Perspective

Sometimes, I have trouble sitting still. I feel like I need to be doing... something. Working toward... something. Being... something.

Tonight, my parents came into town for Thanksgiving. This is probably the tenth time they've come down in the four years I've lived in Charlotte. The first time they were here, I showed them the town. Took them to all of Charlottiest places I knew. By their third trip, I was out of ideas.

Every time they're on their way here, I worry. I worry that we won't have enough to do. I worry about what we should be doing the moment they arrive. We need to be doing... something. I do a hasty search of what's going on over the weekend. I improvise. I try to make it seem like I know everything that's happening.

Once they get here, it doesn't matter. They're hugging me the moment I open the door. The dog flies out of the car carrier and tries to climb up my leg to lick my face. Food is unloaded. Somebody turns on the fireplace. Dinner is served. Then, we all lay around on the recliner and couch and talk. And suddenly, I need to be doing... nothing.

That's what I'm grateful for.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Shirt Off My Back

I don't trust myself when I buy clothes. So I take a woman with me.

I'm not joking about that. Yesterday, I decided that I needed some new shirts and pants, so I asked a friend to help out. I ended up buying a very nice purple button-down, a skinny black tie, an argyle sweater, a collared shirt with stripes and some funky jeans. I think that's enough awesome for one year.

I'm always apprehensive about going to clothing stores, because I know how they work. I had a job at Structure when I was in high school and, left to my own devices, used my discount to assemble a horrendous wardrobe. I matched up long sleeve t-shirts with olive parachute pants. I combined draw-string cargo khakis with a white polo shirt with six buttons. I can't think of collar adjustment that would require more than three.
Funny thing was, people trusted me to make fashion decisions for them. Some girl would come in, trying to find something nice for her boyfriend, and I would help assemble a look that wouldn't be accepted at, say, clown camp. They'd thank me as I went back to work, fussily re-folding a shirt that I'd just folded ten minutes before.

I'd like to think that I've come a long way since then. Yesterday, my friend tried to get me to try on a vest. A vest. It can't hurt to see what I looks like, I thought. As I walked into the dressing room, one of the associates started talking about other vests I could match with the shirt I grabbed. I thanked him, but admitted that the whole vest thing was an experiment.

After I put it on, I couldn't decide which Jonas Brother I resembled most. I left it on the floor.

In the end, I was happy with my purchases. My friend steered me away from bad ideas by hesitating when I'd grab something and say, "How about this? Huh? Eh? Right?" She'd inhale deeply, and I'd put it back on the hanger before she could breathe out.

My best purchase, though, was a $5 t-shirt that reads, simply, "Check out my stimulus package." Maybe I haven't come that far after all.

You Cannot Stand And Cheer For The Panthers In The Press Box

Way back, when I was just a budding journalist, I had to show up at all of the sporting events that our sports guys did not want to cover. This was about nine years ago in Columbus, Ohio, home to the Ohio State Everything, but also to a AAA baseball team and a Major League Soccer club that was not major at all. They were the Columbus Crew, and every so often, on buck-a-brat night, they'd bring up a couple dozen sausages from the kitchen up to the press box.

The afternoon producer at my radio station sensed this from wherever he happened to be on those nights. He'd show up at halftime with a brown paper bag, flash his press pass, stuff the bag full of bratwurst, and leave without so much as saying a word.

Nine years later, I'm convinced that half of the draw of covering any sporting event live is the food. Last night at the Panthers game, it was ribs, beans, potatoes and cornbread. At halftime, they brought out the hot dogs. I think we all gained about 300 pounds collectively. On the other hand, I asked a co-worker if I could grab him a coffee. "I don't poison the temple," he said. Good to know.

I was able to score a press pass for the Carolina-Miami game because I work for a TV station and I produce a football show. I've been covering sporting events off-and-on for my entire career, but this was by far the highest-profile. Finally, I thought, those years of being assigned to funny car races and womens' field hockey had paid off. I'd made it.

Covering a Panthers game is a completely different animal, because you can't hear it. The team's press box is so large and spacious and visually stunning that the audio is shut out almost completely. The room is soundproof. Most of my sound cues came from replays on the NFL Network. A guy with a booming baritone voice called out each play. The white noise is the sound of writers around you pecking away on their laptops. Somebody behind me was using what appeared to be an old-school word processor.

Emotions have to be stifled. You're in a press box after all. After any particularly big play, I replaced what would normally be unrestrained cheering or groaning with grunting. Short grunts after first downs. A long sustained grunt came after a Steve Smith touchdown catch.

For a while, I wandered down to an empty suite, where the Panthers guys were shooting high level highlights out of an open window, five feet above the heads of some feisty Dolphins fans. A large black-and-white picture of a kneeling Jake Delhomme was hanging in the private bathroom, so that as you sit on the toilet, you can draw inspiration from what appears to be the most dramatic huddle in Panthers history.

My pass gave me permission be nearly everywhere and do nearly anything, except ask for autographs or tackle Jonathan Stewart. I walked onto the field during warmups. I thought I was hot stuff. The man, even. A friend in the stands saw me and sent me a text message. Awesome. Then I bumped into two people I knew who had the same access. Apparently, my club was not so exclusive.

