Ifs, Ands, Butts, and Darts

My greatest challenge in broadcasting golf isn't keeping track of the scores, sharing heartwarming stories about each player's path to stardom, or even saying one thing while at the same time listening to the producer profanely count me down to commercial. No, for me, the real fun is making oblique, on-air references that crack up the crew but keep the viewing audience out of the loop. I may've hit the bullseye two years ago this week at an LPGA tournament in Corning, New York.



Thursday of that week, our veteran 18th tower cameraman, Dan-O, told me in his unintentionally dead-on Rodney Dangerfield brogue, "Hey, we're playin' butt darts tonight at The Glory Hole." (This was like an Oscar nomination: it was an honor just to be invited.)



The Glory Hole is one of a couple dozen sidewalk dives on the main drag in Corning, an otherwise sleepy little village in upstate New York that springs to life every May when the ladies come to town. And butt darts is an activity that could've only been concocted in a place where large quantities of alcohol are readily available. The object of the game is to keep a quarter securely tucked as you walk toward a shot glass positioned on the floor. When you get to the target, you "let go" of the quarter and try to land it in the glass. Not exactly the sport of kings, but, hey, it's Corning, and we're a TV crew.



During the next day's telecast, I waited patiently for the perfect moment to deliver the double entendre of all-time. Finally, 45 seconds into the show, the opportunity came:



"The players had hoped the overnight rain would soften up these greens and allow them to fire straight at the pin like darts. But with the windy conditions this morning, it's been anything BUT darts..."



In my earpiece, I could hear the guys in the production truck howling. I had to pause half a beat myself to keep from losing it. And if you looked closely, you could tell the camera at 18 was shaking ever so slightly. I'm sure viewers thought it was because of the wind. But I knew it was Dan-O, our cameraman-cum-Captain Ahab, laughing his head off and fighting for dear life to hang on to his Moby Dick.



I can't really recall a single golf shot from that day in Corning. But I'll never forget the crack about butt darts and my own personal Glory Hole.

Eat and Get Gas

I filled up my Jeep this morning at the cheapest place in town: 17 gallons for a mere $32.30. With gas prices averaging nearly $2 a gallon nationwide, I think it's only fair that professional sports team owners dole out a per troleum in addition to each player's per diem.

Carpe Per Diem

In this most incendiary of election years, one question being intentionally ignored by both sides of the political aisle is: How can today's professional athlete afford to nourish himself/herself on road trips? Elected officials play politics while the enfranchised of America get dissed. Where are the people's candidates like Steve Forbes?



Thankfully, benevolent team owners voluntarily assist their players with meal money (after each union voluntarily threatened to voluntarily strike). Here's the per diem amount during road trips for players in different leagues, according to the Dallas Morning News:



NBA: $96 (minimum annual salary - $366,000)



NHL: $85 (minimum annual salary - $185,000)



NFL: $80 (minimum annual salary - $230,000)



MLB: $77.50 (minimum annual salary - $300,000)



MLS: $41 (ironically, this matches the league's gross ticket sales from the 2003 MLS season)



SWINE (Sumo Wrestlers In Need of Employment): $1,400



...it's possible I may have made that last one up.



What's amazing for most of these players is that at least one meal a day and often two are provided in the clubhouse/locker room! They might toss in $30 for visiting clubhouse dues, but that still leaves multimillionaires with $45 a day for one meal. Shameless.



I know what some of you are thinking. You're wondering about my per diem when I broadcast tournaments for The Golf Channel. Well, if you must know, I get $45 per day. And while TGC does provide two meals a day at the golf course for the crew and while I'm not required to chip in clubhouse dues like the athletes and while I could pocket every nickel of that and live off twizzlers and beef jerky absconded from the television compound, there's a big difference. The difference is that what happens in my situation is none of your business while what happens with athletes is yet another example of how out of touch they've become with those of us who cheer them on. How do they sleep at night?

Sweepless in South Abilene

Couldn't find a winning position (see previous post) to lead the Rangers to a weekend sweep of the Yankees.



The only rally I may've snuffed out happened when Mark Teixeira (pronounced "mark") led off the bottom of the 6th with a stand-up double. Instead of staying put, I disconnected from the internet, closed my laptop, and put it under the bed in preparation for a big rally. No doubt dizzied by my blatant disregard for viewer position etiquette, Texas promptly went pop-up, whiff, flyout to center. Clearly not my best stuff.

