Monday, November 3, 2008

That's Philadelphia For Ya Phightin' Phils Phinish Phirst!


For the first time in 100 seasons, a professional sports team from the City of Brotherly Losers has been crowned a champion.  On Wednesday, October 29, 2008, the Fightin' Phillies, who hadn't won the World Series since 1980, beat the Tampa Bay Rays to the relieph of millions of phrustrated phans. 
(Okay, I already feel the "ph" thing has gone too ph^%*ing phar.   Enuph!) 
The Rays' 2008 campaign had been a sudden beam of sunshine that burst through ten years of stormy seasons, but came to a soggy end in a game that had been suspended the night before due to a horrendous downpour -- an omen that we Philly fans have learned to interpret two ways.
Was it the spiritual cleansing of 100 losing seasons (and 10,000 Ls); the gods' great catharsis before this long-awaited rebirth?
Or, as many liphers worried (okay, that's the last one.  Promise.  It's just that for many, being born into this world with some form of "P" on one's head can sometimes feel feels like a life-sentence.)
on the city's miserable sports record - or crying out tears of joy at the prospect that this team, any team that made its home on Broad Street, might possibly wind up a winner?  Either way, this was rain so dense that no Ray could penetrate its purposeful hammering -- except, of course, for Carlos Pena driving in BJ Upton in the sixth inning of game five, leaving the Phillies faithful (yeah, that whole "ph" thing went on way to ph#%*ing long) feeling a little under the win-column weather, as the lead, and perhaps the momentum slid through their soaked fingertips.
It's happened before, to the Red Sox, the Cubs, and others who got within pitches of Series championships only to be disappointed.  Why not the Phils?  They seemed born to play that role.  Indeed, it was in the year of my birth, 1964, that the Phillies blew a six and a half game lead  with ten games to go, throwing a perfect gutter ball to and the year.
Let me offer a little testimony.
I grew up watching the Phils, Sixers, Eagles and Flyers of the 70's, who, if not for them, I might have "traded up" to being a Baltimore fan, with their equally feckless Bullets and Colts (this was long after the Unitas era), and only kept rooting for them because I was the biggest fan of their biggest fan, my dad.
He cussed and swore at a great lineage of RCAs while I was under his tutelage.
Three years ago, next month, I was in his hospital room, while Dad fought his ultimate fight, against cancer.   One of the side effects of his drug treatment was, unfortunately, dementia. Dad would convulse and gesture through the night, and occasionally blurt out something mostly unintelligible.  Then, I guess it was about three a.m., he raised up a bit from his reclined position and threw out his hands in a gesture of apparent disgust, and he just said, "That's Philadelphia for ya!"
It would be just like his Phils to wait until he had his own seat above the 700-level to give him something worth watching.
I'm sure he saw it all.  And I'm sure that rain was no less than tears of joy pouring out from him, and countless other Phillies fans like him who couldn't seem to stay on earth long enough to witness a World Series Championship.
I'm glad he saw it.

Monday, October 27, 2008

Cox & Companies

Okay, here's another idea for a running segment on The Cox Section:  "Cox and Companies" covers the near daily roller derby between the corporations and customers.  Here's just a quick example of my on-line response to a Disney poll asking me to rate my satisfaction with its website.  Oh, they'll be funnier in the future, but for now, I do think it communicates my point:

Q: What do you like the least about the Disneyland.com webstite.  Please be as specific as possible.

A:  I was trying to purchase discounted tickets to Mickey's Trick or Treat Party.  I registered and created a logon and password.  An apparent but in the website, however, put me on a perpetual loop back and forth between putting items in my cart and logging in (or registering).  That is, when I put the tickets in my cart, and tried to proceed to checkout, I instead was taken back to the "Logon - or - Register" page (except there were now no fields to accept my logon or password).  When I called the company to make the purchase "manually," team members seemed resigned to the idea that "You've arrived in Never Never Land" and that nothing could be done.  Even Christine, the supervisor, seemed under-empowered (not unwilling or uninterested, only under-empowered) to complete the transaction, until I offered possible solutions.  I want Disney (and all companies) to remember that Walt Disney and Disneyland itself, are testaments to the truth that (as I said to Christine) "just becasue no one else has ever thought of it before, that doesn't mean that it can't be done, or shouldn't be done, or won't bring happiness to those we will encounter in the future."  Furthermore, especially a company such as Disney should be a great example that we use technology to pursue our goals, and not to govern our potential."  So make the website do what we want it to do -- and provide speedy recourse to achieve our goals when technology fails us.  I want to thank Christine, however, for listening, and doing what she could to resolve the situation in a timely and friendly manner.

I mean, can you imagine the crew of Apollo 13 calling Houston and getting the response that I got: "I can give you an e-mail address for tech-support.  I can't promise that they'll get back to you today, but they're your only option."  
Commander Lovell:  Houston, what is "Tech Support?"
Command Module pilot Swigert: And what is e-mail?
Lovell: To hell with you, Houston, we'll do it ourselves.  Swigert, hand me that duct tape and box of Jujyfruits.



Monday, October 13, 2008

COLUMBUS STOP FOR DIRECTIONS? Apparently, There Are No Gas Stations or 7-Elevens Between Portugal and New World

Catch the cryptic series of digits on the side of the Santa Maria?  The same strange numbers that won the lottery for Harley on ABC's hit TV show, "Lost," and perhaps altered the navigating coordinates for another of history's most-lost individuals: Christopher Columbus, whose holiday we celebrate today.
Some malign the day as the first shot in what would become the greatest genocide in the history of the planet.
Others revere the man after whom dozens of American cities, towns, squares, and one Transcontinental Highway (a.k.a. the 10 Freeway leading from Santa Monica, California to Jacksonville, Florida) are named.
Either way you see it, you can't deny that the continental ethnic cleansing that followed Columbus' arrival in the New World would be the injury added to the original insult of misidentification of the indigenous people as "Indians" by the explorer who thought he'd landed half a world away from where he actually was.   Of course, those white Europeans who followed the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria embraced the malaprop.  [Maybe it's what some would call "bleeding heart liberal" of me, perhaps simple pedantry (I like to think it's a simple desire for truth) but I'm not even sold on the updated term "Native American." No one on the North American continent before the Europeans arrived knew who the hell Amerigo Vespucci was; why should their culture(s) be named after him?]
                            
Cartographer, Vespucci, America's First Top Chef?

Let's for a moment give Columbus the benefit of the doubt.  The climate of Bermuda is similar to that of India, and the inhabitants of both locations often have dark skin.  But weren't there other clues that he was not at his intended destination?  Language, for example?  Or the fact that nothing matched up with anyone's descriptions of India?  How about the fact that none of the local restaurants made a decent samosa?  Whatever the reason, here stood Christopher Columbus, hemispherically challenged, to be kind, sticking a Portuguese flag in the sand, calling everything by the wrong name, and earning an eventual three-day weekend for millions of American taxpayers. (the percentage of whom are of Portuguese descent is too small to find in fifteen minutes searching the internet).
Columbus was lost -- again, he was fully half-way around the world from where he wanted to be.  If you look at a globe, you'll see that the only way for Columbus to be farther away from where he thought he was, he would have had to have gotten into a space ship and left the surface of the planet.  If Columbus had been any more lost, he'd have fought Sawyer and made out with Jack.  
So happy Columbus Day.  It's back to work tomorrow, but don't worry if you get lost on the way there, wind up in the wrong office, call everyone by the wrong name and initiate the demise of those who predated your arrival.  If all goes as it should, you'll get a holiday, not to mention cities, squares and maybe a transcontinental highway named for you.

Thursday, October 2, 2008



The Im-Palin!


How's this for Liberal guilt: I already feel bad about myself for looking forward to tonight's Vice Presidential debate in the same way that I feel wrong for rubbernecking at the scene of a car wreck on the freeway, looking for victims.  But I'm not looking for a car wreck involving two vehicles.  I'm expecting, rather, a locomotive running out of control, off the tracks, and off the trestle to plummet 300 feet into the gorge below (which just may be the unsuspecting site of the world's largest dung heap, say) to explode in a spectacular eruption of carnage the likes of which the world has yet to witness.  Does that make me a bad person?  I mean, I am hoping for some minor insights on policy.  But who we kiddin'?  We all already know who we're voting for, don't we?  This is pure spectacle.  
Maybe the Republican strategy is to appeal to Joe Biden's sense of chivalry and decency, hoping he'll bow out in a gesture of pre-debate mercy.  They've implemented worse plans.
Anyway, between now and 6pm Pacific Time, I'll be BIDEN my time before the im-PALIN.  Oh, that was sublime.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Are You F*%#king Kidding Me?

