The Day The Haikus Died ...

So disappointing
Tony quickly forgets roots
No haikus no more

Pearls of wisdom gone
Like so much dust in the wind
Like Tar Heels bowl hopes

A host we knew once
Our small cafeteria
The domain he ruled

Will he roll windos
When Marco sees rainin in
Even Seattle?

Time for more Tony
Austin fortune cookies taste
Funny, then sweet too

Denial no lake
Tony should be swimming in
Don't forget your friends

Remember Tony
Life's like a chicken tender
Eat it while it lasts

Nihilism + Keywords = No Free Lunches

Walter Sobchak: “Nihilists! Fuck me. I mean, say what you like about the tenets of National Socialism, Dude, at least it's an ethos.”

Ever since Nihilists threw a marmot into the Dude’s bathtub and stole his rug in “The Big Lebowski,” I’ve been acutely aware of the horrors that these people are capable of. Anyone who looked remotely like a Nihilist … I gave them a wide berth. No questions asked. So imagine my surprise when I realized that I was working at a nihilist company for entirely too long.

For those who need a brushup on their Nietzsche, nihilism involves the rejection of morality; the acceptance that the world has no meaning, value, truth or purpose; and the stance that one should believe in absolutely nothing. In fact, the term is derived from the Latin nihil, which means “nothing.”

One of my former employers certainly embodied this philosophy. When voluntary layoffs dwindled the numbers and talent, they looked the other way and elected not only to not make any effort to retain any of those leaving, but actually decided not to replace any either. When voluntary layoffs were not occurring fast enough, they fired some coworkers seemingly at random, with no consideration for talent, role, salary, age or experience. As for a rejection of morals, well … check. Let’s just say that unless you consider headlocks from bosses, lap-sitting by executives or incestuous, inbred leadership to be methods of “motivation,” morality was nowhere to be found.

This will all be detailed in my forthcoming screenplay, “I Worked At a Nihilist Company and All I Have to Show for It is This Year-Old Chicken Tender,” subtitled “A Windo Into a Rainin Sol.” The book will borrow heavily from Lebowski …

Bunny Lebowski: Blow on them.
The Dude: You want me to blow on your toes?
Bunny Lebowski: I can't blow that far.
The Dude: Are you sure he won't mind?
Bunny Lebowski: Ulli doesn't care about anything. He's a Nihilist.
The Dude: Ah. Must be exhausting.

Indeed, Dude. Indeed. Almost as exhausting as working for Nihilists.

Whither Doug Heffernan?

Today is the third day of fall, but it doesn’t feel like it. Not with hot, humid weather, what passes for football in North Carolina … and the absence of “King of Queens” from the primetime lineup. CBS is promising that the show will be back in midseason, but as we all know, there are no promises in TV.

KOQ snuggled nicely into the 8 p.m. Monday night slot, a hilarious appetizer leading into Monday Night Football. There was something comforting about having everyman Doug Heffernan, a delivery guy, coming home to exchange barbs with his wife Carrie, fight with his father-in-law Arthur and get into hijinx with his friend Deac. Throw in a disturbing roommate relationship between Doug’s friend Spence and cousin Danny, and Doug paying dogwalker Holly to walk Arthur … and you have an easy recipe for success. Of course, the large-ish Doug put on and dropped weight seemingly from episode to episode, allowing him to incorporate top-notch physical humor into the equation, a la Chris Farley or John Belushi. Even when Leah Remini, who plays Carrie, got pregnant and put on a lot of weight in real life, they wrote that into the show cleverly. The formula went from fat-dude-with-hot-wife to fat-couple-berates-each-other-about-weight without skipping a beat.

The incomparable Jerry Stiller used to steal scenes playing George Costanza’s father on “Seinfeld,” and he does the same on KOQ. Whether he is turning the basement into a love den for the maid, suing a network so he’ll receive a year’s supply of cereal for his appearance on $10,000 Pyramid or inventing a new type of screwdriver (the “Arthur’s Head”), Arthur Spooner banters perfectly with Doug.