Best Seat In The House

History will record that the Texas Rangers have now taken the first two games of their weekend engagement with the New York Yankees. It's the most important series of the young season for the upstart Rangers while merely the most current for the fat-and-happy Yankees, who have nearly as many world championships as the Rangers do years of existence. You can read recaps of these two games in the newspaper or even the Abilene Reporter-News, but your intrepid reporter has the inside scoop on the real reason for this Texas two-step.



Yes, the key that unlocked these two triumphs can be found not in good pitching or timely hitting but instead in the west wing of my house, specifically the couch in the den and my bedroom rocking chair. (Don't expect regular updates from the Boone boudoir.)



Let's go back to Friday night. I'd helped the Rangers erase a 4-1 deficit and build a 9-4 lead through 8 innings by patiently sticking to the couch in the den, fully reclined with my right foot propped up on the coffee table, making it perhaps the only five-legged coffee table in the world. Long story short, things get crazy in the top of the 9th. (My exasperation over modern relief pitcher substitution patterns may turn into a book. Hey! Something for the five-legged coffee table!) Anyway, the Yankees chip away with a barrage of bad-bounce singles and 12-hoppers through the infield. Now it's 9-7, and the temptation to relocate begins to bubble. Undaunted, I stick to my guns and, more literally, my seat. Francisco Cordero rewards my loyalty by fanning Hideki Matsui with 99 mile-an-hour heat -



!!!BORDERLINE RACIAL EPITHET ALERT!!!



Matsui may as well have used a chopstick! He couldn't touch Coco's gas! -



then sending Tony Clark and the rest of the no-good New Yorkers home with a final helping of high cheese. Ballgame. Cordero was credited with the official save, but I knew I'd done my part, too. I'm not in this for the stats, people.



Saturday. New day. New game. These are the Yankees. It doesn't take them long to figure out how to counterattack your strengths. For the first part of the game, the couch remains red-hot, possibly due to bearing the brunt of my nearly 200 pounds two days in a row. The impressive young Ryan Drese is perfect through the first 4 2/3 innings before Bernie Williams and Tony the former Tiger go yard on consecutive pitches, turning a 1-nil deficit into a 2-1 Yankee lead. Meanwhile, Texas - apparently wielding Matsui's chopstick instead of their usual lumber - collect exactly no hits from the 3rd through 7th innings. With New York leading 3-1 and the bottom of the 8th fast approaching, I make my move, announcing my intentions to find better luck in another venue to anyone who'll listen. I reposition my aforementioned brunt and hunker down in the bedroom rocking chair. Hank Blalock, having looked awful in three previous at-bats, immediately rips a single into right to begin the 8th. Amy yells from the den, "Stay in there. It's working." (Is she not fabulous?!?) Fonzie Soriano dribbles a grounder toward the player for whom he was traded, Alex Rodriguez, who can't field it cleanly and throws late enough to convince the first-base umpire to rule Soriano safe. A bad call, for sure, but an error for Alex, leaving runners on first and second with no one out. You may recall the Rangers had to agree to pay some of A-Rod's wad each year to make the trade with the Yankees happen. I figure he's being paid by both teams, he ought to help each win. Thanks, E-Rod. And - oh, by the way - the chair is rockin'!!!



Nicholas, not aware of the geosportalitical ramifications of relocating during your team's rally, leaves the den and runs into the bedroom to celebrate with me. Lay off, he's only 5. I'll learn him yet. Sure enough, Brad Fullmer hits a comebacker to the mound, a perfect double-play ball for veteran reliever, Tom "Flash" Gordon. But the power of the chair is too much. Gordon throws a perfect split-finger fastball to Derek Jeter who watches it go through his wickets for another error. Blalock scores to make it 3-2. Soriano's now at third, and the crowd has no idea to what lengths I'm going to make this rally happen. Mark Teixeira (pronounced "teixeira") follows with a topspin lob to left field that would've made McEnroe drool (more so than normal). It lands safely, and the game is tied, 3-3. This is where I nearly blew it. Mistakenly thinking the power was in the room and not the chair (not to mention being discombobulated by the Nicholas shift), I get up from the chair - I know, I know, but it all happened so fast! - and lean back on the edge of the bed. David Dellucci hits another comebacker, and again Gordon goofs, throwing another one-hopper to short. This time, with the chair empty and the space/time continuum upset, Jeter scoops it up and salvages the out at second. With runners on the corners and me still clueless, Kevin Mench grounds into an inning-ending double dip. Tie game, but it could've, should've been a Ranger lead.