For the rest of the game, I sat up in the Cave of Solitude, eating my hot dogs and drinking coffee. The game was a bit of a bummer, and it showed. Writers rubbed their eyes. They stretched. Yawned, even. With about two minutes left, I caught the press elevator downstairs.

It's always rougher after a loss, especially when you need a good quote. Coach John Fox was brief. I traded more barbs with a friend who was freelancing with the NFL Network. He was standing behind me and wasn't entirely sure how I'd been allowed into the post-game press conference. Nor was he convinced that I was actually working.

Then it was off to the locker room. First, the media lined up outside. Then the doors swung open and we all rushed in, like kids to the living room on Christmas morning. It's bigger than it looks on television. It smells like soap and laundry. Boys stripped the tape off of shoulder pads. Packs of reporters and photogs swarmed on players who were willing to talk. Most, like DeAngelo Williams, were humbled by the loss but not willing to concede to it. After the cameras left, Williams crumpled down on a crate and sighed, "Man, that was a rough one." I'm assuming he was talking about the game.

Oddly, the mayor was in the locker room. So was Rob Brisley, the fire department spokesman. Last night, nobody wanted to talk to them.

At a certain point, you get everything you're going to get, and it's time to pack up and go. The fog rolled in while we were in the locker room, and it was hard to see more than twenty feet ahead. I walked out into the early morning, laptop slung over my shoulder and press pass swinging from my belt loop. I still get a rush out of being the guy at sporting events who gets into places where you cannot go. Maybe it's because I don't do it enough to make it actually feel like work.

If I ever leave at halftime with a bag full of brats, maybe it's time to go back to buying tickets.

Down With The Sickness

I don't really ever get sick.

That statement always comes with a little bravado and a lot of pride, especially because I tend to come down with something awful right after saying it. Four years ago, I was brand new to Charlotte and bragged that I barely ever burned a sick day.

That's when I got pneumonia.

It's in that spirit that I present myself to you tonight, all achy and sore-throatey and headachey and grouchy. I wasn't feeling too good this morning, but went to work anyway. Told the boss I probably wouldn't make it through the day. Then I took some pills. I felt better. Then worse. More pills. Better. I made it to the end. Now I'm worse.

I guarantee you I talked up my immune system sometime last week.

Actually, I probably started this process yesterday when I decided that I hadn't properly introduced myself to this latest round of crap weather. So I went to the gym, where the prescribed workout called for two miles of running, outside, in the rain and wind.

Later that night, I punished myself with fried food at the Penguin Drive-In. The two beers didn't help. Shortly after, the sore throat started.

For now, I'm stuck on the couch, trying to decide whether I'm sick or not, even though being stuck on the couch is the very definition of laid-up. I remember the good ol' days when there was a benefit to feeling bad. I got to stay home from school and watch TV. My mom waited on me hand and foot. I'd slurp down my favorite drink ever: grape Dimetapp.

Now, being sick means having to still do all of the stuff I normally have to do, except it sucks twice as much because I stagger around like a zombie when I do it. My speech is more grunty. My dinner goes from a three-course meal to Lean Cuisine. Like that.

What I really need is rest. Problem is, I'm meeting someone out. It's been in the works for days. I can't flake out now. 'Cause that would be lame.

So I'll go. My eyes will be all scratchy and my throat all tight with pain. I'll get a hot cup of coffee and have it go screeching down my inflamed esophagus. I'll have to concentrate extra hard to hear over the pounding in my temples. I'll pop some Advil and tell myself I'm not illin'.

Later, like most things I don't want to admit, my sickness will come roaring back. And I'll be worse again, with no Dimetapp in sight.

NOTE: I didn't go out tonight. I still want Dimetapp. Pedialyte will do.

Better Off Ted

There's a media magnate out there named Ted Turner. Perhaps you've heard of him.

If not, here's the short version. He founded TBS. Then CNN. Then bought the Atlanta Braves. He had something to do with Captain Planet. World Championship Wrestling? Ted.

I checked his book out of the library this weekend ("Call Me Ted") and I'm about to start reading it now. Normally, I would probably wait until after the book to say anything about him, except to say this: the man once owned the station I work for, then sold it, took the money, and started CNN.

That's correct.

It's one of those TV station allegories that I'm glad I know, because every once in a while I can tell it, and people will always say "No, really?" It's a lot like the Powerball story. Or the Pete Rose story. Except with this one, I have material evidence that it's the truth, because it came in a packet I got when I first started working at WCNC in Charlotte four years ago. That's how truthy it is.

Problem is, I lost the packet, and now I have to rely completely on four-years-ago memory to get into the specifics. The basics are easy. Ted. WCNC (WRET at the time). CNN. Got it. But then people want more.

OK. See, Ted bought the station and renamed it. Then he built a giant TV tower out back. By hand. It was painted black and white. After people got familiar with the tower, Ted colorized it. Then he climbed it. And built a nest. And he lived up there, only coming down to collect nuts and berries and sticks to make his nest bigger. And then he laid an egg. Sat on that thing for weeks, Ted did. Finally it hatched and grew into into a beautiful baby penguin. And do you know what that penguin did? It founded the drive-in on Thomas and Commonwealth. You know, the one with the fried pickles.

I'm pretty sure none of that is true. That's why I'm reading the book.

Wish me luck.