Apparently, CBS disagrees. I guess that’s why they put “The Class” into the 8 p.m. Monday night time slot to start the season. This show was co-created by David Crane and Jeffrey Clarik, who blessed our culture with “Friends” and “Mad About You," respectively. What does that mean? That you can expect high-brow, stuffy humor and predictable lines that stop being funny about two seasons in, if it makes that far. “The Class” is about third-grade classmates reuniting 20 years later to catch up with each other. That might work as a Saturday Night Live skit, but is that a premise that can be sustained for an entire season? Especially since the initial show got two middle fingers up from the critics? And even Bob Newhart called it boring?

What makes matters worse is that I used to work with Doug’s doppelganger at my last job … and now I have to live my life missing them both. So do the right thing, CBS … show you’ve got no “Class” and bring back the Heffernans!

New Orleans Is Ready For Some Football

Tonight, the Saints finally return to New Orleans to play their first true home game since Hurricane Katrina hit last August. While the re-opening of the Superdome and halftime performances by U2 and Green Day are likely to dominate the storylines, I only hope that the primetime appearance on Monday Night Football shines a light back on a tragedy that is too quickly being pushed into a memory.

A visit to New Orleans’s Lower Ninth Ward should be mandatory for every member of Congress. I made a trip a couple of weeks ago and it opened my eyes to what has yet to be done and the monumental tasks that still remain in the bayou.

Yet for me, I was able to slowly pass through and deal with my emotions, then hop a plane and return home to the comforts of my life. It is hard to believe that one morning, I was driving through a war zone of leveled neighborhoods and structures, replete with abandoned fighter planes and other tools of destruction – and that same evening, I was back at home, 800 miles away, in the air conditioning, watching football on cable, eating Bojangles. Hours before, I was watching old white people paying a tour bus to take them through the rubble so they could take photos of the remnants of poor black folks’ lives. It did not seem like it all happened in the same day — much less the same country.

Driveways with no homes at the end of them. Cars on top of houses. Houses on top of cars. Boats in the middle of the street. FEMA trailers parked next to signs offering to gut homes for 99 cents a square foot. An eerie silence as handpainted road signs let no one in particular know exactly where they are. Restaurants with billboards impaled in them. No signs of life. No smiles for miles. No laughing children, no crying adults, no shuffling elderly, no borne infants. Just a wasteland that smelled like hopelessness, a Dresden in my America. Just over there lies ongoing construction of a new levee that will attempt to hold back the tears. Around the corner is a stoop without a home, an abandoned teddy bear with no child left to hold it.

I hope the Saints play well tonight, because there aren’t many people right now more deserving or more in need of a reason to cheer than the natives of New Orleans. But more than a good game, I hope that Monday Night Football gives the city a platform to show the nation how far they have come ... but how far they have yet to travel.

Can Unlikely Hero Give Amato Fairy-Tale Ending?

From the beginning of his tenure in 2000, NC State football coach Chuck Amato has cultivated a contentious relationship with the media, seemingly deriving pleasure from the back-and-forth sniping with his program's beat writers. Since my days with The Wolfpacker, I knew that as soon as Amato started to fall on difficult times, the media would relish the opportunity to even the score and pile on. In Raleigh, that day has come.

The Charlotte Observer is the latest to join the growing sentiment that this should be Amato's final year at State. The brash coach has become a caricature of himself ... the bravado that endeared him to Wolfpack fans has grown tiresome. The bold statements that the Pack faithful used to wait for now causes embarrasment among some alumni. The confident talk of national championships now sound like hollow, empty promises to many. Some feel that the gleaming new facilities hide trouble within, like a golden fence in front of a boarded-up shotgun house.

Tomorrow, Amato, himself like a character out of "Goodfellas," will turn to Daniel Evans, straight out of a Disney movie. Evans is the son of a former NC State standout, All-America punter and quarterback Johnny -- now a color commentator for Pack radio broadcasts. Daniel grew up a rabid State fan, shagging footballs on the Wolfpack sidelines. He went on to a phenomenal career at hometown Broughton high school, whipping passes to brother Andrew -- the duo comprising half of a set of quadruplets. Both players now wear the Red and White. Daniel was a late addition to State's signing class three years ago, offered a last-second sholarship after the Pack was jilted by a higher-rated signal-caller. He paid his dues with two-plus years on the scout squad, toiling in obscurity while continuing to connect with his brother.