The double play does serve to snap me back into reality. I gently but firmly explain to Nicholas the impact his returning to the den will have on this epochal moment in world history. He laughs, as he often does at my offerings, and stays put. Desperate, I return to the den. I can't prove this, but I think my equivocation actually confuses these forces of fate! While they try to decide where I'm going to watch, Carlos Almanzar routinely retires the side in order! Hah! The game remains knotted at 3. Alas, said spirits self-correct in time for the bottom of the final frame.



Friday night's two-homer hero Laynce Nix - rendered powerless now with me in the den and the chair empty - strikes out to lead off the 9th. That's when it happens. Rod Barajas, suddenly the everyday catcher because of an injury to promising rookie backstop Gerald Laird, makes his way to the plate, stride for stride with my own epiphany.



THE CHAIR!!!



I dash back to the bedroom and begin rocking as Barajas falls behind 0-1. With cheeks planted firmly on felt and order having been restored, Rod and his Staff they comfort me, sending the next offering deep into the left field bleachers. FLASH! Gordon and the Yanks go down, 4-3! Rangers win! Rangers win!



The ballpark and our house - all 50,005 of us - simultaneously erupt. Nicholas strips down to his underwear and begins running around like a chicken with his head cut off. (Family ritual.) And I, exhausted, click off the TV and begin charting seat assignments for tomorrow's potential sweep. You're welcome to watch the game over here. Just don't get too comfortable.

Red Light District

Before my unscrupulous colleagues in the fourth estate take this story public and the pictures permeate the net, I want you, my friends, to know the truth. Last month in Los Angeles, a large metropolitan area in southern California, I was caught on film perpetrating an act that for the purposes of decorum I'll describe only as "unlawful." The transgression occurred at the corner of La Brea Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard. ("Hollywood after hours" + "someone named Grant" hasn't historically equaled a winning combination, though my experience wasn't as Divine as Hugh's.)



As I maneuvered the mean streets of Beverly Hills that evening, en route to my place of accommodation, I was flashed! as I drove through a busy intersection. Not by a human being, though for the right price I'm sure such things could've been arranged. No, this flash came from a camera tethered to a traffic light under which I had - as I later learned - too tardily traveled.



I ran a red light. And the Fuzz has the film to prove it. Somewhere George Orwell is giggling fiendishly.



Ten days after returning home, I was greeted by correspondence from the Los Angeles County Superior Court and Visitors Bureau, thanking me for my patronage. Enclosed was a series of snapshots, celluloid souvenirs, beginning with:



- a photo of where my rental car was when that particular light turned red

- then of my car recklessly rolling through the intersection (along with approximately three-fourths of Los Angeles County)

- then a close-up of me - hopeless miscreant that I am - behind the wheel, cavalier and criminal, ready at any moment to take an 11th item to the express checkout line or remove the tag from my hotel bed mattress. ("I have a pair of fingernail clippers, and I'm not afraid to use them!")



Go for a ride, and they take your picture. Kind of like Disneyland, except not as expensive. The court only charged me $340.



My own little Kodak moment in the shadow of the Kodak Theater. This ugly imbroglio begs a couple of questions. First, isn't this a violation of my rights, specifically my inalienable right as an American-born...American to obey only those laws which I deem worthy of my compliance and/or those which don't infringe upon my personal freedom to do whatever I jolly well please? What's next, asking accounting firms to open up their audit ledgers?



Second, can the cops get any lazier? I mean is it humanly possible? Can't we hook up television monitors in their living rooms so they won't have to get off the couch? Think of the money they'd save on uniforms. If Krispy Kreme would offer home delivery, we could start tomorrow morning.



I realize mine will not be the most widely-publicized or titillating controversy involving people in L.A. doing naughty things on camera. Thanks to sensationalist media sleazeballs like The Wall Street Journal and Barron's, we were all kept abreast of how the porn industry, concentrated primarily in the San Fernando Valley, was recently shut down for a couple of weeks because several "actors" tested positive for HIV. That headline, while sobering for the subjects involved, was about as shocking as "Bonds Draws Intentional Walk" or "NBC Cancels 'Whoopi.'"



But don't get distracted. The most pressing issue at hand is whether we as citizens will allow our personal and private privacy to be invaded by these invasive invasions. And also where am I supposed to get $340? I hope they at least throw in a set of mouse ears.

