say "Collaborate and listen." Even if it's just under my breath.

I'd rather eat an actual hockey puck than an overcooked burger (overcooked being anything past medium rare). At least I'd know that's what the puck should taste like.

Speaking of hockey - and this is probably the last time I will - who's in worse shape right now, the NHL or the WNBA? I live in Chicago and love sports, but even if my life depended on it I could only name one Blackhawk.

Bill Romanowski taking steroids surprised me, in a "Wow, Paris Hilton is easy?" kind of way.

When will we finally get a Sportscentury episode on Placido Piolanco's head? Why is it shaped like that? Is he self-conscious? His public needs answers.

Why am I always the only one in the room laughing at those "World's Weakest Man" commercials? Not only does the spot feature scrawny, aging men in wrestling doublets, it also skewers an already unintentionally hilarious and oddly entertaining show (the HGH, I mean Met-Rx Strongest Man Competition) that has been screaming out to be parodied. The only way they could top themselves is with the American Gladiators fanfare accompanying a Mike Adamle voiceover, as we watch the Festivus feats of strength performed by a Bill Gates lookalike in Nitro's sweat-soaked, sequined singlet. Best. Commercial. Ever.

The Harmful Side-Effects of Genius

Early in the summer of 2000, Kathleen Battle took a dozen bottles of wine from the Grant Park Music Festival. I helped her. Before you notify the authorities, or John Walsh makes Kathy and me two of America's most wanted, let me give you some background: Battle is a supremely talented lyric soprano, but was asked to leave the Metropolitan Opera because she couldn't get along with pretty much everybody. Over the years, she has developed a reputation akin to a raving lunatic. She is reported to have two distinct personalities. One is a meek, shy, reticent seven-year-old girl. The other is "diva" in the worst sense of the word, thundering at anyone if her the tiniest part of her will is crossed or ignored.

Our paths crossed while I was a concert production intern at Grant Park. Battle was paid an exorbitant amount of money to sing at the season-opening gala. Two rehearsals. One concert. Nice work if you can get it. I was in charge of setting her dressing room, and followed her contract to the letter. Upon her arrival, the entire staff fell deathly silent. What will she do? How can we keep her happy? Who will feel her wrath? She made it to her dressing room without incident, but was displeased when the honey for her tea was unopened. She made my boss remove it from the room and open it. He came out white as a sheet. Later, I was charged with a peculiar duty while she rehearsed. It seemed that she could not rehearse if there were people in the audience. At an indoor venue, this wouldn't have presented a problem. That day, though, I had the pleasure of walking around Grant Park and asking people to please enjoy their lunch outside of Ms. Battle's line of sight. I wasn't a popular kid.

Finally, the gala night arrived, and Battle sang as beautifully as expected. After the performance, as she was getting ready to take her limo back to the Four Seasons (other artists stayed at the Sheridan), the director of the festival asked if she would like a bottle of wine left over from the gala. She thanked him, and asked for a bottle of red and a bottle of white. I hustled to the basement to fulfill her request. When I ascended, she said, "Well, maybe another bottle of white." Back down to the basement, then back up again. "Maybe a bottle of red to go with it." Back down to the basement, then back up again. This continued until the trunk contained 12 bottles of wine. It wasn't stealing, but it was all kinds of rude, and it capped off an unpleasant experience for everybody on the staff.

Why would one of the most talented and successful opera singers in the world act this way? If it's any consolation to Kathy and the lives she's touched, she's far from alone. In fact, social dysfunction intersects with immense talent and genius often enough to create a genuine phenomenon. Why was Ernest Hemingway a raging alcoholic? Why did Beethoven's temper make Bobby Knight seem like a post-lobotomy R.P. McMurphy? What drove Vincent van Gogh to the point where he thought his own earlobe made for an acceptable token of his affection?

I believe (and belief is all I have here, due to my steadfast refusal to do any actual research) that there are two major, interlocking factors that contribute to this phenomenon. First, even people of exceptional intelligence and talent generally rise to prominence through an intense focus on their gifts. This single-mindedness, while ultimately to the beneifit of their professional endeavours, often consumes an inordinate amount of their energy and attention during their formative years. Parents encourage this, in the best case because they want their children to be happy and fulfilled by making the most of their talent, and in the worst case because Mom and Dad look at junior as a way to achieve vicarious success after a lifetime of disappointment. More often than anything else, this focus takes away from what Mrs. Boucher would call "the social skills." Centering all of their attention on enhancing their abilities leads quite naturally to full-on self-centeredness.