Now, Evans has come on in relief of starter Marcus Stone to try to revive a pathetic Wolfpack offense. First start at quarterback. Hopes of a renewed season on his shoulders. Former ballboy. Hometown boy. Son of the former star. Dad in the booth trying to remain partial while his son plays below. Brother on the sidelines cheering him on. Saturday night primetime television game. Nationally ranked foe. The only thing missing from this Disney story is a donkey to come on and kick extra points.

Does Amato's fate really rest with a skinny, unheraled quarterback who weighs less than the coach's left pec? Will Evans be able to handle the pressure of playing against a tough conference opponent? After demoralizing losses to Akron and Southern Mississippi, the NC State program is currently in such dire straits that any semblance of hope could rejuvenate the fan base.

Evans offers hope, something in short supply in these parts this year. After seven seasons and the arrival of a ton of flashy recruits from Florida, it seems improbable that Amato could be banking on a relatively unwanted quarterback from around the corner to save his job. But that just might be the case when a pivotal moment in Amato's tenure coincides with an after-school special, Movie of the Week, Hallmark Hall of Fame feature and Disney flick all rolled into one tomorrow evening.

Good luck, Daniel Evans. No pressure or anything.

Walking Sharks Trump Turtles In "Freakout" Category

If you've been reading carefully, by now you know that turtles freak me out. But that just involves being "freaked out" ... I actually live in mortal fear of sharks. To the point where I can't watch anything on the Discovery Channel because it usually involves someone in an oversized bird cage being submerged in water and beginning to antagonize, tease, taunt, squirt blood at and basically f' with creatures that have been found with freaking car parts in their stomachs. And when does it stop being "Shark Week" on the Discovery Channel ... shouldn't they just call it "Shark Year" at this point? Do they have any other type of programming?

Anyway, researchers recently found some new marine species off the coast of New Guinea -- including a walking shark. Apparently, the epaulette shark "distinguishes itself by sometimes using its fins to scamper away." Just the idea of that gives me the willies ... the accompanying video did not help matters.

I should clarify. I saw a hammerhead shark once while surfing near Atlantic Beach. The thing looked like a rabid E.T. had decided to go for a swim. I didn't go back in the water for like a month. I went so far beyond being scared that it was more like shock at the appearance of the thing. Sharks look like something that should have gone extinct a long time ago; they are swimming, feral, blood-seeking dinosaurs.

Do we really need a Saturday Night Live skit come to life? Now I not only need to worry about getting freaked out by receiving the stinkeye from a bevy of turtles, but now I have to be concerned about a stinking shark scampering about on strangely foot-like fins.

The moral of the story is not to automatically open the door when you hear a knock followed by, "Candygram." Don't say I didn't warn you.

Nobody Said It Was Going To Be Big Easy

“It’s still the same ol’ N’Awlins,” a shopkeeper told me this past weekend as I browsed. “Just less people.

“But they’ll be back.”

It is that resiliency that will help New Orleans return, though it will likely never be the city that it once was prior to Hurricane Katrina. People in the area tell me that natives define their lives, their possessions, important milestones in their lives, according to the storm. “Pre-Katrina” or “post-Katrina” is inserted into their sentence structures almost unthinkingly, like Kevin Nealon as Mr. Subliminal in a Saturday Night Live sketch. “I used to have this job—pre-Katrina—downtown that I really loved.”

But you can still see that the pageantry and soul, if not the spirit, of the city is still intact. You still have to fight for a table at Café du Monde for beignets and café au lait; the French Market is still as colorful and varied. You’ll still have quite a wait ahead of you if you want a po-boy at Mother's, and you can still find sno-balls, pralines and gumbo all over the city. Jackson Square is still resplendent with history, and beautiful St. Louis Cathedral -- the oldest cathedral in America -- rises out of the French Quarter like a palace in the middle of the desert. The echoes of jazz’s birth still reach out and whisper down your arm as you walk past Preservation Hall, and the lazy meandering of the Mississippi still stirs memories of Mark Twain.

