Socks and Toes

I used to be a sock person, but now I'm a foot-man. I was thinking about this recently--when I was a kid, and then a teen, you wouldn't catch me without my socks on. But today, I am sockless from the time I get home, to the time I have to walk out the door as Joe Business. Funny how freeing it feels. Thinking back, I think I might have been foot-concious. I know that back then feet generally disgusted me, but now I have come full-circle. My feet were wide as a child, and shoes were a tough-fit, perhaps I hadn't learned to embrace my toe trunk? Today, having grown into my feet--and enjoying my sockless self-expression--I am the envy of my younger self. This odd thought was brought to you by the mind of johnnyvano.

Movie Review: The Pink Panther (2006)

I remember the classic Pink Panther movies, but I don't remember them well enough to be jaded about this rendition. I watched the 2006 version of The Pink Panther with great hopes for a belly-laugh or two. And how could it miss? My all-time favorite Steve Martin (in college I once won a mixer game for my spontaneous speech on the merits of Mr. Martin) had the starring role, one of the most unsung actors of our generation--Kevin Kline--appears as the comic foil, Jacques Clouseau is one of the classic comic characters of cinema, and for a touch of the contemporary, they even threw in Beyonce. Trouble was, Steve Martin himself is as classic a character as Jacques Clouseau, this made me feel as if I was watching Martin "doing" Jacques Clouseau. Instead of feeling nervous about this flumsy inspector, his accent, and his lack of social graces--I felt nervous for Steve Martin as he tried to find his stride as this character we know so well. Ultimately, I think Martin is best playing Martin or some "named" character that the movie-going public has no foreknowledge of. The exception would be in Martin's dramatic roles, where he is much more capable of escaping his own persona (Shopgirl, for example). Ultimately, The Pink Panther fails because Martin can't escape Martin and because the slapstick humor of the '60s doesn't play well in the 21st century. A Pink Panther movie is not complete without the slapstick, but the way each sight gag was telegraphed stole any element of suspense or surprise from the payoff. Also, it would have been advisable for the filmmakers to incorporate the bantering humor that is playing popularly on today's screens (see Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell) alongside the age-old slapstick. As to the rest of the cast, Kevin Kline did everything you could have asked of him, Emily Mortimer was a treat as Clouseau's assistant Nicole, Jean Reno was perfect as Ponton, and Beyonce was flat (her acting anyway) and wooden. As the fathers of humor once taught, humor consists of one of two things: surprise and incongruity--The Pink Panther was sorely in need of these twin towers of hilarity. Grade: C

I Cheated on My Wife With a Hamburger

A few years ago, I willingly subjected myself to the rigors of The South Beach Diet. It requires a lot of food preparation--and everything you are used to buying and preparing, you can pretty much throw out the window. No soda, no fruit, no juice, and certainly no fast food or pizza. It was going to be a joint project of suffering between my wife Paula and I--we even took "before" pictures. She signed on to do all the food preparation as I knew we wouldn't last a day if it depended upon me. So then it began--and it was rigid. I love eating healthy, and I believe with my heart of hearts that if you placed a cheeseburger with fries and a fruit salad in front of me, I would choose the fruit salad at least 8 if not 9 times out of 10.