Now, I try to keep this blog PG at most, but I can only imagine that if Kylie ever asks me, "Daddy, can I have $1,000.00, a dime bag of weed, two bottles of Jack, the car and six guys from the football team over on the weekend you and Mom are out of town?" I would (at least mentally) respond with something similar to the above headline.
And she has no track record of insane requests upon which to heap this hypothetical.
But here comes the Bush administration.  Oh, it's not George.  Instead, it's Treasury Secretary Hank Paulson.  Same team, though.  You know 'em; they're the guys who brought you cries of "yellowcake" and "WMD" -- and now, they want 700-Billion Dollars, no questions asked, no strings, no accountability.  
I can't help but to think the above words.
Read Pete Cedenella's article in today's Huffington Post.  He suggests an eerily similar circumstance with the run-up to the Iraq "war" (it's never actually been declared a "war," so the Bush admin. can circumvent international law.)  It's the profiteers mantra:  Break it, then buy it, and then keep it sick, and watch the cash roll in."
It works with health care:  Destroy the health care system (or prevent a comprehensive and effective one from ever existing), let the drug companies write policy, and keep Americans ailing, so they keep coming back for more.
It worked in Iraq:  blow the place to kingdom come, send in Halliburton to do shoddy work that doesn't get done too quickly.  The Iraqi infrastructure has been milked so much it should wear a bell.
And get this: Iraq, huge an issue as it it, is only part of another issue: the energy issue.
And it works with energy: De-regulation sent energy bills through the ozone here in California, and it cost a governor his job.  De-regulation led to Dick Cheney  behind closed doors allowing energy companies to draft U.S. energy policy, and next thing you know, we're in Iraq fighting for oil, gas prices are nearly four times what they were when Dummya took office (remember $1.37/gal, anybody?)
Now they want to try it with the finance and banking industry.  They've already destroyed it through de-regulation, and now, they want your blank check -- for 700-billion dollars, with no curfew, no chaperone, all the beer they can drink, and (as Dick Cheney said after shooting his friend in the face) "no cops."  
Everyone, repeat after me.

Friday, September 19, 2008

I HATE EVERYTHING!

Okay, maybe I just can't enjoy anything.  Maybe I'm just an old curmudgeonly misanthrope.  But COME ON!  Welcome to the first of what I'm sure will be a fairly regular installment here on The Cox Section: "I HATE EVERYTHING!"  Another title could be "Rob Rants," but everything doesn't have to be f-ing alliterative to be good!  
So here's today's installment:
The new Barbie Movie:




What's Barbie's whole deal?  It's that she's versatile and independent, strong, and capable of doing or being whatever she wants.  Great role model for girls.  She can be a doctor, a lawyer, she has her own house, car, all that.
So how does Mattel decide to cast Barbie in her own movie debut?
Oh, she's a PRINCESS who has to be RESCUED by a handsome prince, who takes her to HIS kingdom (all the Disney-style animal side-kicks are there in all their half-hearted predictability; she even sings EXACTLY like every other Disney princess, it's sickening!) and she then has to COMPETE for the prince with ANOTHER WOMAN; another woman, mind you, who is EVIL!  (Never mind that the evil woman is a red-head named Arianna; I'll wait to find out that the religious right is behind this effluvium to be pissed off about that subtle dig against populist pundit Arianna Huffington.)  I mean, COME ON!  As I watched this trailer, I couldn't be any more sickened or uninspired.  Where's the Barbie message: "You can be anything you want, girls?  Strive for independence and self-discovery?"  The message this movie sends is simple:  If you're born a princess, or lucky enough to be swept away by a prince, and you're beautiful (I mean, that's a given, you have to be beautiful; the whole paradigm breaks down if you're not beautiful, kiddies -- did you not watch the Opening Ceremonies of the Beijing Olympics?) you have a chance to be surrounded by mechanistic, effeminate, animated animals and take on the liberal left and defeat it's evil scheme to (forgive us, Lord) empower women such that they do not define themselves according to how rich, handsome and woven into the aristocratic tapestry are their male rescuers!  Can this crap, Mattel.  "Oh, it's harmless," you say?  "It's just entertainment," you say?  "Little girls like princesses," you say?  I say it's sh*t.
And I hate it.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008

Numero Luno

http://f3.yahoofs.com/ymg/ept_sports_nfl_experts__5/ept_sports_nfl_experts-500047369-1221008536.jpg?ymZCL__CDu3Z3a7sCincinnati Bengal wide reciever Chad Johnson has legally changed his name to "Ocho Cinco," to reflect the number on his jersey. But his jersey won't reflect the name change, at least not for now. Reebok says the jerseys have already been made with "C. Johnson" printed on the back, but that should Senor Cinco opt to purchase the stock of smocks (it'd cost him about $4 million). It may take a level of narcissistic knuckleheadedness even beyond the out-stretched reach of rival reciever (and egomaniac) Terrell "I Love Me Some Me!" Owens of the Dallas Cowboys to write that check. Ironically, Sports Illustrated has picked Cinco's Bengals to finish not ocho-cinco, but rather a sad cinco-and-ocho to capture last place in the AFC North. No word whether Reebok plans to compliment any future name change on the jersey with a change to the number to "1" to reflect the number of people to whom any of this nonsense matters. Go Joe Flacco!

Friday, August 29, 2008

Cleanse Day Twelve

Maybe it's because I see the buffet at the end of the tunnel, but I'm feeling as if I could incorporate the concept of the fast into my life on a more regular basis. (Even single-day fasts have cleansing powers, as the body uses its energy detoxifying, rather than digesting.) I was actually thinking yesterday as I drove that maybe I'd fast one day a week from now on.  Then, last night, the host of our "Yes We Can" Obama-watching event said that he fasts one day each week and it's had more than a physical impact on him; that he looks at food and life a little differently now.  One day a week may sound a little frequent to my burrito-loving belly, but the seed is planted; we'll see what sprouts.   First, however, let's get through today:  I did not do the salt water flush -- the impact of which should be obvious.  Today's menu consists of fruit and vegetable juices.  Jae (who is one day ahead of me; she decided to advance to the "cool down" stage after nine days) suggested that the fruit juice was rough on her stomach.  
Speaking of getting through the day, there was another spread at the event last night, replete with pizza, brownies, cookies, biscotti and other temptations.  I will not publicly indict Jae here, but there was one slice of pizza slice and a cookie for which I cannot otherwise account by connecting each bit of food consumed to its respective attendee.  Later, at home, I had about a dozen pieces of popcorn.  Air popped, salt-, oil-, sugar- (but certainly not flavor-) free.  
I have not been exercising during this cleanse, although more than once, I have felt as though I could.  We have taken walks, and I have swum, and of course taken care of Kylie, which can be a workout in itself -- but no visits to the gym.
A refreshed approach to diet and a regular exercise regimen must be central components of our daily lives beginning tomorrow.  Right after I eat.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Cleanse Day EleVeN?!