Sister Christian

Forty-eight hours ago, some dear friends of ours in Nashville were living the American dream. Today, they're desperate to wake up from one of every parent's worst nightmares. Late Sunday afternoon, the dad backed over his 3-year-old son with a riding mower. Most of the little boy's right foot is now gone. Best case scenario at this point is to save the rest of the leg from the heel up. The left leg was badly butchered, but it appears skin grafting will allow doctors to keep that entire limb intact.



Just curious. What's your initial reaction? Horror? Sadness? Anger? All are justified, I'm sure, but compare your feelings with the response of the boy's 7-year-old sister, who was standing next to him when it all happened but didn't know the severity of the injury.



Told Monday that her brother had lost his right foot and maybe more, she replied, "Is he going to be okay?" When told the situation was not life-threatening, she smiled and said, "Good," and that was that.



Big sis wasn't being cavalier or coarse. It's just that she got the answer she was hoping for when she asked the only question that really mattered to her: "Is my brother going to live?"



"Unless you become like a little child..."



My reaction to the news was much different because I thought other things did matter. And I certainly had more than one question...



Will he be able to function? What will it look like? Can he ever play soccer, the sport his dad coaches? Will he ever walk at all? Across the stage at graduation? Down the aisle at his wedding? Will the dad think it's his fault? How can he ever mow the lawn again? Will the mom wonder why she wasn't there to protect her son? When they quit praying for healing, what will they say to God next? And where exactly was He during this ordeal anyway? If He kept Abraham's blade from incising Isaac, how hard would it have been to stop the blade of my buddy's mower?



However legitimate or understandable my questions may be, each is constructed on a common and dangerous denominator: expectation. I didn't think I needed a refresher course in how fleeting all of this is. Family. Health. Wealth. Blood counts. Bank accounts. Today. Tomorrow.



Apparently I did. That little girl's reaction to what befell her brother brought me back. He's going to be okay. What he won't be is what we all prayed he would be. (Try again.) What we hoped he would be. (No.) What we figured he would be. (Keep going.) What we took for granted he would be? (One more time.) What we thoughtlessly assumed he would be because having perfectly healthy children is our God-given right as parents in 21st century America? (Better.)



This, by the way, is not a discussion topic for these friends of ours. Certainly not now. This is awful, no matter how holy the perspective. Their job is to grieve and pray and thank God and pray and mourn and pray and wrestle and pray and trust and pray. And keep praying.



My job, along with the praying, is to re-read the warranty. The real warranty. Not the American Standard Version. What's promised continues to be delivered by the manufacturer in spades. What's not in there continues to conflict with my conception of what life abundantly really is. Maybe it depends on what my definition of is is. And maybe I need to remember the words of Moses in Psalm 90, eerily apropos in this case: "...people are like new grass of the morning - though in the morning it springs up new, by evening it is dry and withered."



I still wish what happened to our friends hadn't happened. And I still hope my children stay healthy. But most of all, I still believe that little boy's sister got it right. One of these days maybe I will, too.



(NOTE: Amazingly, this article on ESPN.com was posted yesterday. I cried.)

Seen and Obscene

This week dawned with my sinuses empty and my parents' guest bed full, specifically of me. I retire tonight with the opposite being true. Actually, the entire week featured equal parts topsy and turvy, to wit:



Sunday: I spent as much of Mother's Day with Andy Rooney as I did my own materfamilias. Mom was violently ill, and Rooney didn't seem much better. He opened one of his routine rants on "60 Minutes" Sunday night by saying, "Am I the only one who's tired of this election campaign already?"



I have a question: "Am I the only one who's tired of Andy Rooney." Here's a guy who's paid roughly the annual GNP of Ghana to be crotchety. And no one puts the "crotch" in crotchety like Andy.



Monday: Word began circulating that an American had been decapitated in Iraq. Nothing could match the unspeakable evil done to Nic Berg, but the way we reacted back home ran a close second. No sooner had word hit the net than each side sent their Rumpelstiltskins to the spinning wheel to tell the world "why these monsters must be wiped out/why President Bush is a monster and why he should be wiped out of office." The Berg family gets a pass to say whatever the heck they want, in my opinion. But I can't imagine adding a more egregious insult to such a heinous injury than the shameless politicizing of Berg's demise. I suppose it's easier to have someone tell you what to think than to think for yourself.



