Kill Your (Wife's) Television

For the newlywed man, acceptance can be a long and bumpy road. The toilet seat goes down, the golf score goes up, and eventually you concede the inevitability of some really bad TV in your life.

Sure, I still get Mad Men, some Sportscenter and a good visit with Charlie Rose once in a while. But most evenings now, while pretending to read a presidential biography, I catch myself peeking from behind the pages, watching some mediocre blond "Bachelerotte," giggle her way through a dick fantasy. Or maybe it's a C-list celebrity cha-cha followed by conflict resolution with the Kardashians. Whatever the program, the rotting sensation in my brain is prevailed only by confusion -- why does my otherwise sophisticated, intellectually curious wife elect to bask in the glow of such nonsense?

It's her "guilty pleasure," right? Yeah, I get it -- it's the mindlessness we all need at the end of a long day. And if I felt that her TV indulgence was harmlessly contained within the confines of the flat-screen, then let it be. But invariably true, "you are what you eat," -- and sometimes, when I see my wife scrolling through her TiVo listings, I feel like I'm watching a stoned vegan peruse the Dairy Queen menu. Yes, I want her to enjoy her ice-cream. But I also know there is going to be a stomach-ache the next day.

What I'm trying to convey, is that as long as we think it's prudent to protect our kids from mature content, perhaps we should protect our adults from immature content. If we're going to blame "Rambo" for inspiring adolescent boys to microwave hamsters, shouldn't we blame the "Real Housewives," when our mates go defrost mode on logic and reason?

In the battle of the sexes, how many times have we uttered the refrain, "we're just not on the same channel?" No shit. Turn that filth off, give me a kiss, and pretend I'm Brody Jenner -- you've already received the final rose.

Homebodies at War: Conquer your Grapefruit, Conquer your Fear

Since 2001 and during many times prior, America has been at war. This obviously involves young people sacrificing life and limb for a cause that is theoretically critical to our well-being at home. Regardless of the wars purpose or execution, the daily circumstances of a combat soldier are astonishing, and their service (when honorable) is beyond reproach.

Throughout this recent decade of conflict, I am periodically struck by the psychological distance that we "homebodies" maintain towards the reality of such far flung battles. Much of this current disconnect is clearly structured within the modern culture, given the absence of a draft, the craftsmanship of political messaging, and fragmented fizzle of corporate held media. But the divide is also self-directed, quite naturally, by the overwhelming resiliency of American apathy (a force so thoroughly tested over the last ten years, only Pixar could imagine a way to destroy it). Collectively, the results are sad, of course, that many Americans still believe that Saddam Hussein authored 9/11, or that Hamid Karzai is an energy drink. But equally of consequence, I submit, is a perpetual and two-fold laziness of perspective: one, the type that renders errant grapefruit squirt to be a drama of "collateral damage." The other, the type that succumbs to fear.

Said different, I believe that a more fundamental awareness of war would help quell our habitual conditions of petty and profound discomfort; and that to conquer these conditions, however fleeting or infrequently, is a far more patriotic gesture than tying a yellow ribbon around a tree.

My premise is simple:

Many moons ago, I was engrossed by the Ken Burns film "The War," a documentary about the experience of fighting in WWII. Of particular interest to me, were the remembrances from those who survived "D-Day" -- the lionized invasion of Normandy which claimed seven out of every ten men served. To absorb the footage and listen to the memories of those stunning moments, when marines advanced the beach in armored pontoons and then marched directly onto the shores of certain fire, it was EPIPHANY GALORE! I had discovered the power of juxtaposition.

From the "greatest generation," one could learn the greatest lesson. When troubled by citrus, think about it. And the next time you see a pretty girl across the bar; the next time a calculated risk confronts your career; the next time a friend might want to hear from you -- go for it.

For the fellow in the fox-hole right now, it's the best way to say thank you.

The NBA: Where Revenge Happens

On December 2, 2010, when LeBron James and the Miami Heat visit the Cleveland Cavaliers, I believe it will be the most extraordinary (and potentially dangerous) sporting event of the year. Somebody is going to shoot LeBron James in the knee and nobody can convince me otherwise.

Amidst the blue-collar rust-belt of "tea party" sentiment, in a manufacturing economy decimated by over 10 percent unemployment, and in a town officially pronounced dead by the graceless departure of its lone, prodigal asset, the plot is hardly fantastic.

Consider the elements:

• Dan Gilbert, the majority owner of the Cavaliers, effectively nudged a fatwa against LeBron James as a result of his scintillating letter to season ticket holders (a response to LeBron's nationally televised "The Decision.") Gilbert was eventually fined $100,000 by NBA Commissioner David Stern, and was additionally "refudiated," as Sarah Palin would say, by Rev. Jesse Jackson, who suggested Gilbert's comments "personify a slave master mentality." Without drawing parallels to Iran's funding of Hezbollah, it does appear as if Dan Gilbert, perhaps via compromised stadium security, is poised to be an enabler.
  
  
• Speaking of proxy wars, there was a telling foreshadow last weekend at a Cleveland Indians baseball game. Whippersnapper X and his lovely girlfriend were ejected from Jacobs Field for "safety and security purposes," due to the young man's brash fashion sense -- a freshly pressed LeBron James, Miami Heat jersey.
  
  
• "History doesn't repeat itself, but it often rhymes" -- the etymology of Cavaliers is ironically borne by the English Civil War, a name that was chiefly associated to the Royalist supporters of King Charles I. As loyal protectors of King Charles, the "cavaliers" were described as "malignant men ... without having respect to the Laws of the Land, or any fear either of God or Man, who were ready to commit all manner of Outrage and Violence." Needless to say, these Cavaliers will not be defending "the King" during December's territory war at Quicken Loans Arena.

For those of you who dismiss this admittedly outrageous prediction, or the plausibility of such venom within the context of sport, I refer you to the memory of Andres Escobar, the Colombian soccer player who was promptly killed after scoring on his own goal during a 1994 World Cup loss against the United States; or Bill Buckner's 10 year fly fishing trip in Idaho; or the fact that Steve Bartman now works for a multinational corporation in Europe.

For better or worse, our beloved sports teams (and their respective heroes) routinely crush the little-league myth that "it's just a game," and often play a marquee role in our desire for the personal and/or tribal identifications that are so fundamental to the human condition. No modern athlete had more completely represented their fans sense of self and place more than the Akron-born LeBron James did for the city of Cleveland. If Seattle has the Space Needle, and New York has the Statue of Liberty, the signature landmark of Cleveland's otherwise pathetic skyline was LeBron's 10-story iconic Nike Ad.

As LeBron James punched Ohio in the face on national television when he infamously announced that he was "taking his talents to South Beach," I was quickly overwhelmed by the imagination of his inevitable return to Cleveland -- "Is somebody going to punch back?"

Based on the images of burning LeBron jerseys, I am certain that somebody is thinking about it.

We are all witnesses ...