As with all horrible things, the end is never really the end, and the ordeal continues in new incarnation. With the Master Cleanse, it means that upon completing the ten days of the actual "cleanse," (or the 14 days, if you're really going by the book) the scant lemon-juice/maple syrup/cayenne pepper concoction is simply replaced for one day by orange juice. A gallon of orange juice (actually, a half-gallon of fresh squeezed O.J. mixed with a half-gallon of purified water) with a couple of spoons-full of the maple syrup.
[For the record: Any time maple syrup is one of the only three things you consume in a day -- it's not good.]
I still did the flush this morning. This will have been my last day for the flush. Good riddance to all the toxins and nasty build-up with which it dispensed. And good riddance to it as well. It is the devil-baby that you should throw out with the (toxin-laden) bathwater.
I've noticed I've been chewing the inside of my mouth a bit over the past few days; something I always do when I'm not eating properly. To me, this is a sign that the Master Cleanse has pushed my nutritional envelope about as far as is appropriate.
Jae tempted me last night with some pop-corn. The last day of the cleanse (per se) and she purposely waved a bowl of delicious smelling air popped pop corn in front of my face, thus proving correct the assertion of British philosopher Robert Plant that indeed, the "soul of a woman was created be-LOWWWWWW!" Naturally, I resisted her wiles and blog before you today a man with his self-respect intact. Starving, but dignified.
Jae and I (and Kylie) will be attending a MoveOn.org pro-Obama event tonight, gathering with like-minded folks to watch his speech at the DNC in Denver, where there will be more tempting dishes than pop corn. Not sure which dessert we're taking -- I'm trying to think up something thematic -- oh, take it easy, you who just thought, "How about Oreo Pie, to celebrate Obama's half-black, half-white heritage." That's inappropriate. Of course, we would eat it with utensils of plastic, to honor Biden's ties to the credit card industry. Probably shouldn't mock the candidates at the pro-ticket gatherning, huh? Okay, so I'll have to keep thinking. Being a Delawarean, myself, I'll likely be writing more about Joe in the weeks ahead.
But back to Day EleVeN. Already thinking about Day twelve, when I get an assortment of fruit and vegetable juices, followed by a day of solid fruits and veggies, and then, on Sunday, back to pizza and beer. Well, maybe I'll hold off a bit on that. The cleanse has had clearly positive effects. To reverse it all, after going through so much would truly be horrible.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Cleanse Day TEN!

My goal was TEN DAYS, and I've made it -- so far. I have a little breakfast meeting in about a half-hour, at one of my favorite spots - a restaurant attached to the bowling alley a block away (should I include this information? Now, the FBI would be able to locate me using the power of deduction. Or is my nutrition-depleted state of paranoia getting the better of me? Keep it cool, Spidey...oh, yeah, the government has my address -- how else would I get MY MAIL?!) Back to whatever this is.
Like most things in life, and I'm talking about phenomena here, not noumena (look that one up, suckers!) the joy I feel of being at the finish line of the cleanse is fully tempered by the reality that tomorrow I get to switch to orange juice (only -- and diluted at that), followed by a day of fruit juice, and then a day of fruits and vegetables only. So I will not be able to have a regular (what you on your planet call a) meal until Sunday. Today is Wednesday.
But it's for my health. To un-do the extreme insult of processed foods, chemicals and sugars, we must undertake extreme measures.
I'm glad I've done (am doing) this. Imagine if we all fasted for ten days to rid our national body of its toxins -- the entire Republican Party would vanish to be replaced by fresh, organic fruits and vegetables brought home in canvas bags and the remains duly composted when having satisfied their use. Day(s) ten, (eleven, twelve, thirteen and beyond,) here I come.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Cleanse Day Nine

So why am I doing this again?
Here's why:  because so much of what we eat is processed or laden with chemicals -- and doesn't digest well (or at all) and over time, our digestive tract becomes lined with leftovers.  The works get clogged up, simply put.  This cleanse is just a way of stopping the onslaught and cleaning up the joint.  As we get older, this becomes a more important enterprise, as toxins can cause cancer and other diseases (that's probably how we lost Sasha too soon).  So I'm on board with keeping a clean ship, inside and out.  
The notion that cleanses are the practice of hippies and fruitcakes is short-sighted.  (Not that I've never been accused of being, or associated with either of the two afore-mentioned groups -- voters and tax-payers every one of 'em.)  Indeed, there is likely a spiritual aspect to the cleanse.  A cleaner temple may indeed lead to holier prayer.  If you went to your church (if you go) and you found the place in disarray, wouldn't you want something done?  Why?  Same reasons apply to your body.  (Those who said "It just isn't right," please take this moment to think it through just a bit more -- I'll supply the music; how about Brian Eno's "Music for Airports").
So today is day nine.  Mom asked whether I'm lethargic.  "No, just hungry," I answered.
Today is Kylie's 2nd birthday.   Jae and I woke her up with "Happy Birthday" (the check's in the mail, two little old ladies in New Jersey) and a tiny cupcake with a single candle.  She was so excited.  She has her two-year well-check with her doctor in an hour, and after that -- fun with Daddy day -- Mommy's working on some promo for the NFL.  Did I mention, I'm hungry?

Monday, August 25, 2008

Cleanse Day Beloidia

Not to say I'm weakening, or that the lack of quality nutrition has any sorreanic plopecia del cromulence -- ahhh, la cromulence -- it's so simultaneously tingly and warm on my spine -- on my mental stability, but I am beginning to frebeck some altatroid miffelsots this morning. "Always, no sometimes think it's me, but you know I know and it's a dream. I think I know, I mean, ah, yes, but it's all wrong. That is, I think I disagree."
Yesterday was the hardest day. Jae and I took Kylie to see Bravo the amazing counting dog at the Magic Castle. We got there too late to see the 12:15 show, so we hung around for the 1:15 show. The extra hour did a number on Kylie -- took her into nap time, except without the nap -- which means with an extra dose of fidgety-ness. Jillian came out to see us before the show and took us in first so Bravo could see me and get our mutual affection out of the way and so Kylie could also settle in. Good plan. Lasted 20 seconds. Kylie seemed on her way to loving the show, but she couldn't keep quiet (which seems an odd requisite for a kid-oriented show, but this one is a bit different; Bravo does require calm so he can focus on his performance. As he goes forward, I'm sure he'll be able to do it while disregarding kids in the audience. Thing is, he's still a great dog who loves people and wants to pay attention to them. Would we really want anything different from a dog?) so I took her out of there. At which point, Bravo cocked his ear back listening for me outside the door, rather than paying attention to the act, so Jillian asked Jae if she would mind switching places with me, so maybe Bravo would be more at ease. OK. Once inside, Bravo seemed happy to see me (as I was happy to see him) and he performed with aplomb. Afterwards, we went to the next parlor over and watched another show, with comic magician (forget his name, but he was brilliant). Also in the audience was a British couple and their one-year-old, Charlotte, who had only made it through about three minutes more of Bravo's show than we had. Kylie loved Charlotte and split her attention between the show and Charlotte.
Then it was on to a baby shower for friends, Blake and Alicia Cox (no relation, but deserving of a section within the Cox Section.
Our hosts were Carolyn and Sam Baer, owners of Cheers catering. So you know the food was amazing. And plenty of delicious drinks! This made Sunday the hardest day by -- well, let's say Sunday was Usain Bolt and the next hardest day was the USA Men's 4x100 relay team. Yeah, like that. The difference between beating everybody by 10 meters and dropping the freaking baton. Noodleheads.
Hardest day today.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Cleanse Day Seven


Day Seven
First up on our agenda today:  Brunch at the Magic Castle and a magic show featuring my friend Jillian and her amazing dog Bravo (www.mydogbravo.com) who does math using playing cards and flash cards.  Bravo truly is an incredible dog.  He fell in love at first sight with Sasha, and it was sweet to see how she tried to inconspicuously display her own affection for him, while remaining un=have-able in her own mind. Anyway, we'll not be having the brunch, of course, but we will see Jillian and Bravo perform.  I think Kylie will love it!  After that, a baby shower for friends and colleagues Blake and Alicia (hosted by another catering company owner, Carolyn; man, did I pick the wrong ten days to do this or what?)  and we'll finish up the evening with a free concert at the Getty Museum.  Jae told me last night that the permissible menu for our first day after the cleanse -- Day Eleven, so to speak -- consists of orange juice instead of the lemonade concoction we're currently imbibing.  Day Twelve allows fruit juices of all kinds and Day Thirteen allows fruits and vegetables.  So our "ten day" concept actually does come out to nearly the 14 days prescribed within the traditional "Master Cleanse."  Oh, by the way, my jeans are a little loose, but I seem to look pretty much the same in the mirror, handle-wise. 


Day Six
Jae and I drop off Kylie with our friends Marc and Tanya and their daughter Eridani, and we go off to work with our friends Michel and Ulrika (who is due in October, I believe, with their first -- a girl!)  Michel and Ulrika own their own catering company.  We arrive and see others we know: Carol, Eva and Caesar in the kitchen.  This food is going to be off the hook, incredible.  Sure enough: hors d'oeuvres include the brie, walnut and mango quesadilla, shrimp diablo with a lemon aioli sauce, crabcakes with creme fraiche, etc.  The main course was served from a live pasta bar with Harvey cooking up pasta mixtures for each guest as they came through the line to his station.  This was a tough night.  But not so tough that either of us collapsed or gave up -- tough in that again, we have a human compulsion to be enticed by our sense of smell to grab what it is that emits the odor and throw it in our mouths.  I check-swung more last night than Barry Bonds with a 3-0 count (that was awful; clearly this cleanse has rinsed me of my comic gift).  But the truth is: there is a purpose to this quest.  It shall be achieved.  It's just no fun to be around great food while you're making it happen.