Now on the diet I was losing about 2 pounds a day--I could even see my dimples again--but I was always incredibly hungry, and the celery snacks did not fill the void! But worst of all, was my coke-deprivation. I am addicted to sodas and even to this day could really benefit from a coke patch or cola suppressant gum, so the constant lusting for a coke, the pounding headaches, and the dry-mouth (from nothing but water) drove me to the brink of madness. This is when I finally broke. It was "Donuts with Dad" day at my daughter's preschool, and Paula gave me a "bye," allowing me to eat a few donut holes at the event so I could fully participate. This was about the same time that McGriddles came out, and I had been making them a routine each morning since their inception. I hatched a plan. Since I had a "window" of bad-eating arranged, why not slide over to McDonald's after the school event, grab a McGriddle and drive to work? With my plan set in stone, I agonized over the slow-moving hands of the classroom clock, as I waited for my release to real fake-food. When the other fathers and I were dismissed, I fondly bid farewell to my daughter and sped to McDonald's where I encountered the horrid "10:30 Rule" at which point all franchises immediately start offering lunch--so I backed down and didn't get anything. But alas, I had come so close to satisfaction that it was not easy to erase from my mind. And instead of narrowly missing a close call, I began to fixate all the more on how close I had come to having a coke and a fast food entree. Then, a few nights later, my wife was due at a meeting and called me on my way home from work--she wouldn't have time for dinner she said, could I pick her up a South Beach approved chili from Wendy's? Of course I could--and this would be my chance! So I salivated all the way home, pulled up to the Wendy's window and ordered her chili. Now by this time in the diet, we had discovered that diet sodas were acceptable, and I began to dance with the diet drinks--so at the window, I began to order myself a diet but I called an audible and went for a Biggie Coke instead--who would know? Then, the piece de resistance, I began to order a Wendy's single when I just went for it and made it a combo with fries! I snarfed a few bites of the single down as I drove the rest of the way home, wrapped the fries tightly in the white paper bag, and sipped long on my tall Coke. I was a little late pulling into the garage, so my wife met me in the door, where I handed over her chili. I tried to slip by her quickly, but she caught something on my breath and pronounced, "You had a cheeseburger!" "No," I lied, "I did not (technically it was only a hamburger)." But her wits and nose prevailed and I caved, I protested that I ALMOST ate it without the bun--but I was going to finish it upstairs with gusto, bun and all! Then she smelled the fries--and I was guilty. And then--even though I had punched down the "diet" button on my Biggie lid--she accused me of buying a non-diet soda, and again, she was right. Who did I think I was fooling? I made loud proclamations of justification, of delirium, and of mirages, to which she left me to my own devices--with the tone of someone who is letting you know that you are only hurting yourself. Well, that was the beginning of the end of The South Beach Diet for me. After that, it became increasingly difficult to fight off my demons. In the end, I lost about 15 pounds in 20 days--and I'd do it again--because I know I could make it this time (wink-wink).

On Phone Books

I am constantly picking up phone books from the driveway. How many companies are there in this dying business? All I can think when I see a new one lying there in its safety-seal is, "What am I going to do with this?" There was a time when I kept them on a shelf, cycled out the old, and cycled in the new. But I've long ago thrown out the phone books. I'm not a big phone person anyway, and I already have the number of anyone I'd care to call logged into my cell phone. Every 4 to 6 months I might--I repeat, might--want to call a new business but those numbers are usually obtained via the Internet, a friend's referral, or by one of those nauseating flyers hung around my mailbox. At least with those, I can toss them or shove 'em into a drawer--they at least, are not a huge book of uselessness.

Movie Review: Hope Springs

Hope Springs stars Colin Firth as a dumpee who flees his mother country for the small-town anonymity of Vermont. It has grand hopes of being one of those movies that inspire you to bask in the joys of life and the triumphs of self-discovery. Ha! Instead, we get a tired story about skeptical townspeople, a winning hotel owner (Mary Steenburgen), a crazy/beautiful muse (Heather Graham), and wait for it... a surprise appearance by Firth's ex-fiancee (Minnie Driver)! Actually, I'm not much of a fan of Driver's, she generally annoys me (except in Good Will Hunting), but in Hope Springs she salvages the movie because she's just interesting enough. I won't spoil the ending for you, though it's a happy one--the movie ends. Grade: D+

does this happen to you?

Our universal television remote lasts about 6 months. Never fails. One dies, I go to the store and pick out the latest technology and the sleekest of styles, program it to perfection--and 6 months later it's dead. Doesn't matter what I do, or how many times I change the batteries and give it a fresh jolt of re-programming, it always dies. Now our bedroom remote is a little different. We've had this telly (as the English say) for over three years and the only reason I had to replace the original remote controller today was because we'd lost it. Now here's where the story gets interesting--the wife picks out her remote of choice from Best Buy--$7.95--and when I go to pay for it, they offer a two-year replacement warranty for $5.95! That's like 75% of the cost... holy cow.

Marshall and other thoughts

Do you know what's awesome? The fact that my son Marshall wears this hat ALL THE TIME. I bought this for him last spring at his first baseball game--the Chattanooga Lookouts v. the West Tennessee Diamond Jaxx.