Tuesday: Waiting for an appointment at CNN Center in Atlanta, I spotted the Jackson Five: Jesse (cutting an impressive figure, tall and trim) and four of his lackeys ushering him out of a studio where he'd been interviewed and into one of those BALCO SUVs, a Suburban stretched out across multiple zip codes. I'd never thought about what I might say to Jesse Jackson if given the opportunity, which is perhaps why I said nothing when I had the chance. The only thing that popped into my head was asking him to recite that "Green Eggs and Ham" riff from his Saturday Night Live turn a few years ago. Not sure that would've gone over well with his goons.



Has there been a more inescapable or enigmatic figure over the last 30 years than Jesse Jackson? His celebrity was born about the time I was. He's a Reverend, but I can't say I've ever heard him invoke the name of Jesus. He's been praised, parodied, panned, pandered to, and paternity-papered. No wonder he has so many minions.



Wednesday: En route back to Abilene after a week away from home, I popped into the Admirals Club at DFW. The Admirals Club is:



a) a must for busy businessmen who need a place to conduct their busy work away from the din of a busy airport

b) the only climate on the planet capable of growing fully-ripe, racquetball-sized apples

c) $400 a year

d) all of the above



Taking up 6 feet 10 inches of this particular Club was Jack Haley. Not the Tin Man from "Wizard of Oz" but the erstwhile benchwarmer for the Chicago Bulls' championship teams of the '90s. (Actually, the Tin Man had better moves than his namesake, even before Dorothy's lube job.) This Jack Haley seemed a perfect Admirals Club customer. A guy rich enough to separate himself from the bustling bourgeoisie but not big enough to fly privately. Guys like me. Who like really small apples.



It's good to be home and fill up my half of my own bed. And now that I'm heavily medicated, I'm ready to taken on the trials and triumphs of another week. I might even be ready for Andy Rooney.

Backseat Evangelist

You never quite know what'll happen when you bring a loaded Bible onto an airplane. (To see what happens when you bring a loaded cowboy onto an airplane, see my previous post.) As I was exiting a Delta flight Friday morning in Jacksonville, a passenger behind me said, "I noticed you were reading the Bible. Here's one for ya: the Jews don't recognize Jesus as the Messiah; Protestants don't recognize the Pope in Rome; and Baptists don't recognize each other in the liquor store." Rimshot.



Flying back to Nashville Saturday, I had a great view of my own little Bermuda Triangle from seat 10 C. Directly in front of me, an attractive, eloquent woman - maybe late thirties - was chatting up a spunky, outspoken girl, who introduced herself as Annie, an aspiring singer trying to make it in Nashville the hard way. Annie was impressed to discover Sharon is a globetrotting gospel evangelist, returning in this particular case from a speaking engagement in the Bahamas. (I said, "Now that's picking up your cross." No response. A prophetess is without honor at 28,000 feet.)



As Sharon started sharin', I handed her my Bible and told Annie to listen carefully to what she had to say. Sharon has spoken all over the world to thousands of people, but did that stop me from butting in with my little sermon nuggets? Yeah, right! Do Baptists recognize each other in the liquor store?



Imagine someone looking up at Michelangelo from the floor of the Sistine Chapel. "How 'bout painting Jonah getting puked up by the whale right next to that naked cherub?" Or co-teaching a mathematics course with Stephen Hawking. "Yes, class, what he said, and also, 2 plus 2 is 4. You'll be responsible for that on the final."



Despite my dabbling, Annie was drinking in this beautifully-presented proffer along with her two pops of Jack and Coke.



The enemy, losing ground on that front, drew a new battle line for my attention just one seat over. The guy next to Sharon, a fellow minister traveling with her, was watching "21 Grams" on his portable DVD player. Of course the screen was in my line of sight, and of course - because it's a Sean Penn movie - you're never more than a few frames away from at least partial nudity. Wait for it...wait for it...there it is! The booby prize! A tete-a-tete in seats 9 B and C and in 9 D...well, you get the idea.



Unbelievable. Is there no such thing as a "no fly zone" for temptation? Meanwhile, another weapon of mass distraction was sharing an armrest with me in 10 D. This Michigan man was more interested in the year of our Lord than the Lord's prayer.



"Let me tell you what really makes me mad. What year was it a hundred years ago?"



"Uh, 1904?"



"Okay, how 'bout 200 years ago?"



Expecting a punchline in here somewhere, I replied, "1804?"