Day Five
The half-way point.  Jae and I started talking about what we'd eat when we ate.  Of course, the conversations always began with pizza and ended with asparagus.  We vow to get back to the healthier diet that we have followed in the past.  I've learned that going out -- yes, even to Trader Joe's to shop for Kylie's food -- is a great way to pass the time without eating.  I've imparted this discovery to Jae.  Later in the evening, we make a quick stop at Whole Foods (who can afford to stay in that place for more than a few minutes?  Oh yeah, John McCain.) and Jae decides I am wrong.  Admittedly, they have a lot of great smelling foods at Whole Foods.  


Day Four
Going strong.  Hungry?  Of course, but this liquid concoction does put something in one's belly (the maple syrup gives the needed sugar to provide energy) but I do have the basic human compulsion to EAT.  That's what we do, after all: we take tangible items from our environment and put them in our mouths and crush them up with our teeth and swallow them.  My teeth, I lament, are a bit bored with this whole thing.  Jae is struggling, but strong.  Together, we shall prevail!

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Master of My Domain

Jae and I like to do it at the same time; it helps and it's more fun. Now, we are going head to head, so to speak, to determine how long we can go without indulging. So far, it's been three days and I'm teetering on instability. I've told Jae that I can't wait to watch her go first. Okay, now that I've adequately tantalized you, I'll come clean (no pun intended). Of course, I'm talking about our latest attempt at the Master Cleanse, a 14-day diet of consuming nothing but a liquid concoction of water, lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne pepper. Go to http://mastercleansesecrets.com/step3.php to read about it and get the recipe. It's designed to rid the body of the toxins and undigested food that store up in most of us due to eating processed foods and consuming proteins and carbs simultaneously, inhibiting digestion. Jae and I are doing it together; it's our second attempt in six years. We both believe we should do it more often than this, maybe even twice a year. There are varying opinions visible on the web. I've been too distracted to make entries on the first two days, but here's what they would have looked like had I done them:

MASTER CLEANSE, DAY ONE
I am not the most eager, but I'm going to see how long I can go. First time, we wound up making it two days before we decided to add a morning protein shake to the regimen. This time, we've decided to go for 10 days. I probably should have psyched myself up more for this, but so far, I've had a little hunger in the first part of the day, but I seem to be doing okay without food. I even had to drink a bunch of the lemonade late at night because I hadn't gone through it during the day.

MASTER CLEANSE, DAY TWO
Today is the first day of adding the morning salt water flush to the routine. Go to
http://www.cleansingorsurgery.com/saltwaterflush.htm
to read about it and get the simple recipe. Basically, you add two teaspoons of coarse sea salt -- not table salt -- to 30 ounces of water, and drink it down. Warm water dissolves the salt better, but do what you want. You will want to stay in or very near a restroom for about an hour. Do this every morning that you're doing the cleanse.
I felt a little nauseous after drinking the salt water, but that's normal. The rest of the day went pretty well, except I felt so weak and lightheaded that it made concentrating on anything difficult. This might not be the most practical thing for someone who really needs to be mentally sharp the whole day (i.e. most of us). But I shall not falter.

MASTER CLEANSE, DAY THREE
Headaches usually fade by day three, and sure enough, the headache that I felt the first two days have dissipated. Today, I'm just hungry. I went shopping today to buy food for Kylie: fish sticks, bananas, macaroni and cheese, blueberries, a bunch of other delicious stuff, but I was okay. And cooking for her and Sammy (medication to curb his recent itching may be giving him diarrhea, so I made him chicken, rice, carrots and fish oil for dinner) wasn't so bad. Biggest problem is the unconscious impulse to pop stuff in my mouth while I'm working with food. Day three, I'd say is going okay, but man, we're not even near the half-way point yet. Too early to be thinking about the finish line. Maybe I should think more about my basic motivation: getting back into the kind of shape that will make Jae (and others) want to...well, that's for another blog.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Buy Me Peanuts and Cracker Jack! Just make sure it's from a roving vendor and not a concession stand, or I may never see you again, my darling.



It's hard to imagine that it's taken the Dodgers half a century in Los Angeles to be this bad. Oh, they won the game -- indeed they swept the visiting Philadelphia Phillies with an impressive 3-1 win, holding the Phils to what, two hits?

[Having grown up a split-personality Phillies and Dodgers fan, I have mixed feelings about coming to see my two teams fight it out. I want to cheer for them both, but on a certain level (the one on which I am a completely irrational sports fan) I believe that you can't have two teams: "You're a grown %@#*ing man; pick one, and shut up about it." And how am I going to raise my daughter? I'll expose her to the Phils, of course, but she's an Angeleno; it's only natural that the Dodgers should be her first option. But back to how the Dodgers (concessions) suck.]

It's not the Dodgers; it's the Dodger organization. And it's not the whole Dodger organization; it's the part of the organization that charges $15 for parking and then inadequately identifies rows and sections of the parking lot, and sells seats identified with the terms "section," "row" and "seat" and then posts signage in the parking lot (ostensibly designed to help fans find their seats) that uses the term "aisle." "Huh?! Screw it, let's just go this way." Which we did -- and we found our way very easily, just as we found our car without much trouble after the game. So what's my gripe? Here's my gripe, mister: I went to the nearest concession stand at 8:15pm (I think it was the 4th inning) and waited in line until 8:55pm. During that time, I watched Nomar Garciaparra hit a home run (on a monitor the same size as the one I have at home, except I was twice the distance from it as I am at home). I would have loved to have shared that exciting Dodger moment with my daughter, as I would have loved to have shared the singing of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" with her, too. (Word is, she was incredibly cute.) To add insult to injury, other vendors walked by announcing their wares and boasting "No lines!" I told the CFK guy that I'd buy his pizza, if he could also get me two Dodger Dogs, two beers and some pop corn." The expression on his face told me that he'd suddenly realized I wasn't as amused with my predicament as he was. The second time he came by with the same pitch line, I half-heartedly accused him of mocking us queue captives. It's not that the service people were the worst; they were somewhere just ahead of the folks at the DMV. But the keg ran out on my order. And there were no napkins in the dispenser. I had to find some on my own. Again -- not the main problem, but a symptom of it. The organization that made it so easy for me to pay $15 for parking by offering an online payment operation couldn't accomplish the feat of getting two hot dogs, two beers and a bag of pop corn in my hands and have me back in my seat and enjoying the game with -- indeed, making a Dodger-fan-for-life of -- my two year old daughter in less than 40 minutes. Atrocious.

So, is that it? Too long a wait in the hot dog line? Not a word about the actual game? Truth is, I didn't see enough of the game to have much to say about it. Exept this: When Dodger fans half-heartedly booed the Phils intentional walk of Manny Ramirez in the 8th, all the Philadelphia fan in me could think was, "Amatuers. Boo Santa. Boo the kids dressed as the Sixers at the Ice Skating World Championships. Boo Mike Schmidt. Then you can boo the an intentional walk that even T-Ball manager would have called for (can you walk in T-Ball? I guess if the T literally waddles away from you.)

Bottom line: Dodgers 3, Phils 1, me and my family experience at the ball park 0. Upon returning from my ordeal, I commented, "It ain't no Big A, that's for sure." Anyone who has been to both stadiums (and really, shouldn't it be "stadia?") can tell you that one is all about the family experience and one lags behind. One team is run like the Dodgers of old, and the other ages you 30 years while waiting in line for concessions. You may have won the inning, Mr. McCourt, but you are certainly losing the game.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Western-most in Leastness...