We were staying as a family at our favorite hotel chain--Holiday Inn's Staybridge Suites and visiting the Aquarium in Chattanooga. I had bought some tickets from a guy on the corner for myself, Madison, and Marshall--once Paula and the three other kids were in bed, we hopped on a trolley for the one-mile or so trek to the ballpark. It was a great night, we sat in the box seats after only paying a couple of bucks a ticket. We weren't supposed to sit in these seats, but in typical John fashion--somebody (the usher in this case) bent the rules just for me, so we were up close and personal.

Now, Marshall got bored pretty quick and it was all I could do to have him sit there through 3 innings, but boy did he love that gift shop! Madison got a minature Lookouts bat (pink of course) and Marshall got his cap. We even had a police officer take our picture together. I remember a picture I took of the kids, with Marshall swinging Madison's bat like a pro--I don't even know how he know how to do this, as we hadn't worked on that before. But now the kid wears the cap everywhere--and even more so the past couple months. It's been 9 months now, and I can't tell you what a thrill it gives me to see him wear it. It's like our special bond.

Another cool thing about Marshall is he puts himself to bed. Ever since he was little. He'd be two years old and just disappear from the dinner table. You'd assume he'd gone to the bathroom, but when he didn't show up again, I'd go after him and find him asleep in bed. What's always been funny is watching him nod off while he eats. Even today, as a five-year-old, he just knows when it's time for bed and he asks to be tucked in. I love it. Madison on the other hand is just like me. She'll never go to bed--and stays up till all hours without dropping a lid.

good things to eat with a spork*...

...cole slaw, fruit salad, potato salad, baked beans...
* not an exhaustive list

why do we find accents so sexy?

I hear another guy with an accent, and I just want to make fun of it. To copy and mimic and master it. But when I hear a female voice with an accent, it kind of tickles my brain's receptors. What's up with that? (Note to self: I think the women get into the accents more than men.)

Scare The Children

Gone are the days of the Flannel-Graph, that cutting-edge technology which I was introduced to in Kindergarten at church. Honestly, I was mesmerized by that felt-stick background and the way the paperdoll-people would stick up there as we were taught about Zacheus, little-boy Samuel, and Moses. I also remember a sheet of tin that was used to reenact Bible stories using paper people with magnets glued to their back.

Today, there are countless ways to teach children about God--and in the class my wife and I teach, there are some interesting uses of cardboard and textures that I think work pretty well. Remember, this is for 2 and 3 year-olds, and for them, hearing what the animals sounded like as they boarded Noah's ark, or feeling the texture of the roof where two friends stood as they lowered their invalid friend to see Jesus, I think is important. And on the surface, you might think it would be a nice interactive touch to feel Jesus' beard... but do you see this scene I've pictured? That looks plain scary? You can't even see the Savior's face! It's all beard-yarn! Hilarious. And maybe a little ineffective.

I was hurt today, but...

In the two and three year-old Sunday School class my wife and I teach, there is a short form we're supposed to fill out in the event that one of the young ones injures themselves. It is just a little parental notification to pass on to the parents at pickup. So far, we've never had to use it.

It reads: "I was hurt today, but I'm okay now." This is followed by blanks for us to fill out an injury report (presumably in the child's voice--I'm not sure exactly how I would do that). This form got me thinking of some alternatives in the event the child really is not okay. In that case, here's how the form might look:

I was hurt today, and I'm still bleeding.
I was hurt today, and I should've gone to the hospital.
I was hurt today, and I don't think I'm going to make it.
I was hurt today, and my last words were _______________.
I was hurt today, and I can't remember my name.
I was hurt today, and now I'm missing a thumb.

Clearly these adjustments would give us more options for life's little emergencies.

Warning: The following material may be unsuitable for some visitors. Reader discretion is advised.

I probably shouldn't be telling you this--but I think I might need an intervention. For over 3 decades, I have "zipped up" with both excellence and consistency. But somehow, my run has come to an end. It seems like every other week I discover that my zipper has been open 30 minutes, 45 minutes, an hour or more... Is it that I have so much going on in my head, that the common sense, habitual nuances of my life and practice have been pushed aside? Has my brain simply been turned to mush? Why am I forgetting to zip it up?!

