Extra! Extra! Read all about it!

Last week, I did something that I haven't done in 10 years...I was an extra in a movie! It was in the Ron Howard movie called "What You Don't Know", with Vince Vaughn, Kevin James, Jennifer Connolly and Winona Rider, and the scenes were filmed at the United Center in Chicago for three days. (Me & Mrs. Idiot have a standing date for the Jan. 15, 2011 premiere).

To answer the immediate questions - "No", I did not meet any of the stars up close and personal, and "No" you probably won't see me if you don't know where to look in the crowd shots. But, if you are like me and enjoy some quality people-watching, this is something you need to try.

Rivaled only by Karaoke Night in downtown mid-Illinois anywhere, the extras character ensemble made it seem like I had invaded a field trip from the DMV. Some scrubs were under the impression that this would be their big break, and that they would be "discovered" amongst the 1000+ extras in their first step towards Oscar gold. (That bar may have been set a bit too high).

However, I was lucky enough to find Cathie and Eric, a couple of equally-sarcastic space-fillers who were also along just for the experience. Together, we formed our own little alliance, hell-bent on making our own fun (and, as we were together for roughly 36 hours, we surmised that there was really little else to do).

We got to meet and talk to many different people, as we were shuffled from section to section in order to film large crown shots, striking up fun and interesting conversations along the way. For our own reference and for reasons obvious to us, we saw and renamed Mohawk, Blind Side, 'Stash, Blond Morticia, and Paris-Hilton-at-50, just to name a few. And, amidst all the section-changing and parading around the UC, we three were all, at one time or another, subjected to the trials and tribulations of "Face Time".

Without prompting and with disregard for the obvious disinterest of rows of fellow extras, Face Time (along with sidecar and sounding board "Morocco Mole") could not believe that she was not getting filmed for close-ups on camera, as she had recently spent days being filmed for her role in another film. Her self-admitted "Diva Complex" was taking a major hit, and my guess is that 765 extras knew about it, but Face Time didn't stop long enough to catch anyone's name. It had not dawned on Face Time that maybe the camera needed a break. (I did not know that there was a remake of "Throw Momma from the Train", but I'm glad they found their female lead).

Now, I'm not perfect by any stretch, but I have enough social skills to realize that if people were actually moving away from me to secure a seat outside of the sound of my voice, then I might need to re-think my presentation to society or my conversational topic. Lucky for me, Cathie, Eric and I all practiced reasonable hygiene and gave details of our lives only when asked, and actually listened to each other's responses. That may be why I sought them out each day.

Today's lessons:

- Try and make the most of an unpleasant situation, and make your own fun. If you're lucky enough to find people to share in your fun, then you can consider the experience a win.

- When going out in public, please note that combs and deodorant are NOT optional. Please corral that Hairodactyl into a hat or ponytail and lop on a little pit powder for the sake of your fellow humans.

- If you can't make your own fun, then please, for the love of humanity, focus your complaints to those who can help, not just those who are close. Bitching for the sake of bitching adds nothing, and certainly can't help in the pursuit of more Face Time.

Schoolyard or NBA? This week it's hard to tell.

I was recently asked via Facebook if I was going to comment on the "LeBron James Decision". As I have no real interest in the NBA, the whole thing seemed like a huge ego-stroke to me, so I decided to wait until the REAL circus began.

The events that have unfolded since the July 8th "Look-At-Me-fest" run similar to the kid in the schoolyard who changes kickball teams to play with his friends, prompting the Captain of the team to say mean things about him, prompting a self-proclaimed leader and teacher to call the Captain names, until the Principal has to step in and scold everyone involved.

This little One Act play stars Lebron James as the kid, Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert as the Captain, Jesse Jackson as the teacher and NBA Commissioner David Stern as the Principal.

It amazes me how grown men - leaders in their professions and their communities - can't seem to grasp the simplest of life lessons..."Think before you speak!" And, LeBron and Dan, even if you can't get your self-absorbed minds around this concept, please spend some of the millions of dollars that you have accumulated over the years and employ a publicist, or marketer or communications guru to help you craft your message instead of flying like a blind moth into the seductive light of the camera.