The CoxSection takes advantage of travel days (like Tuesday) to read The New York Times on the plane, if only to comment on it the next day and have The CoxSection readers say, "Impressive, he reads 'The...Times' regularly."
This assay is predicated, of course on the assumption that "All the News That's Fit to Print" is not either the product of someone's imagination or a politically aimed arrow with the nation's heart and soul as its target. We have the likes of Jayson Blair and, more nafariously, Judith Miller to thank for that.
And then there's the guilt by association derived from the fraudulence of James Frey's "A Million Little Pieces," and now Margaret B. Jones' gangland memoir, "Love and Consequences." (Ironic note: Jones, whose real name is Seltzer, admitted her guilt in The New York Times. "...aaaaaaand Doctor.")
But should anyone be so surprised? It frequently seems that The...Times barely knows what is going in its own pages. Case in point: Tuesday's Times "A" section. Page A-23 featured a rejoinding editorial by Timothy Egan, titled "Lords of Higher Learning," in which the writer rails against colleges and universities that have massive endowments yet offer no break on tuition. "In just a single year, 2006," Egan says, "Harvard added more wealth than the combined total endowments of 188 schools at the bottom of the college money race." He goes on to say "let's not pick on the Ivies..." but his point is clear. And the reader might whole-heartedly agree with him. It's all there in black and white, after all.
Unless the reader flips back nine pages to read Jonathan D. Glater's story headlined, "Harvard Law Hoping Students Will Consider Public Service, Offers Tuition Break." The story also mentions "a sharp increase in financial aid to Harvard's undergraduates."
Again, I cannot disagree with Egan's assertion that in many cases, "tuition costs have tripled in the past 20 years." I would also agree that many schools with enormous capital should use that money to offer more students a better deal. I also believe The...Times' left hand ought to know what its right hand is writing. That way, the paper speaks with one voice -- or, if you prefer, many voices, but not from a split personality.

But that is not the central issue I want to discuss. This is.

Michael Moore's latest film, "Sicko" presents the dichotomy of the American health care system and those of other developed, Western countries (and one less-developed, but whose health care system seems to leave ours in a wheelchair with one wheel spinning). Among the issues the film covers is that of "over-medication;" keep a patient on so many medications, the theory goes, and the patient will become dependent upon the medications and never become healthy enough not to contribute dollars to the industry. One of the people featured in Moore's film is in this circumstance; she over-comes it, to the delight of the viewer. The film is essencially about other issues that comprise the American health care debacle, but this particular woman's case is of utility in understanding the cancer that afflicts the American economy, the American political system, and, indeed the American (or at least the Bush Administration's) approach to the "War on Terrorism."

There is a Western approach to medicine that is different from the Eastern approach. In the Eastern approach, the doctor and patient attack the fundamental cause of the ailment. Treatment for a sprained ankle might include a reorganization of one's morning schedule, as it was rushing out the door and running to catch the bus that resulted in not seeing the peach on the sidewalk, stepping on the peach and twisting the ankle. In the Western approach, the physician swiftly tapes up the ankle to hold it steady, and prescribes thousands of dollars worth of anti-inflammatories, pain-killers and physical therapy, and then waits exactly seven seconds for the next over-stressed, rushing cubicle-tennant to hobble in. The woman in the film was taking a variety of medications to treat a variety of symptoms, but nothing in her treatment sought to eliminate the root cause of her dis-ease. The lesson: we treat the symptoms; not the cause. And by all means, we maintain the status quo -- upon which our health care, economic, political and military axis spin.

The lessons from Moore's film are clear enough. Greed runs the game. Everything is privatized; only those who can afford health-care can try to get it in the face of a health-care industry doing everything in its power to take in more money while providing the least actual health care. Profits go up (and they are way, way up). The health of people does not (our healthfulness is ranked 66th in the world, just ahead of Slovenia). We must abandon this approach that ignores the root cause of illness and offers only treatment of symptoms, and withholds them at any cost at that. The American health care system is nothing short of national suicide.

This Western approach is also fully-employed in our economic system. Corporations rule the day. They are given the same rights as individuals, such as the right to free speech -- expressed in the backing of a political candidate, for example. So if you , a card-carying member of the "Apples Party," work for Workman's Widgets, and the CEO of Workman's Widgets, a card-carrying member of the "Oranges Party," decides to contribute hundreds of thousands of dollars to his or her favorite Orange candidate, it's his right. After all, Workman's Widgets has a right to express its approval of the Orange Party platform -- the same way you have the right to contribute whatever is left over from your pay -- after mortgage, property tax, health insurance, car payment, car insurance, gasoline, kid's tuition, utilities, DSL, cell phones, food and any miscellaneous costs like maybe seeing a movie or eating out once a month -- to the Apple Party candidate of your choice. Go for it, dude. There are currently more than 35,000 lobbyists working in Washington, D.C. putting policy notes in political ears. There is a word for a system in which corporations create national policy. Fascism. There is some talk about campaign finance reform, but I hear no one calling for the revocation of individual rights for corporations. We want to treat the symptoms (maybe) but ignore the cause of the problem.

To further illustrate the issue, take a look at the 2008 presidential campaign. There is scant coverage of the candidates' policies, positions and plans, but the media are gushing with gossip -- about who in who's camp said what about whom, about reactions to accusations, about the negative campaigning on the parts of the candidates themselves. We gather like moths to the light to witness the latest hokum, God forbid there be any actual substance. We have allowed our political process to become one of insubstantive blathery, rather than the process by which we continue the enormous task of nation-building, and carrying to fruition the vision of the founders of this country. By only treating our immediate need for sensationalist gratification at the expense of truly empowered participation in democracy, we treat the symptom, not the cause, in this case, the Great Cause of this Grand Experiment. We owe it to those who came before us and stood up to their oppressors to turn colonies into states to fight those would oppress us today. It is written on the walls of the National Archives that "Eternal Vigilance is the Cost of Freedom." True it is also that the electorate gets the government it deserves, so the American electorate must visit the candidates websites and read their policies, platforms and plans and vote accordingly, yes, but more: we the people must engage in the democratic process by joining up with other, like-minded people to voice our opinions and demand what we want from our government and ourselves. Google your interest and let your work begin!

Finally, the Western approach is at work in the war-room. In Tuesday's New York Times, reporters Eric Schmitt and Thom Shanker describe "the new deterrance," the Bush administration's "what's old is new again" tactic in fighting "the terrorists" (like there's a standing army somewhere with camouflage jerseys with their names on the back and "Terrorists" on the front). Schmitt and Shanker outline the strategy, describing how the Bush administration wants to use "Cold War" tactics against Al Qaeda's on-line army, including pointing out every failure and flaw of the enemy's efforts, planting bogus e-mails and web-postings to create confusion and inhibit fund-rasing, and working with Middle Eastern moderates to diffuse the popularity of Al Qaeda leadership. The list even goes on, and it should, but what's glaringly absent is one single word about how the United States of America is examining itself and its actions and operations around the world with regard to blowback or sowing enmity. The patient who takes all the doctor's pills, but never examines his or her own behaviors outside of the doctor's office is a fool. So is the state that seeks only to alter the actions of others for the enrichment of its own, but lacking the wisdom or courage ever to examine, and change itself.

(Conservatives portend to detest the "if it feels good, do it" mentality of their "Hippy, liberal" counterparts, but it is too frequently the conservative who ignores the crumbling of society, the increase in poverty and crime, distracted by the self-destructive false-euphoria of the quarterly earnings increase. One needn't be Yoda, Mao or Einstein to know that paying too close attention to the short-term will cost one in the long-haul.)

The U.S. must look long and hard at our foreign policies, and must take the lead on moral issues and human issues, where no immediate, big-dollar profit may be apparent, but where others around the world may benefit from having known us. (Christ, doesn't anyone know anything about "building brand?!") We must guide our corporations -- not the other way around -- spread American Peace and Prosperity -- not Pax Americana -- around the world. This will require a dismantling of the grand-daddy of them all, the military-industrial complex. Easier said than done, but then, taking on the British with a rag-tag bunch of undisciplined farmers wern't no picnic neither. To find the way to do that, we must find the cause of its existence, and eliminate that. Simply diverting the manifold components of this -- and any other -- threat to the interests of the American people is merely treating the symptom.

Saturday, March 15, 2008

SUPE NAZI Hitler to Pats: "No Dynasty For You!"

Obama vs. Clinton vs. McCain vs. Reality vs. everything else going on, and I still can't get off the Super Bowl. Check that, the Super Bowl, I'm over -- but I can't get over how POPE HILARIOUS is this video. Go to You Tube and enter "Hitler Super Bowl" to see the five or six others that are variations on this brilliant theme. Enjoy.