There is still a sight on every corner that takes your breath away, a piece of architecture you will find nowhere else in America, a snapshot of time that causes your head to spin. But there are reminders of Katrina everywhere … from the street performer wearing a T-shirt that says, “I drove my Chevy to the levee … but the levee was gone” … to the sign in the window reading “Now I know what it means to miss New Orleans” … to thinly veiled resentment toward the government and FEMA emanating from the merchandise in a myriad of shops.

There is a hustle missing, a bustle not found. Tourists are few, vendors’ eyes are imploring, the schtick of the jazz artist selling his CD on the corner is a little more pleading. Yet for every sigh of despair, there is a vibrant recollection of what was, and what will be again. For every tear down a cheek, there is a note sounded from the past. For every question “Why?,” there is a firm “We’ll be back” in response. For every heavy heart, there is a lifted spirit in the sun reflected off the Mississippi and a promise of hope that better days lie just over the horizon. For every resigned declaration that it will be never the same, there is the reminder that different isn’t always worse.

And for every Saturday in the streets of New Orleans, there is optimism that one more new set of eyes, one more won-over visitor, one more awe-struck tourist, could be one more step on the path to healing.

The Smiling Fingerpainter

Heard a song once
About a girl
She fingerpainted a sunset on her TV screen
Where is that girl now
Does she still make time for sunsets
And live her life with no regrets?

There’s a guitar
Sitting in the corner
Is it still mine
Can it still speak
If it stays untouched?

Pen and paper
Unmoved by heart
Or emotion or will
Will these things ever mean
What they were supposed to mean

Notes unplayed
Words unsaid
Ideas not put in the light
That’s a lot like
Fingerpainting fog on a computer screen
How gray would that seem?

Who put these tools here
When should they be used
If not me, who
If not now, when
If not able, why
Not

Can’t you find a palette
In the middle of a puddle
Or inspiration
In the echo of a child?

I’ve seen a smile
That made me want to cry
I've seen a tear
That made me grin wide
I’ve heard a laugh
That made my heart sing
Then split

Knock the dust off
Sweep it in the corner
With the other quiet emotions
There’s enough room over there
To call that corner what it is
And build that pile up
Until it means that
Or this

One time I saw a boy
With the greatest story ever told
Somewhere in his pocket
It slipped through his fingers
When he grasped for laughs

Was it the greatest story never told
Or the way he dealt with growing old

If words were sand
He’d have his own beautiful little desert
"But God," he asked
"Wouldn’t it still be deserted?"

A mind racing
Can be dangerous or wonderful
Depends on the road

And what color is that flag
Red, green
Maybe white
Yellow,
Like a sun you’re not supposed to look at?

What if I said what I meant
And wrote what I couldn’t
And sang what I shouldn’t
It seems a dilemma
Easier to do neither
Then blame someone else
For making it an easy decision

A sunset at midnight
A full moon in midafternoon
I’ve seen them both
They made me reach
For a pen or a guitar
Neither was there
They’re both in my mind’s eye
It blinks and it’s gone
And it won’t share

Some images
Done no justice
By the writing
No fairness
By the chord

So guide my fingers
Steady my hand
It doesn’t have to be
The greatest story ever told

It only has to be
What needs to be said
And heard by someone
Sent out into the firmament
There’s something golden about that
Even if truth can seem a little blue

Yet what is color
But our mind telling our eye
Telling our heart
What it would be best to see
Or seem

If the worst to be said about me
Is "He tried and failed"
Then I could still hold my head high
And be a smiling fingerpainter
Who made it the greatest story ever tried
And the prettiest song ever cried

Scooter Has a Date with Lady Justice

I'll be tiptoeing down the halls of justice tomorrow morning, and this time I won't be hanging my head in shame and hoping I don't see anyone I know. Yup ... I have jury duty tomorrow, and I hope to begin my life as an expert witness tomorrow in the Wake County Courthouse.