Of course, it's nothing even approaching uncommon for children and adolescents to be self-focused when they start to come of age. As they start to encounter the harsh realities of life outside the home, though, they learn that a large part of maturity is realizing that life is not centered around them. Compromise is necessary. Gratification must occasionally be deferred.

The second factor precludes this developmental stage in the prodigy. Just as the parents "encouraged" the talent in its youth to the exclusion of other lessons, now the budding talent/genius is in great demand from a public that is more than willing suffer in pursuit of either diversion or enlightenment. So long as they are willing to share with us what we are unable to create ourselves, we are willing to let them get away with murder (in the case of Ty Cobb's transcendent athletic greatness, the last sentence is tragically literal). Miscreant behavior among the great minds and voices of humanity has been tolerated for so long, we have begun to expect it. A friendly, well-adjusted prodigy is practically an oxymoron.

Let me make one thing clear before I move on. I do not begrudge for an instant the compensation these people receive for their work, both financially and through the accolades of the masses. They are often entertainers, and they are paid what the market will bear. The fact that they can supply in rarity what is in great demand fully justifies their great reward. In no way does that rarity justify any person holding others hostage through abhorrent behavior.

A closing question: is this tradeoff worth it? These geniuses make artistic and intellectual contributions than unquestionably further the progress of all mankind. The cost is paid in their own lives and in the lives of those around them. For the most part, they are internally tormented, some to the point of suicide.

The pragmatist in me shouts that the answer is obvious. Since the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, we should always be willing to sacrifice the happiness, and even the sanity, of a handful of prodigies since it is only through that sacrifice that humanity can be improved by their accomplishments. Even the strain they put on their immediate surroundings is overshadowed by their place in posterity.

I'm not entirely convinced, though. When I become a father, would I choose to make such a sacrifice of one of my offspring? Hardly. I would rather see great potential never achieved than doom a son or daughter to a lifetime of misery.

Ultimately, of course, our answer to this question is irrelevant. The vicious circle will continue to go around long after we leave this life. Genius will continue to spring up as an accident of nature (or, as I believe, through the hand of God) and be nurtured into the paradox of high-minded success and social failure. And the malevolent, Beethoven-esque beat goes on.

IU's Homecoming Game

I have seen the future of IU Football, and his name is James Hardy. He'll have some value to the hoops team off the bench, but his most important role in IU sports is as a security blanket for sophomore quarterback Blake Powers over the next 2 1/2 years. He's a 6'7" redshirt freshman who already has as much field awareness as anybody else on the offense. Along with Terry Heoppner's new spread offense, he's a huge reason why Powers just set the single-season touchdown pass record in the Hoosiers' fifth game.

Can the Hoosiers go to their first bowl in 12 years? All they need is two more wins, but they'll be underdogs in each of their next six games. Their best chances are at MSU and hosting Minnesota. Let's face it, though . . . the most likely outcome is six straight losses, a 4-7 season, and another offseason spent searching for moral victories.

There are encouraging signs for the future. Hoeppner's reputation and new offense have created a buzz around the program, much like the one Cowboy Joe Tiller created at the beginning of his Purdue tenure. Powers, Hardy, and other members of the receiving corps are underclassmen who will only get better as they get more familiar with the offense. The defensive front seven features six seniors this year, and while next year may bring a lack of experience, it also gives Coach Hep an opportunity to plug in his own guys.

Is all this enough to overcome the massive recruiting edge enjoyed by in-state and neighboring state programs like Notre Dame, Michigan, Ohio State, and the aforementioned Boilermakers? Probably not, and nobody should expect Indiana to find itself near the top of the Big 10 every season. But Heoppner is the real deal, as he proved at Miami of Ohio, and he'll make the most of the talent he brings in. Don't be surprised if IU is bowl-competitive on a year-to-year basis within the next five years.

Before all that, though, there are six (and maybe seven) Indiana football games left. Upsets happen, especailly if they can catch a team at less than 100% health. And the Old Oaken Bucket game against Purdue is always fun, even if the rivalry is one-sided enough to make the Yankees and Red Sox seem like Ali-Frazier.

Hoosier fans should pay attention, because this is certainly the most exciting team since Antwaan Randle El graduated, and may end up being the best team since Trent Green was under center. Who am I kidding? They could win the national championship and still be nothing more than statewide filler until Mike Davis' squad tips off against Nicholls State on November 18th. They didn't even sell out today's homecoming game! Have fun at midnight madness this Friday, Hoosier fans. But until the final minutes of the Bucket game (which I'm fired up to attend in person), I'll be keeping an eye on the Bloomington gridiron.