Friday, March 14, 2008

COMMITMENT TO EXTRA CHEESE


FAST FOOD RAIDER NATION: While other players were WORKING out at the NFL Combines, Oakland Raiders quarterback JaMarcus Russell was apparently PIGGING out on another Carl's Jr. COMBO, bulking himself up to a Charles-Philyaw-esque 272 pounds (actually, Philyaw listed at 276; and rumor has it that Russell is really closer to 300).

Is he worth gold in his weight? Well, let's see. With gold at (I'm guessing) $800/oz., and Russell weighing 272 pounds, the rookie quarterback tips the scale at 4,352 ounces, and would be worth roughly $3.5 million dollars. Even by that measure, the Russell falls short by $56-and-a-half million less than his $60 million contract.

Backup Louie Anderson could not be reached for comment. Go Raiders.

Friday, February 29, 2008

ABC News Does A Sh**ty Job on This One

"ABC NEWS ONLY LIES" would not be an appropriate headline for a news story or for this article -- because the truth is that, even though it is true that in 1994, ABC News reporter Cokie Roberts did stand in front of a picture of the U.S. Capitol and falsely claim that she was live on Capitol Hill when she was actually in the ABC News studio lying to the world about where she was, we cannot endict the entirety of ABC News past, present and future for one lie. So, it's equally irresponsible for ABC News to run a headline (http://abcnews.go.com/Blotter/story?id=4365942&page=1) saying "Reformer: Trial Will Reveal 'Cesspool' of Obama's Allies" atop this story. Let's break down this F-minus of a headline word-by-word. "Reformer." Good. There is a reformer. His name is Jay Stewart. He's the main voice of the story. The colon after his name suggests that he said what follows. F. He didn't say that a "trial will reveal (a) cesspool of Obama's Allies." Not even close. But let's keep going. "Trial." Good. There is a trial coming up for Tony Rezko, a man who has made contributions to the Obama campaign -- contributions which the ABC News story itself says Obama has since donated to charity. "Will." Just says something is going to happen. No problem. And hopefully, a the end result of a trial is that it does "reveal" something. But what? Here comes trouble, ABC News editors. "'Cesspool'" in quotes. Nevermind that you already used a colon, suggesting that everything that follows was said by the person named before the colon -- kind of like wearing a tie-bar with a button-down -- or a belt and suspenders; don't need 'em both. Putting the word "cesspool" in a quote within a quote tells us that ABC News admits that this is the only word the quoted source, Stewart actually used. Did he use it the way the rest of the headline continues? "'Cesspool'" of Obama's Allies." First, the story never fully establishes that Rezko is or was an Obama Ally. They worked together, sure. I'll concede that. The ABC News story itself reports that Obama called bringing Rezko in on the deal, “a boneheaded move.” (This is the same ABC News story that says that Obama has been “silent” on the issue of corruption in Illinois politics. A quote from Obama commenting on Rezko suggests the opposite of silence, even if the quote came before the campaign. ABC News does not put a date on Obama’s quote.) That word “cesspool.” To me, it suggests something big, comprised of many components. A political cesspool would have a lot of corrupt people in it. This story, however, talks only about one man facing trial: Rezko. The story never even suggests that Obama has had any dealings with anyone under suspicion for anything other than Rezko – a man whose contributions, according to the ABC News story itself, Obama has donated to charity rather than accept. Does the word “cesspool” denote “Rezko” or did the man who said it, Stewart, mean something else? Something that may include Rezko, but not only Rezko? I think so. After all, the ABC News story itself quotes Stewart as saying “We have a sick political culture…” Did he mean “we, the people of Illinois,” “we, the people of the United States,” or “we, the people of the world?” ABC News never clarifies. Stewart is, however the spokesman for the Chicago Better Government Association, so I’ll assume he means, “we the people of Chicago.” So, the news is that a political activist in Chicago, focusing on Chicago politics, sees a lot of corruption in his city, and that one of the allegedly corrupt people had dealings with – and contributed to the campaign of a presidential candidate, who has since called those dealings “boneheaded” and has donated the contributions to charity. Is that a “’Cesspool of Obama’s Allies?” Next word. “Of.” It may be small, but it’s mighty. A preposition, as I understand it, shows a physical or abstract relationship between things in a sentence. “The book is on the table.” “I am under the weather.” “…’Cesspool of Obama’s Allies.” The headline suggests that there is a relationship between the “cesspool” and the object of the preposition, “allies” – that the “cesspool” is made up of “allies,” in this case, a particular kind of “allies” identified by the modifying proper noun “’Obama’s’ allies.” To quote Gary Cole in “Office Space, “Umm, yeaaaaaah.” Here’s the problem. ABC News is reporting about a one-man ‘cesspool,’ Rezko, which is not the same thing as the “cesspool” with which Stewart is honorably concerned, the densely populated ‘cesspool’ of Chicago politics, of which Rezko is allegedly a significant component, and a component with which Obama has clearly, according to the ABC News story itself, broken any would-be ties, declared them “boneheaded,” and has donated all related contributions to charity. So, is it that there is only one piece of *&@# in Chicago’s political cesspool? Unlikely. As unlikely as it is that there is only one piece of *&@# in the ABC News archives, or stinking up the banks of news media in general.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

SAMMY GETS TO STAY




Visitors to this page have seen images of the various members of my family, which I consider to be of the highest order of earthly blessings. It is a family I know I deserve, albeit for reasons I find myself unable to name. Insofar as it is true that as we walk life's brief, circuitous path, we and our families seek and find one another, I must believe that the intersection of "Sammy and Me" arose one afternoon where Wilmington and 124th Streets of L.A.'s Watt's section conspired some greater arrangement than either of us knew, and our family has benefitted immeasurably. "Slammin Sammy" is the second great dog to introduce himself to the adult version of me. Our family was five for nearly two years, but rest you, with Sasha's passing,
the canine component of the clan is well-in-paw.

You will eventually read all about the Sammy saga in the forthcoming children's book, "Sammy Gets to Stay." It is a follow-up to "Sasha Gets to Sail," a story for which I've just recently completed the illustrations, and hope to make available for reading, and purchase on this page. You may notice the allusion to this title in Sasha's obituary, "Sasha Gets to Heaven." The third story in the series -- "Sasha and Sammy See America" -- will be about our cross-country drive of a couple of summers ago, during which Sammy encountered skunks, barked at bison (until one wandered into our campsite), and cowered (along with Sasha) from howling wolves. "Sasha and Sammy Get Involved" is also planned, to teach how kids (and grown-ups) can participate in environmental and animal causes.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

DUCK CHENEY, FIRST EDITION

Yeah, it's stupid. I just couldn't believe no one had thought of this sooner. It'll either get better, or just go away, like the abomination of a public servant himself. Unfortunately, you have to click on it in order to read it. I'm still learning about the world of computer graphics, to say nothing of elementary art.

Saturday, February 9, 2008

TheCoxSection Slips Under ESPN Radar


During their lively banter on ESPN Radio Saturday morning, show host John Stashio and Mel Kiper, Jr. (right, with coif) lamented their perception that "all this talk about Roger Clemens and steroids" can produce no good, and has taken sports fans' attention away from the game itself.
Aside from my belief that the Mitchell report and subsequent congressional hearings can and will produce some good -- if only the reluctance of players to engange in what still amounts to cheating for fear of winding up having one's career, life and, as we now see, wife prosecuted in national media -- there are also those of us who still have our heads in the game.

"Nobody is talking about the fact that pitchers and catchers report February 13th," Kiper said.

Mel, Mel, Mel. If only you'd read TheCoxSection's February 8, 2008 entry, (below) you'd have seen that at least one media outlet has its eye on the ball. Apparently, this 98-mile-an-hour fastball of a blog slips under ESPN's radar gun. Swing and a-you-miss-out on what's important if you don't read TheCoxSection every day. Okay, I've had a couple, and I'm self-aggrandizing, but I have to admit, I did feel a little bit on my high horse after hearing Stashio and Kiper (Jr.) say what they said and then think to myself, "I said it, fellas, I said it."
Having said that I said that, let me say this:
I think it's too bad that Kiper (the younger) posed the rhetorical question "what good can possibly come of these hearings?" Stashio acquiesced, and harmonized, "None." After seven years of dealing with a president who has seen fit to place himself above somewhere around 1,100 laws, by issuing signing statements excusing himself from following the law passed by congress, I hear people saying, "Just let it go. He'll be out of there, soon." Naturally, the appropriate response is, (with apologies to all members of Queen, living or otherwise), "Bismillah! No, we will not let him go!" Eternal vigilance is the price of freedom -- and of the integrity of the Great American Pasttime. So wherever there are baseball players who would break the rules for personal gain, and owners and a commissioner who would turn a blind eye for the sake of financial profit, I say, "Let the gavels mete out whatever semblance of justice can be felt just by knowing that someone is paying attention." Goodnight.