I'm actually looking forward to seeing some of the inner workings of our "justice" system, and I think recent trips to the DMV and Social Security offices have prepared me for the -- ahem -- type of people I can expect to see bright and early tomorrow. Also, I don't know if heckling from the jury box is frowned upon or not, but I have been working up some volleys that might help grease the wheels of justice:

"I hope this line of questioning is going somewhere, Counselor."
"Leading the witness! Leading the witness!"
"I'll need to see a copy of that writ of habeas corpus."
"Sure, Mr. Bunting, we'll put the bail on your tab."
"You're forgetting that time is precious to Your Honor and myself. Let's speed this along."
"The fact is that you never actually SAW Mr. Simpson that night, did you? DID YOU!?"
"I was told that Kato Kaelin would be appearing today?"
"I have an objection ... this bench is harder than Donald Trump's hair. Am I right, people?"
"Could you speak up, Miss Hilton?"
"So how long have you been a player at UNC?"
"No, I believe you, Mr. Martin ... I'm sure that she did want to sit on your lap."
"I'm going to put the SYSTEM on trial!"

As you can tell, I've given this some thought. And if they want to pay me 12 beans per day for incessant material for my screenplay ... I say long live democracy.

Petty Rocks Shockingly Hard for an Older Fella

Tom Petty isn't my favorite musician, but you have to admire the sheer volume of his work as an artist ... and it turns out that still puts on a terrific show even if he looks like he's on the verge of keeling over at any point. I was able to catch he and the Heartbreakers at Alltel Pavilion on Sunday night, and his 21-song mix of older hits, new tunes and covers made for an amazing performance. Since the Heartbreakers are celebrating their 30th anniversary this year, there is plenty of speculation that this could be Petty's final tour, and with tickets available at a decent price, this is a show I wanted to see.

The Black Crowes were a late sub for the Strokes as the opening band for Petty, and by this point, you pretty much know what you're going to get with the Black Crowes: a couple of recognizable hits, some relatively unfocused dabbling in blues and jam influences, and a pervasive fear that Chris Robinson is going to get blown right off the stage by a strong gust of wind. On this night, Robinson must have turned his recent separation from Kate Hudson (if she is digging on Owen Wilson, she must have a thing for freaky-looking, mildly talented types -- Will, are you listening? -- but that's a blog for another day) into some additional angst, because he delivered a blistering "Remedy" among his final songs. All in all, a good way to kick off the show.

Petty took the stage with four straight crowd favorites before finally playing a new song, "Saving Grace" from the resurgent new album "Highway Companion." Only one of the first dozen or so songs was from his new album and he played just three new ones altogether, including the crowd-endearing "Down South" and a beautifully done acoustic version of "Square 1." He also gave a nod to sometimes-tour companion Stevie Nicks with "Oh Well" by Fleetwood Mac and his former bandmates the Traveling Wilburys with "Handle with Care."

Petty's deep musical roots were recognized with a cover of "I'm a Man" by Muddy Waters and a funky rendition of "Too Much Monkey Business" by Chuck Berry. A soulful version of "Learning to Fly" was actually quite moving. For the encore, Petty wowed the remaining crowd with "Running Down a Dream," then a searing plea for serenity with his haunting version of "Mystic Eyes," by Them, before finishing with a bang by sending the crowd shuffling to the parking lots with "You Wreck Me." Throughout, Petty did a wonderful job of interacting with the crowd, a welcome departure from other big-arena shows you'll see these days. If this is indeed his last tour, he is certainly going out in Hall of Fame style.

On a side note, I honestly don't know if I've ever seen such rampant public intoxication at any show I've ever been to, which includes such acts as Van Halen, Lollapaloozas, HORDE Festivals and other binge-drink-inspiring acts. I witnessed three walking-while-vomiting episodes, the aforementioned 'neck/trailer bride/midget menage a trois, and other scenes that I wish I could un-see. I thought Tom Petty and the Black Crowes would attract a somewhat more serene, diverse, older crowd ... but maybe I'm just getting old.