So far, no one has "noticed" these incidents, except my wife... But yesterday, I think I was shocked into reality when I left work, traveled an hour by car, walked through the lobby of an office building, rode the elevator with a dad and his teenaged daughter, signed in for my appointment, waited, and then rose finally to follow my hygenist. As she left the room to grab my chart, I plopped into her elevated dentist chair, and as my head dropped back to the cushy pillowy headrest, I happened to notice a gaping hole in my trousers!! I deftly corrected the problem, said "hello" to Joanne, and tried to "act natural" as the scrape of metal against tooth began with a vengeance.

It was another close shave, and hopefully my last.

My Olympic Training Continues

The plan this morning was to take my son to his preschool "Donuts with Dad" festivities--and then go in late for work. In keeping with this plan, I slept in until my wife woke me at 7 am. After five minutes of deep reflection upon my pillow, I came to the sudden realization that it was garbage day again and there was no telling when I'd hear the rumble and squeak of the trash truck at the curb.

Now you may wonder why I didn't put the trash out the night before... but my friend, the reason is simple--we had near-freezing rain all last night, so I saved the trash for the morning. Quickly then, I threw on some jeans, a t-shirt, boots, and a hat, and started to collect the garbage from within the house.

Once I had the trash barrel rolled down to the curb, with the recycling bucket nestled beside it, and our Christmas tree set for pick-up (long story)--I felt a huge surge of relief. It was now time to harvest the cat's guano from his litter box and toss away our fast food Biggie cups lined up in the garage, but then, I heard the rumble and the squeak. So I tied up the cat's treasures and calmly walked down the drive to hand deliver the feline feces to the garbage man I did not tip this Christmas.

The Great Predictor

I hear that young Haley Joel Osment has now picked 7 consecutive winners of the Super Bowl. Interesting talent.

From the 1999 St. Louis Rams to the 2005 Pittsburgh Steelers--and from age 12 to age 17--he has been perfect. So what happened before that? The hot-shot couldn't predict the Broncos over the Falcons? Some genius, even a 10-year-old could have picked that one!

I find it amusing the way our cat "asks" to come inside. I'll be watching TV, and he'll tap on the window to my right. When I turn to look, the cat will be looking straight through me with an, "Open the door, Lunkhead" look on his face. Cracks me up.

I don't know how he learned to tap the window with one claw--but it's the same sound my grandmother used to make when she'd tap on the car window to tell my mom where to park.

"Poppycock!"

Just once, I'd like to have the chance to blurt, "Poppycock!" in a real-world situation. To be in the heat of debate with someone--and debunk their premise resoundingly with a thunderous "Poppycock!" Of course, such a phrase must be projected from the lips with the hint of a British accent, otherwise it loses all its power.

Review-- Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous

Nationwide, every man, woman, and child rejoiced to see Sandra Bullock's return as a paint-by-number character in search of a paycheck, in Miss Congeniality 2. Why they made us wait five long years for this sequel, no one will ever know... and 20 minutes into this follow-up, I was wondering why I ever thought Bullock was charming, spunky, or talented.

Dead on arrival, Miss Congeniality 2 has its finest moment when Benjamin Bratt's character, Eric Matthews, breaks up with Bullock without even making a cameo appearance. Bratt deserves an award just for being absent from this movie.

Bullock plays FBI agent Gracie Hart, so famous after her Miss United States beauty pageant appearance and heroism (heroine-ism?) that her Q-Factor is botching her undercover assignments. She reluctantly teams with a loose-cannon agent (Regina King) to do public relations for the FBI while her new partner protects her. Soon, the reigning Miss United States (Heather Burns) and the host of the pageant (William Shatner) are abducted and Gracie can't help but get involved in the case--to the hilarious frustration of her fellow agents! Actually, the action, the dialogue, the humor, and the characters are insultingly boring.

Miss Congeniality 2 left me wondering what ever happended to Sandra Bullock? She was on top of her game in the 1990's, but is now is just a knock-off of herself in recent comedies. Maybe she should make the transition to a serious actress--she's had good reviews for the Academy Award nominee, Crash. Grade: D-

Our education secretary says things like this: "If all you ever do is all you ever did, then all you'll ever get is all you ever got." Huh? I know Margaret Spellings has gone far in life, but I prefer the homespun wisdom of one Mike Brady who once sagely proclaimed to his six impressionable children: "Remember kids, wherever you go--there you are."