As for Jesse...well, you have proven yet again that you are willing to trade any subject-matter knowledge for some face time. Not everything is a case of the white man keeping the black man down, as I don't think that a comparison of a multi-million dollar athlete to a slave holds any merit. How about sticking to the pursuit of civil rights and social justice on which your Rainbow Coalition was founded? You can start in the predominantly black Chicago neighborhood of Englewood, where gang members routinely shoot at anyone on the street, including police officers.

Unless you think that LeBron's millions are more important...

Japanese attack on...Coney Island?

I am coming off a traditional 4th of July celebration - spending time with friends, enjoying a lakefront fireworks display, watching an ambulance cart away one of the neighborhood gang bangers who finally injured himself using home-launched fireworks after three days worth of trying.

But there is one "tradition" that I just can't embrace - The Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest.

When did watching 20 people gorge themselves on hot dogs become part of the national celebration of our independence? A closer examination of the 2010 edition of this train wreck shows exactly why this event is symbolic of the American tradition...

- The winner downed 54 hot dogs in 10 minutes, in front of hundreds of thousands of cheering spectators. (It seems a little easier to figure out why the rest of the world would see Americans as self/over-indulgent and gluttonous).

- Former champion Takeru Kobayashi was present but did not compete, as he refused to sign a contract with Major League Eating. (It's not only disturbing that there is a group formed to regulate this and other "competitive eating" events, but there is actually enough demand to see people stuff themselves that prize money is involved. Just another way to live the American dream...if you can get through all the red tape).

- Kobayashi was arrested when he tried to force his way onto the stage during the awards ceremony. One of the charges was obstructing governmental administration. (THIS is where governmental administration is focused? How about that pesky little oil spill or appropriating stimulus funds correctly or maybe the investigation and/or deterrence of such things as murder, rape, assault, robbery? I, for one, feel better knowing that New York's Finest were deployed to help protect the tube steak chuggers from the 128-pound menace storming the eating stage).

- And of course, there was trash-talking. Winner Joey Chestnut said that Kobayashi would have competed "if he were a real man". (I may have not been paying attention that day, but I can't remember when shoving-enough-food-to-feed-four-rows-of-people-at-Yankee-Stadium-down-your-throat-in-10-minutes was outlined in the "Real Man" definition. If that's your definition Joey, thanks for not dating my sisters).

Unfortunately, I guess that these points, on some level, outline American life in 2010, so maybe this explains why this event has become a part of the true American Independence Day celebration. I just hope that for 2011, somebody might realize that the hot dogs prepared by Nathan's, instead of being sacrificed for prize money, might be better served to those who are homeless and unsure of their next meal.

History has been made...

I have never been much of a tennis fan, but I can certainly appreciate the conditioning and athleticism that is necessary to play. Even though some of the scoring system seems strange to me (why, in a game, do you go from zero ('love') to 15, to 30, to 40 and then win, instead of 1,2,3,4?), I understand that one must win a game by two points. One must win six games (also by 2) to win a set, and three out of five sets to win the match. If a set is tied at six, there is a tiebreaker to see who wins.

Except in the final set at Wimbledon, where players can keep playing until someone wins by two. Such is currently the case...

John Isner and Nicolas Mahut were tied at two sets each Tuesday, when play was suspended by darkness. So, they returned Wednesday to finish the last set. 7 hours and 6 minutes later, play was suspended again, WITH NO WINNER. Tied 59-59!!!

To watch this is truly mesmerising - a final SET alone that broke the record for the longest MATCH in tennis history (the entire match time is over 10 hours)!!! All kinds of other records were broken as well - too many to mention here. And I can honestly say that I can't wait to tune into ESPN to watch this tomorrow to see how it all turns out.