"Exactly! So how come everybody says 'two thousand four' instead of 'twenty oh four?' We didn't say 'nineteen hundred four,' did we?"



"No, sir. This is important to you, isn't it?"



"Yes."



He went on and on A.D. nauseam. (I didn't dare ask him how I should say "21 Grams.") You can't make this stuff up.



The plane landed with Sharon promising to drive in from her rural home outside Nashville to see "The Passion" with Annie, who was touched by the offer and willing to give it a shot. I promised Millenium Man I'd try to remember to say "twenty oh four." And I resolved to avoid all "21 Grams" at Blockbuster...or at least wait 'til all the Baptists head for the liquor store.

The High Life

To really crack up a cabin of airplane passengers on a pre-dawn flight, you either have to be extremely funny or severely drunk. Having never been either, I marveled at the work of a cowboy from Potosi, Texas this morning on American Eagle Flight 3624. He was unashamedly both.



Decked out in full wrangler regalia from hat to boot, he boisterously boarded and moseyed his way back to row 14. If his reputation didn't precede him, his pre-flight beverage did. The back half of the plane was secondhand drunk by the time we took off.



Removing all doubt, he announced to everyone and no one in particular that he'd been drinking. ("Really? You hold it well.") Continuing his unsolicited soliloquy, "We started out ridin' the buckin' harses. Then we hopped onto the dirt bikes. Then we got into the Crown Royal." Somewhere an out-of-work reality show executive has new life.



They say you let go of your inhibitions when inebriated. Not sure this guy ever had any, but if he did they were as non-existent as his whiskey at this point. He asked a casino-bound couple, "Where y'all headed?"



"Las Vegas," they replied.



"Vegas? D-mn, I'm on the wrong plane! I'm goin' to Dallas!"



I think he was kidding.



To the guy in front of him, a perfectly-chiseled (not that I noticed) rock of an African-American, he said, "Howdy. What are you, one of them linebackers?"



Guy (with perfect diction and eloquence, which obviously threw our friend off): "I'm the fitness director at Dyess Air Force Base."



Cowboy: "Huh?"



Guy (again with the diction): "I'm the fitness director at Dyess Air Force Base."



Perhaps subconsciously summoning his last extant instinct of self-preservation, he ended that conversation and started in on the flight attendant's futile attempts to show him and the rest of us how to buckle our seat belts.



"What she say? Sump'm 'bout everybody in Oklahoma's gettin' drunk."



The people next to him were howling hysterically. Officially on a roll, he began getting buzzed on their laughter. To the flight attendant's demonstration of how to use the oxygen mask (which the rest of us could've used by then):



"Breathe deep? Yeah, breathe deep as the plane spirals...



- there's no way to phonetically describe how this man pronounced the word "spirals" -



to the ground at 700 miles per hour."



Somehow I dozed off and missed the rest of his in-flight routine, but I woke up as we were landing to see him hand a quarter to the Vegas hopefuls and say in full throat, "Let 'er ride on red! H-ll, I don't even know how to gamble, but let 'er ride on red!"



As we exited the aircraft (such as it was), he fired off a couple of closing quickies. To the pilots:



"My turn! Fill 'er up! I'm 'on' take 'er fer a spin!"



To a smily infant in her mother's arms:



"I betcha you gotta pee, don't ya!" (My guess is both parties went in their pants.)



As I made my way to the next gate, I thought, "No wonder Jesus hung out with drunks and other 'notorious sinners.'" At least when you tell that crowd to turn from their sins and turn to God, they clearly understand what you're saying. As long as you're not talking to them over an airplane loudspeaker.

Grant Boone, Esquire

Just when I begin to buy into the delusion that I'm a pretty good writer - insert laughter - I pick up a copy of Esquire magazine and see what real writing is. Real profane writing, occasionally, in a melange of man-friendly material. But great writing, nonetheless. The latest incontrovertible evidence was submitted in this month's issue by Tom Junod, an article entitled "Dude, Where's My Jesus?"



See if it challenges you as it did me.

Bathroom Humor

Sooner or later, all of us will need to use the word "port-o-john" in a sentence. For that very moment, I thought you might find helpful these septic synonyms from CBS golf announcer David Feherty, who's both Irish and incontinent:



1) the blue room

2) squirtatorium

3) dungfunnel



You don't get this kind of stuff from Deepak Chopra, who's both Indian and in complete control of his bladder.