Yesterday I purchased The Duke Basketball Bluebook: a Guide to the 2012 NCAA Tournament for my Kindle. I've since read it and, quite frankly, I'm disappointed. I can't give this little tome (and I do mean little for $9.95) high marks. In fact, the book seems to be a ploy to glean money from unsuspecting and naive Dukies like me.
My wife, of course, has been pointing out my gullibility for years. I am, after all, the same man who once purchased "sea monkeys" from an ad in the back of a comic book, as well as the guy who shelled out $9.95 to Charles Atlas, who promised me that I would grow muscles and no longer be the wimp on the beach. I have also ordered items from the Home Shopping Network, supported Ronco Products for years, and I came dangerously close to asking for a Snuggie and a ShamWow for Christmas last year.
I should know better . . . especially with my M.Div degree from Duke, where I studied under the illustrious tutelage of professors who were world-renown in their respective disciplines and who warned me about the evils of attending basketball games at Cameron Indoor Stadium.
Back in those days I had season tickets (no waiting), and the early returns on Coach-K's 2nd season was that he would soon be a demi-god. We studied about him in our seminary classes. However, there was not yet any Coach-K campground or Coach-K Court and the Cameron stands were not yet filled to capacity (and its a SMALL arena) . . . a guy like me could stand courtside next to the bench and actually talk to the players between timeouts. I did get to see Johnny Dawkins though, arguably the best player to ever don a Duke uniform (take a look at his stats or listen to Coach K talk about the top players and you'll see what I mean).
The Duke Bluebook, however, is left wanting. And it's easy to see why so many people hate Duke, now that folks are publishing Duke's scouting reports and using Duke basketball analysis to discuss the other teams. But the Bluebook needs to give me more than just a Duke report card and a few paragraphs on the other ACC teams in this year's NCAA tournament.
Okay, but I did learn one thing I didn't know about the Duke BB team this year. One stat. This Duke team led the ACC conference in 3-pointers-made by the widest margin in conference history. This team shoots a bunch of 3's.
And they will live or die by them.
Some team this year will either love that about Duke, or hate them for it. And stats show that if they hit 10 or more in a game, they win.
In the past month I've taken on the task of writing a number of essays and articles for men (and essays about women). I've written articles focusing on men's health issues, work safety, and even a donut article that could be appreciated by either sex--though I have a feeling that men, more so than women, are avid donut eaters.
I've written for outdoor magazines, youth journals, and have churned out a fair number of essays that will require rather unique placement in magazines with names like, "Not Yo' Big Momma's Mag" or "The Strangest Rag You'll Ever Read". I am also working on an article about fraternities . . . and I've never belonged to a fraternity in my life (and who would pledge me, anyway?).
No, I'm just detailing man stuff right now. And once I get on a roll like this one, I don't usually stop until I've exhausted every possible man angle my mind can conceive or appreciate. And I've still got a load of essays about ancient Greek philosophers and Latin poets that I sent out last night . . . Viva la Avianus!
I don't know how much of my man stuff will find paydirt . . . but I'm optimistic. I was once a monthly columnist for a women's magazine (back when I knew about romance and sex and actually practiced both and could remember how to do it) and during that time I also wrote periodically for Conde' Nast publications--one of the New York biggies that used to love on me in my younger days, but now ignore me in my advanced age when I need to pay for a daughter's college education and wedding.
It's difficult to write man stuff as an old man. Young editors see me as past my prime. And women editors simply make fun of me or send me curt emails like: Who told you this? or You're not married, are you? or I'll bet you were a troubled teen and now have difficulty holding down a full-time job in the fast-food industry . . . am I right, Howie?
Writing about men and for men is a tough gig. One of the toughest. Believe me, it's much easier being a woman writing for women. Men don't read, for one thing. And women simply want more Oprah.
In a few weeks my man stuff tangent will run out and my eyes will be averted toward other scenery . . . astro physics, perhaps, or how an incandescent light bulb is manufactured. I might also expand my repertoire to other pastries and begin work on three of four new books. Some of these books will have titles.