But try to think of JUST STANDING continuously for over 7 hours, with only periodic 1-minute breaks ever 10-15 minutes. Halfway through I would need a nap. Or to go to the bathroom. Or to eat.

If you have a chance to watch the ending (hopefully) Thursday, try to do so - or at least read about it in depth somewhere. You see, neither of these guys will win Wimbledon this year, as one has to eventually lose THIS match and the winner would exceed expectations just by waking up in time for the next match. But, the heart and perseverance that each has shown the past two days should serve as an example to everyone about determination and will and about never giving up.

We all have our favorite players or favorite teams that we root for. And even though I believe that athletes should not be role models, I am willing to amend that thought, as these two men are the exception. Because on top of the marathon match, the records, and all the physical drain, both have been complete sportsmen - no chest-thumping or trash-talking, just two guys giving it their all, with respect for the opponent.

For that reason most of all, this will go down a palatable example of the old adage...its not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game.

I'm trying to get on board, but...

(Before I begin, I apologize for the month-long hiatus, and thank you to all of you who have requested the blog revival).

The every-other-day adrenaline rushes provided by the Blackhawks are but memories now, so I find myself searching for something to satisfy my sports jones. I've tried the Sox and Cubs, but both are mired in mediocrity and the pace of the game (compared to the hockey I am used to) can be generously described as laborious.

So, I decided to try something new to me...World Cup Soccer.

I had previously dismissed the sport as boring, knowing that most games have very few goals and that ties are acceptable and commonplace. But after watching a few matches, I have a new appreciation for this event.

The World Cup seems to parallel the Olympics, as most players take a break from playing for their professional teams and are united in playing for their country once every four years. And the enthusiasm of the fans supporting their countries is undeniably frenzied and inspirational. But there are a couple of characteristics that don't make sense to me...

First of all, the drama and over-acting that is on display during any given match is more than you would find on "The Jersey Shore" and "The Real Housewives of Orange County" combined. I mean really...the flailing and grimacing that occurs nearly every time someone falls to the ground is embarrassing. Lose seven teeth during the course of the game and then come back and play in the same game, and then you might be able to complain a little about the guy that pushed you down or kicked you in your padded shin guard. Play the game, prima donnas.

Also, I think that some of these guys have taken a few too many off the noggin. I mean, I like to watch the players trash-talk and complain to the refs. My amusement comes from knowing that German players more than likely don't understand what Serbian players are saying, and both can complain all they want to the Spanish ref, who doesn't understand either of them. My experience is that trash-talk and complaining work best when the message can be understood by the recipient, but these guys don't seem to care. It doesn't matter to me, as I just watch and give my own narrative, a la "Mystery Science Theater 3000".

But as much as I may want to try and embrace this event, the annoying buzzing of vuvuzelas makes watching difficult. Vuvuzelas are the plastic horns that are blown for the duration of the game by the fans, making it sound like a bee attack. How do they do that for 90 minutes straight? Worse yet, I have begun to hear these around the neighborhood. The pain and discomfort that these annoyances bring to the broadcast are similar to the vocal stylings provided by Hawk Harrelson during Sox games. So, I'll watch both with the sound off.

Let it be known that I have tried something new, but I just don't think that I'll become a follower. There's only so much audible pain that a man can take. I'll just catch a live baseball game or two, wait patiently for the football/hockey season to start again and hope that I don't run across someone blowing a vuvuzela out on the street.

If I do, I may be forced to turn it into a sitting pogo stick for them, and then have to endure complaining in a language I don't understand.

What are we telling the kids??!!!!

I've got issues. I think anyone who knows me or has read this blog would readily jump on board with this little axiom of the universe.

To that end, I think that we should take a little closer look at what we pass down to the next generation, particularly in the realm of nursery rhymes.

Now, it can be asserted that music and rhyme help a child's development. Fine, no argument here. My argument would be in regards to content. A closer look leads me to question if these are images we would really want kids to embrace in the height of their blissful innocence. A simple breakdown of these rhymes comes into direct conflict with my Spock-like adherence to logic. For example...

The Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe - The impossible logistics aside, since this old lady doesn't know what to do with all her kids, try this for starters...get a job that doesn't involve you laying down. Should this woman with such lower moral fiber, who barely feeds and then whips her bastard children, be immortalized in song? I hope that somewhere, someone has created a second verse that incorporates the DCFS.

Humpty Dumpty - This one's got all kinds of problems. Who among us names an egg? Or puts an egg on a wall? Or really gives a rat's ass if that egg falls off said wall? Wouldn't a king have better use of his troops than to deploy them to try to reconstruct an egg? Aren't horses going to have problems trying to put an egg back together, what with the hooves and the general lack of reasoning? Sop that bad boy up with a Wet-vac, get a new egg, don't name it, and move on. If the five-second rule applies, grab a bowl and a whisk and make an omelet.

Jack & Jill - Let's see...two kids run up a hill, the boy falls down and cracks open his skull, so the girl decides to tumble on down after him. Is she an idiot? Why would anyone do that? Don't parents want to teach kids to NOT do stupid things just because all the other kids are doing it? Patty-cake away to this gem!!

And my personal favorite...

Ring Around the Rosie - Let's dance around and sing about "The Plague", shall we? A round rosy rash (a plague symptom), posies of herbs that were carried in belief of plague protection, "Atch chew! atch chew!" (sneezing, another and final fatal plague symptom), and all fall down (and die). Yea! Disease is fun, isn't it kids?

But, who am I to say? These things have been around for generations before me and will continue long after I'm gone. And, I guess, I never really questioned these rhymes when I was a kid, so how bad can they be? (I guess these are better than having kids skipping around quoting rap lyrics).

But kids are getting smarter earlier with each generation, and we would all like everyone (regardless of age) to know what they are talking about when they speak.

So be prepared, we all may have some questions to answer some time soon.

What's in a name?

I awoke this morning to the news that the Independent candidate for Governor of Illinois, Scott Lee Cohen, had picked a running mate. This is not particularly interesting news, except that the person chosen has a very interesting name, Baxter Swilley. If this election was won or lost based on the uniqueness of names, this guy wins in a landslide.

But what's in a name? My name, for example, has a biblical meaning of "rock". One look at me and my fluffy midriff and sprouting man-boobs would lead one to believe that my parents were misguidedly optimistic. Sure, I could change my name to something more appropriate, like Prince or Master P, but I don't possess the requisite vanity for such a transformation.

Which leads me to believe that nicknames (at least in the world of men) are more often representative of how we are seen by the world. The general rule of thumb is that one cannot nickname oneself, (I tried, but my wife laughed "Boom Boom" out of the room). Nicknames can only be assigned by friends and family.

For some, this can be a simple as a shortening of a name, as in "Sully" or "Smitty". For others, it may be based in a physical characteristic, like "Red" or "Freckles". Or be flat-out mean like "Tarhead" or "Bubbles". However, my favorite nicknames are those creative monikers that withstand the test of time.

This brings me to Mel.

Before going any further, I must say that it takes a special kind of person to embrace a nickname that is deprecating, and to know Mel is to love Mel. He's a large, loud, jolly man with a large frame and an even larger heart. But Mel hasn't always been "Mel".

"Mel" is a version of his real name that was contracted into it's current form during our teen years, right around the time that his head started growing faster than his body (and we needed to know a guy named "Mel" in case we wanted to start a bowling team - as every team needs to have one).

During the late 80s, and based on cinematic reference, "Mel" was replaced with "Uncle Buck" (which should give you an appropriate mental picture of his physical presence). And, more recently, a grass roots effort has been established to amend "Mel" to "Cheese Fries" (I won't go into why). As much as this makes me giggle, I don't think it will stick.

That's because, as much as we may try to change his nickname, all the great memories that we've had together, I've had with "Mel". Trying to change that nickname at this point just doesn't seem right.

But it sure is fun to try.