Friday, February 8, 2008

TALK ABOUT CUSTOMIZATION!

Hi, Colin. Thanks for stopping in and checking out The Cox Section. I hope you're impressed by the customized articles. This one's for you. I figure if I can write one for everyone with Internet access, I'll accumulate quite a readership. But honestly, there's a lot still to do here; I feel like one of the castaways on "Lost," who has just survived the crash and now finds himself in this strange new world, and has only had time to throw up a quick tarp for shelter. I'll get to the finer points of decoration and functionality soon. For now, I've got to hunt boar and figure out a way to crack coconuts. Like "Lost," you can see "The Cox Section" free on-line, without a dime going to the guy writing it. I'll be seeing you for lunch. Till then, thanks again for checking in on my humble beginnings.
The Editor

COMING SOON
The Adventures of Duck Cheney comic strip
COMING EVEN SOONER?
Pitchers & Catchers report Feb. 13, 14.

Monday, February 4, 2008

A-HEAD-LINE OF MY TIME

Since no one is ever going to pay me one dime to actually play any professional sport, I am relegated to that position on any team of any sport, reserved for he who knows more about the game than anyone, but whose wisdom is of absolutely no utility: the Monday Morning Quarterback.
An often overlooked component of the MMQ job description, however, is that one which requires the MMQ to neatly and clearly summarize the previous day's event in giant, bold newstype in the form of a headline.
So, in the moments after yesterday's Super Bowl, what was your headline?
"GIANTS WIN" ?
"PATRIOTS LOSE" ?
It just so happens that I have put a few minutes of thought into it, and here's what I've come up with. See whether you see this anywhere else. I admit, I do think it's pretty good.
(Over a photo of Eli Manning throwing his improbable game-saving pass to David Tyree, Eli's jersey number "10" prominent in the shot)
A PERFECT 10
Eli Manning Leads Giants to Super Bowl Victory, Foils Patriots' Attempt at 19-0
I haven't started scouring other media yet today to read their headlines, but that's mine. Feel free to contribute yours.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

SUPER BOWL XLII COVERAGE: HOW DO YA HANDLE A HUNGRY MAN?

You feed him during the Super Bowl. And while I do have a prediction for the game, I believe it is much more important -- and relevant -- to create the perfect "Supper Bowl Menu" than to perfectly evaluate team rosters. To wit, here is my menu for the game:

Appetizers:
Bill Belichick's Mix
Osi Umenyio-rings

Soup:
Clam Chowder. Your choice between New England or Manhattan.

Main Course:
Boston Baked Beans
Eli Manning-wiches (I made "Manningwiches" for last year's Supper Bowl feast in honor of Peyton Manning. I figured, this year, I'd do it again, only they're a little smaller and not as good.)

Drinks:
Bruschis (Sam Adams Boston Lager is a house favorite).

I haven't thought about dessert yet. For last year's Colts-Bears game, I served Indian-apple pie and warmed Bear-claws a la mode.

Now, as far as the game goes: I believe my esteemed football-analyst/buddy Blayne offered the most cogent prediction: "Either the Patriots will blow 'em out, or the Giants will just squeak past 'em." So, really, Blayne, when you break it down, you believe that ultimately one of these two teams is going to win this game.

But I see your point. While the Patriots stayed perfect in week 17 with a 38-35 win over the Giants, the Giants showed that they can play tough defense and give themselves the opportunity to compete. Keeping their offensive strategy on the conservative side, and going to a hurry-up offense also put the G-men in a position to win the game. What they came away with was confidence, much more important than a week 17 "W" when they were going to the playoffs anyway.
So here's the thing: The Patriots have something like 653 Super Bowl rings among them, while the several of the Giants sport fake Rolexes that they bought from a guy in front of Penn Station.
Without the two-week gas-fest between the Conference Championship Games and the Super Bowl, the Giants' momentum might keep them in this game. That inertia may be gone. And with so much experience on their side, it's tough to bet against New England. New York has had two whole weeks to get inside their own heads and psych themselves out. Eli has won some big games, but this game has overwhelmed better than he.

And oh, yeah, the Patriots cheat.

I can hear you now: "So maybe the Patriots videotaped a few defensive signals during games. The players still have to execute. Besides, everyone does it; this is obviously just a case of sour grapes. Jealousy! They didn't really do anything so bad." And maybe they didn't. They did, however, provoke the league to fine coach Belichick a half-million dollars, fine the team an additional quarter million, and take away a draft pick. Now that tapes have apparently been destroyed by the NFL (to the chagrin of U.S. Senator Arlen Specter (R)Pa.), we may never know the true extent or veracity of the signal stealing scandal. Right now, Barry Bonds wishes he were playing for the New York Giants, and not the ones in San Francisco, under a league commissioner who isn't as "pro-active" in protecting the giants of the game.

Bottom Line.

The two week wait is too long. The Patriots have too much experience; the Giants too little, Eli may not be completely overwhelmed, but if coach Tom Coughlin further simplifies the game for his junior QB by throwing shorter passes and running more often, New York simply won't generate enough offense to score enough points to win (and New England -- and Tom Brady in particular -- makes very few mistakes, so the door for defensive and special teams scoring by the Giants is way too tight to help their cause.) And even with the formidable New York Giant defense coming at Tom Brady, he's too cool under pressure, and did I mention Belichick and company have had TWO WEEKS to come up with new stuff that the Giants won't be ready for?

Pats by 14: 38-24.

P.S. Regarding Spygate, some people argue that bygones are bygones, and that you must hate the deed, not the men. Otherwise it would be like blaming the New England Patriots -- and not the officials who made the call -- for the Tuck Rule victory that has put the Oakland Raiders franchise in a virtual tailspin ever since. Right, Blayne?

P.P.S. All that having been said, I am going out to a Super Bowl party and will not be serving the menu described above. So just like my Super Bowl prediction, it sounds pretty palatable, but we should always remember that things rarely turn out the way we plan.

Enjoy Tom Petty.

Wednesday, January 30, 2008



Sasha in Sox

In Memorium, Sasha Gets to Heaven

First, I apologize for the immediate hiatus after creating this blog. It is for a solemn reason. It is my hope that this blog will be filled with entertaining and often humorous content, but today, in the words of W.H. Auden, "Stop all the clocks...Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood..." My beloved of beloveds, my dog Sasha -- pictured at my side in my "About Me" photo -- is at her final rest. At the risk of sounding hyperbolic, to say she was a special dog is to misunderstand life itself. She was as angelic a being, human or otherwise, as any poet ever imagined a celestial soul to grace earth with its presence.
(For the complete Auden poem, as featured in the film, "Four Weddings and a Funeral," go to http://homepages.wmich.edu/~cooneys/poems/auden.stop.html).

LUCKY PUPPY
Sasha was rescued on a beach on the island of Sardinia in 1994 by Amanda Cruz. The way she told it, Amanda was in Italy studying photography, and while sitting on the beach on the island, this starving puppy wandered up to her, collapsed in her lap and looked at her as if to say "I can't go on any longer. You can either take me home, or I will just lie here and die." Moved, Amanda took Sasha home, and lived with her in Italy for a year before moving to Los Angeles. I still have a folder-full of hand-written Italian veterarian notes, which are indecipherable to me, except that they tell me how well cared-for Sasha was from the beginning, and the kind of parent I had to be, and the kind of life Sasha had to have. Right here is the point at which most people ask, "But how did she get Sasha into the country? Wasn't there a quarantine?" Again, Amanda's story is fascinating. The Al Italia airplane that was going to bring the pair to the States was on the runway, delayed for one reason or another. After a period of time the duration of which I've since forgotten, Amanda rose from her seat in a panic. Tearfully, she pleaded with the flight crew: "The sedatives I've given my dog will have worn off half-way through our flight, and she's going to wake up and freak out! Please let me bring her up into the cabin and let me hold her the whole way." Amanda says that they stopped the plane, brought Sasha up, and she held her for the whole flight. I am not certain how they got through customs or avoided the quarantine, but here I am writing this; some sort of intrigue took place. I envision Sasha in a scarf over her head and sunglasses, "speaking to no one," and "acting casual."