But until then . . . I've got to be a man. And a real man works. That's man stuff.
An editor at an outdoor sporting magazine recently handed me the following assignment: to write about fishing for smallmouth bass. I completed the assignment late Monday night.
Again, my wife was skeptical. "What do you know about fishing for smallmouth bass?" she asked.
"Look, sweetheart," I told her, "I grew up around fish. Some of them I knew by name. I've got fishing in my blood."
"You haven't fished for years," she reminded me. "And if you tried to cast a line now, you'd throw your back out of alignment."
"Nevertheless," I said, "I'm writing the article. And I'm going to convince people that I know what I'm talking about. For example, did you know that the smallmouth bass has a smaller mouth than the largemouth species?"
"That's all you've got?"
I've got more, of course. I've got quotes from folks at the Indiana Department of Natural Resources, from local fishermen, and information gleaned from the vast reservoir of knowledge I've obtained from reading comic books. This article on smallmouth bass fishing is plush.
"So, what's next for you?" my wife always wants to know.
I could always write about the latest developments in chemistry, or woodworking, or even women's cosmetics . . . lipstick, perhaps. But I'm open to ideas. And if anyone has a pressing matter that I should address, I'd be more than happy to write about it. Provided, of course, that I can at least be paid in coupons to Starbucks. I've got to stay awake. My nights are brief. And I've got pages to complete before I can turn out the light.
This past week there were two people who asked me pointed questions about writing. And, since it's been awhile since I answered these and other pressing concerns, let me address them one at a time.
How do you find time to write?
I make time to write. A person trying to "find" time to write will never find it. Toward that end, I've discovered that it helps to rise long before the birds begin to chirp. Likewise, I write in the gaps (always carry a pen and paper boys'n girls), and yes, I actually do compose some writing while I drive, but most of these travel pieces tend to be about stop signs, or road kill, or running from the cops. Sometimes I compose during my sleep and write these pieces down as soon as I rise, but these instances are rare, and most of this writing turns out to be gibberish.
How much do you get paid for your writing?
I ask my agent to command a million dollars for a major project (book, screenplay, etc.) but my average pay per project is $7.83. I prefer Wendy's value menu to McDonalds and, for some of my poems, I also get valuable coupons that can be redeemed at participating Exxon stations.
What are you working on now?
I'm currently working on a memoir, several short stories, scads of poems, and a mountain of essays of such eclectic variety that I would be hardpressed to tell you about them all. Next week I will begin writing a cookbook based entirely on protein shake recipes that one can create from discarded items around the house and I hope to complete a book about marriage by year's end that is to be entitled: Eleven Cleaning Tips to Keep Your Wife Motivated and Encouraged on Saturday Mornings When You Finally Get to Talk to Her (And Why It's Just Talk and Nothing More).
Do you really have a rotten marriage or are you just joking?
The marriage is great . . . it's me who is rotten. From my perspective, everything is fine. But you'll have to ask my wife what all the screaming is about. I do write love poems, but I usually tell the editors who publish them that I am writing them to a lonely woman in Topeka, Kansas. These editors feel sorry for me and send me small checks that, usually, I must cash within 24-hours. My wife loves me for my ability to bring home the bacon, and I just brought some hickory smoked home last night and plan to fry it this morning.
Who were some of your early writing influences?
Well, I influenced myself quite a bit when I was young, often grabbing myself by the seat of the pants and forcing myself to write. I also had conversations with myself at dinner, which forced my parents to relegate me to the front porch during meals. Writing is a solitary affair, as I can attest, and I agree with my last statement.
Have you ever lost your marbles?
As I write this response I am actually looking at my marbles right now. They are sitting atop a shelf in the kitchen. I am also looking at my appendix and tonsils, which are each in their respective jars next to it, and at a slice of petrified toast bearing the image of St. Ignatius of Loyola that I inherited from my grandmother. I count my marbles daily and have not lost a single one since I was married in 1984. Sometimes, however, my wife's marbles get intermingled with my marbles and we have to sort things out. My jar has the larger marbles.