9/11: Never Forget

I have a lot to blog about today. Hell, last night I saw a woman hug a drunken midget while she was being dry-humped by a dude wearing nothing but jean shorts and a Confederate flag bandanna underneath a Dale Earnhardt straw hat. And I have roughly 18,999 witnesses who will tell you that it was a concert and not my family reunion. That's worth an easy 5,000 written words by itself.

But it seems weird to blog about anything lighthearted today, the five-year anniversary of 9/11. I don't need Oliver Stone or anyone else to help me remember the impact that day meant to me and my family. If you can, take a second today to think of 9/11 in your own terms, without letting the political fiascos of the ensuing five years to enter the equation ... if that is possible.

New York has a special place in my heart, and a lesser city would never have regained the spirit and vitality that make it the greatest city on earth. I can only hope that New Orleans walks a similar path, and that the Big Easy learns something from the Big Apple.

Brush Up, Fido

My veterinarian has been getting on me to have "dental work" done -- on my dog, Gallo. Apparently, he has tartar on some of his back teeth and, sometime this year, he needs to go in for a "dental" -- which, in vetspeak, is loosely translated as "enema on your wallet." It got to the point where I actually thought I would give it a shot ... I bought G'Lo (he's still just Gallo from the block) a toothbrush and toothpaste and commenced to trying to brush his teeth. Not only did I feel like a freaking idiot, but it pretty much consisted of him licking the toothbrush as often as possible and making choking noises and wriggling around a lot. Plus, G'Lo is a nice dog, but he still has pretty sharp teeth, and I figgered that if I pushed the issue, he might have to start brushing my teeth because I might lose a coupla fingers.

But it got me thinking ... what kind of a racket is this? Dental work on dogs? Is it common for dogs in the wild to roll up to a stream and sit down and start brushing away? "Hey, Rex, pass the Colgate, would you?" "Spot, I made some floss out of some ivy I found. You can get in on some of this if you want." "Word. Thanks, dog." I haven't seen many rawhide retainers or braces out there on pets. I guess paying the equivalent of a car payment for a coupla of shots and some heartworm pills isn't quite enough for my vet.

So what if I buck the establishment and refuse the dental work? Do they make false teeth for dogs? Will he be gumming the hell out of apple-sauce-flavored dog food down the road? Will other dogs make fun of him and make immature cavity/canine jokes? I think it's a big conspiracy, but if any of you have had to put headgear on your dogs, please let me know.

Hardball Questions for Chuck

I got the opportunity to cover practice last night for the NC State Wolfpack. Click here to read the writeup of my interview with State coach Chuck Amato (for the State diehards, I also chatted with running back Jamelle Eugene). The 1-0 Pack takes on defending MAC champion Akron at high noon at Carter-Finley Stadium in Raleigh. Yes, they are called the Zips. No, they are not appreciably faster than other teams due to footloose and fancy-free -- albeit, strikingly cheap -- footwear.

On a sidenote, I am hearing a lot of Akron fans predicting that the Zips will knock off the Wolfpack. I can understand that line of reasoning ... however, should the reason really be that State is "overlooking" Akron? For who? Southern Mississippi the following week? Why can't you just have the confidence in yourself and your team to say your team is better? Why fabricate illogical arguments about how your team is "disrespected" or "underrated"? You are Akron. Hear you roar.

Our coach has an enormous chest and manages to make riding behind another man on a motorcycle look manly. It should be quite a contest between the rabid wolves and the disrespected sneakers ...

Turtles Freak Me Out

So I'm walking around the lake behind the office building where I work and I notice a turtle ... "Wow," I think, "how disarming it is to feel so far away from my cubicle with only a few steps. I've gone from a meeting about correct procedures for naming file folders to watching a turtle sun himself on a branch in the span of one minute!" But what was once inviting -- nee, charming, perchance -- has become somewhat disturbing. Upon my walk today, I noticed that every partially submerged log or branch had two, three, four turtles on it. I have come to the realization that turtles freak me out. They are so quiet, so slow, so still ... yet they look like they could freaking hurt you if they so wanted. I find my pace quickening as I walk past, yet I cannot look away.

I don't even know if that makes sense. But regardless ... I've learned something new about myself today. Turtles freak me out. And I'm OK with that.