ROCKET DOG
In her new home in L.A., she played at the Hollywood Reservoir park, the size of two football fields, in the shadow of the "HOLLYWOOD" sign, and overlooking the massive, picturesque canyon where vintage Hollywoodland was born. Here is where Sasha first earned a reputation as the Rocket Dog (a shoe and apparell company owned by the spouce of an acquaintance, and whose "running dog" logo struck me as resembling Sasha in full gallop. At a store that carried the line, I purchased a silver "Rocket Dog" key fob; the only accessory my keychain has had for the past ten years). Sasha was fast, but more impressive may have been her endurance. She would chase tennis balls for hours on end, and, in later years even beat younger and faster dogs to the ball, using what I called her "Fred Belitnikoff" experience over speed dynamic (for those Raider fans old enough to know him) and was the consumate athletic champion. She earned "Best Retriever" honors, and won the "Mommy and Me" obstacle course at the Silver Lake dog park competition in 1998. I framed the "Best Retriever" certificate several years ago, and it hangs on my office wall today, along with more than a half-dozen framed photos of Sasha. Soon, I will add to the collection, a shadow-box with her collar and tags, another photo and one of her favorite toys.

HOLLYWOOD STARLET
Traveling frequently, Amanda often put Sasha up with friends and families for weeks at a stretch. Sasha got to know a lot of people and a lot of people got to know Sasha. Years later, on more than one occasion, I would be walking Sasha down a street, only to be approached by some unknown person, who would ask me, "Is that Sasha?" She would look at the person and think, "Of course it's me. Who else would I be?" She sparkled with every step, and it was about twenty times a day that people would stop to meet her, and comment on how sweet and beautiful she was. I admit to feeling unbound pride in my little companion.
She was making her way in "the industry" as well. Later on, my current girlfriend, Jae, who would be Sasha's mama for the longest time (nearly eight years), would get a call to do background work on a commercial (be one of the people in the shot, but kind of blurry and unrecognizeable) and twice Sasha was included in the call. On set, Sasha got Starlet-caliber attention, and got to eat the food served to the other actors. Just so you know, the food served for breakfast, lunch and dinner on set is pretty damned good, and usually includes more than one kind of meat dish and a variety of healthy and truly delicious salads, side dishes and deserts. She deserved every bite.

ADOPTION DAY
My girlfriend at the time, Melanie was working in a Hollywood restaurant, and had begun speaking with greater frequency about her desire to adopt a dog. If I remember correctly, Amanda was on her way to deliver Sasha to Sasha's new family, when Amanda had second thoughts: "Maybe the kids will lose interest, and Sasha won't get proper attention," she later revealed. So she decided to stop for a coffee in order to give it some thought. It was the restaurant where Melanie was working. Melanie saw Sasha and excitedly said, "You've got to give me the chance to adopt Sasha!" I recieved a call: "Meet us at Prizzi's on Franklin at six o'clock, and look good." After forty-five minutes of "How many hours a week do you work?" and "Would you take her to the park ever day?" and "Will you cook her food?" and "What would you do if..." Amanda finally said, "Would you like to meet Sasha?" While waiting for Amanda to return, Melanie and I nervously congratulated each other on passing stage one of the interview process.
About a half-hour later, Sasha appeared, every bit as beautiful as Melanie had described her. Amanda knew she had made the right choice. Little did I know, this was one of the luckiest days of my life.

DOG BOWL, FASHION PLATE
We returned to Amanda's nearby apartment for an hour-long Orientation to Sasha 101. How to make her food, all about poop bags, leashes, and most important, her ball, and her bandannas.
See, just one of many things that made Sasha special among the elite was her affinity for fashion. A true Italian woman in the Sophia Loren mold, Sasha was quite auspicious, and loved to be fashionable. Years later, a friend from Sasha's dog park gave us the Christmas gift of a bag filled with about a dozen brand-new, different colored bandannas, and then there was the time an inn-keeper in the Southern California mountain resort town of Wrightwood met Sasha, and gave us a collection of holiday-themed bandannas that were now too small for her golden retriever. There was one for the Fourth of July, a couple for Halloween, Christmas, Easter, and others tauting "My Dog Hung the Moon," and other slogans. Sasha was never without appropriate attire. And while I am not one to clothe my dog, there was one chilly December night in Pasadena, when Melanie, Sasha and I were doing a little shopping along Colorado Boulevard, and Sasha just looked, well, chilly. We all went in a store, and bought Sasha a toddler's-sized navy blue UCLA hooded jacket. We rolled up the sleeves a bit and Sasha literally pranced her way down the sidewalk, bursting with pride. "I'm Sasha, and I'm special," she seemed to be saying.
Sasha also enjoyed fine cuisine. Over the years, I learned of her love of calmetta olives -- fresh, not canned (which, in taste tests, she always spat out in favor of the fresh ones). Capers. Garlic. Garbonzo beans. And of course, spaghetti and meatballs. All variety of pasta. Italian, all the way (yeah, I know the Chinese invented spaghetti). What a dog.


TWO BALL

Sasha invented a game that I soon learned was (in her mind) called "two ball." It involves two tennis balls (although more can -- and should -- be added to keep the game challenging), one "Chuck It" tennis ball chucking device, one human and one dog, namely Sasha. We would go to a park that had once been an estate off Sierra Bonita in Hollywood. Today, people rent the place out for weddings and other events, but the hillside up behind the place is a dedicated dog park. I would stand about half-way up the hill, and chuck away! Up Sasha would bolt like a rocket, get the ball and come running back toward me. As she would near me, I would turn and chuck a second ball down the hill. She would drop the first one about 15 feet uphill of me, so that it would roll to me as she passed on her way to get the second ball that I had just chucked down the hill. Then, up she would race at full hilt, repeating the routine. And repeating the routine. And repeating the routine. For about 35 to 40 minutes, maybe longer, she would go at this game without anything more than a 20-second water break. "Is she a machine?" people would ask. Most days, I would run out of energy before she did (and at this time, I was a pretty serious fitness nut). Other times, I would just take 10 or 15 tennis balls, and station Sasha fifty feet away from me, and chuck her a long series of pop flys. We came to perfect this game while at our condo complex in Playa del Rey. There is a football-field-sized patch of grass just next to the complex, on the other side of the tennis courts. This spot, we noticed, was where tennis balls came to die. So we dubbed it Ball Heaven, which morphed into Ball-halla. Clever. Sasha would catch one (often in the air) and then drop it in time to catch the next. She came to add a nifty spin-move to her technique; she would catch a ball, drop it, do a 360-degree spin, just for a challenge, I guess, and then catch the next ball. An amazing thing to see. I felt like I was training an Olympic athlete. I was so proud of my girl.


MORE TO COME...

Saturday, January 26, 2008

Good evening. Even if it's not evening, the phrase lends an elegance, an auspiciousness to what follows it, and in the case of what follows, we need all the help we can get.

Welcome to the first installment of The Cox Section, which, if it's name doesn't sound too painful, will hopefully deliver content of interest regarding the life and times of this writer, my family and a variety of related material, meted out in the following departments:

THE COX SECTION
News and Sports Commentary

I MUST BE ON SOMETHING
My Acting Career

MY FAMILY ADVENTURE
Stuff about Me, Jae, our 18-month-old daughter, Kylie, and our dogs, Sasha and Sammy.

ASGARD PRESS
Check out www.asgardpress.com and see if you don't fall in love.

ROBSTUFF
My blog's gift shop. As I learned at Disneyland, what's an attraction worth if it doesn't drop you off right smack in the gift shop. I'll be working to get pay-pal up and running.

That's about it -- for now. The departments will likely evolve, not to mention the look of the thing. Please be patient -- and feel free to shout out suggestions from the audience as to how I can improve and interest you. First, I have to figure out graphics.

Thanks for reading. A lot more to come. Now this...