Kay Ryan was the U.S. Poet Laureate from 2008-2010 and The Best of It (Grove Press, 2010) is certainly representative of her lifetime achievement in poetry. I was fortunate to procure this first edition last week and have been carrying her poetry with me as I've ambled from place to place and been busily engaged in my own compositions of comfort and joy. She writes sparingly, but precisely, and most of her poems have a philosophical air about them that are at once accessible and deep. Ryan is also a master at the metaphor, the double-meaning, the oxymoron. And this collection is enough supply for anyone looking to gain an appreciation for a poet at her zenith.
I like Ryan because she also writes of domestic affairs: the nuances of daily living; tapestries of relationships; the dichotomies of love.
Looking back on my own poetic output (thus far in 2012), I considered these expressions of love and all the poems my wife has not read (that's most of them). I thought I'd pick one from my own romantic slush pile and try it on for size. Here's one about growing older. Slowly. With enough time to think about it.
Time Was
Time was when I saw time
As all the time in the world
As time to ignore such hours
As hours slip golden by
And a dark hush swoons
Across the sky.
Time now as time defines
The broken circle breaks
As time in distant history
As hours fleeting hurled
And yearning for time's love
In the weak arms of the world.
I ran across a used book this week which I snatched up and have stashed on my shelves: Bird on Basketball, by Larry Bird and John Bischoff. Although I am an Indiana State alumnus and was caught up in the "Birdmania" of 1979, I've never met Mr. Bird, but John Bischoff and I spent much time together when I was in Terre Haute, and a great deal of this time was spent shooting hoops and discussing this book.
This was back in the days when I could slam dunk, and also weighed in at a lithe 185 pounds, but John Bischoff was a friend of Larry's and could shoot the lights out on the dimly lit court in the parsonage yard where we often played. I was elated when he finished this book with Larry Bird, and John and I often discussed the book following choir practice while we shot hoops and trash-talked. After reviewing the book again this week, it's obvious that this title could still serve as a textbook for any basketball team in the country. In these pages Larry Bird describes the nature of the game and breaks it down into understandable components (dribbling, shooting, rebounding, etc.). It's old school, but that's not necessarily a bad thing these days.
It was a joy discovering this book . . . again. Brought back many memories for me. Makes me proud to be an ISU alumnus.
The book almost makes me want to pick up a ball again, just in time for March Madness . . . if only my shoulders and knees would cooperate. The only thing I can do these days is carry the water bottles.
Photo: The author and his dog, Tippy. December, 1963. Robinson, Illinois.
About two years ago I began writing a memoir centered on my childhood dog, Tippy. I've since written about 10,000 words on the piece, collected photographs from family photo albums, and otherwise been engaged in an assortment of other projects that have taken me off-task time and again. This past week I reviewed the project with my agent (thanks, Cynthia) and now have a clearer direction for how I should proceed with the book.
But memoirs are tough. Especially humorous ones. And my childhood and adolescence was nothing short of laughable. I've got stories that I could never create in a million years, and some of them will curl your nose hairs.
Tippy was an incredible dog. He became my dog on my first birthday and was with me until the age of fourteen, when, one Fall day after arriving home from school, I found him dead in the barn. I buried him myself before the rest of the family arrived home (I was always first off the bus). He was my dog, and we had a kind of spiritual-affinity that I have never experienced nor shared with any animal since.
When Tippy died (he lived to sixteen), he left the world with three legs, one ear, and half of his torso-hide missing. He was a lover and a fighter, a jackrabbit and a sloth. He followed me everywhere . . . fishing, hunting, hiking, bike riding, to the basketball courts and to the swimming holes . . . .
Tippy was a rare dog. I loved him. And I know he loved me.
I'm not sure anyone will want to read about my dog . . . but I've got some side-splitting episodes from the 1960's and early 1970's. Tippy was there throughout.
Sometimes, I still dream about him. And, although it's a dog's life, he made my childhood tolerable. Now all I have to do it write the book, and I trust my agent can do the rest.
