Long before Kesha and Jennifer Lawrence, way back on the timeline before Ingrid Michaelson and Laura Linney, in a time Hope Solo, Sue Bird and Paula Creamer were just youth-league cuties … there was the MCI girl.
Her cute but creepy ad for the soon-defunct MCI became all sortsa Dream Weaver for me. She resurfaced in Mr. Holland’s Opus, as star-dreaming Rowena Morgan in 1995. In 2000, you could see her in Yes, Dear, married to a dude even dweebier than yours truly.
I thought she’d disappeared after that feeble TV show.
Then I watched 1,000 to 1: The Cory Weissman Story. I resisted, invoking my “No Movies That Star Kids From Disney Shows” clause. But … Cory’s mom looked, so sweetly familiar. The curls were now straight; her lipstick less pow than fire-engine red.
I might act curmudgeonly at times, but really, I can roll with the punches. I finally got a smartphone, remember? I fully embraced Star Wars: The Force Awakens, and gave Fuller House a puncher’s chance (Hi Kimmy.) Agile, that’s what I am.
Still, there’s stuff I miss. Stuff I wish I could bring back.
Like, Summer Sanders. Toys in the bottom of cereal boxes. Ice cream in baseball caps at the ballpark that don’t set you back $8. Cookie Monster, in his full glory. The original Electric Company. The Gameboy. Trading football cards with Tandy Dillen at lunch.
No, it wasn’t a broken heart, or even a noogie on the playground taken too far. Being the devout patriot she was, she took exception to my project on advertising in our gifted and talented class. See, I made a series of newspaper ads for a car dealership …
My spokesmen: Dead U.S. presidents.
I had Honest Abe, George Washington and others pushing off used cars to the public. I had them jive-talking and contemporary-acting (“No money down?? Say WHAT, GW??” that sort of thing.) and that’s just not dignified for any of our forefathers, not even Lyndon B. Johnson, Chester Arthur or James Polk.
Note: I wrote this stream-of-consciousness post given the one-word prompt “book,” on the blog Life in Progress.
I have to finish this book, y’all.
It’s the one I’ve started and gotten further on than anything I tried to jot in a random steno pad. It’s about the NFL in the 1970s. And here’s the thing: I’ve interviewed former players for this. I’m going to tell the story, in their words.
Former Chicago Bears legend Gale Sayers returned my call for an interview, guys.
So, this A to Z Challenge really kicked my butt. It happened in the home stretch of soccer season. It fell during a time we stressed over Elise’s college status (she got in!) and lots of work workload. Spring’s a time of renewal, too. Although it’s mostly pollen.
If my guest post list were a troubling of goldfish, they’d mostly be belly up.
As readers might remember, when I have a guest-post Wednesday without any guest posts, I turn to my phone. I pick 11 random pics and share them here. Let me know what you think. I promise to have something from an awesome guest next week.
For Day 3 of the A to Z Challenge, C is for Corner Flag. It’s away from the bench, still far from the parents, and a great spot for me to sit Indian style (as a child of the 70s, I’ll use this term) and talk over what just happened in the first half.
Hell, that’s the basis of Go Ask Daddy on Fridays. They don’t stop asking, even after 357 questions. Who are the people made of clay? Why is TV on a delay for NFL games? Are you going to sit in a racecar for your haircut, daddy?
(Very funny, kid.)
The answers and discussions flow painlessly. (Greek and Sumerian mythology refers to clay people. Islam mentions them, too. A 7-second delay keeps F-bombs off NFL broadcasts. And no, I didn’t sit in a racecar. I didn’t need a booster seat, either.)
Every time I look at the NFL playoff picture or listen to any of those talking heads on TV (not you, Stacy Dales. Love ya mean it!), I feel like I’m getting a lump of coal in my Christmas stocking.
Everyone with a microphone and great hair can’t wait for the New England Patriots and Seattle Seahawks to meet in the Super Bowl. What’s the over-under on overdone praise?
Can commentators announce every Marshawn Lynch run by bellowing “MAR-SHAWN LYNCH!!!!!”? (For 2 yards. But holy hash marks, the guy is just a professional. Never mind that he treats Skittles better than he does reporters.)
We’ll hear about the genius of Bill Belichick and competitive fire of pretty boy quarterback Tom Brady. Don’t know how much the players love to play for Pete Carroll? You’ll learn all about it.
Don’t even ask about the hype machine that is Richard Sherman.
Every man will face his own “What the hell am I doing?” moments.
Some, as they question their intelligence and purpose for existence. While they adjust the ornate belt on their white Elvis jumpsuit. While they fight the terror that the suit’s fit reveals more than the average passerby or coworker ought to know.
This was me, on Halloween, a few short years ago.
I stood in profile in the full-length mirror in the men’s room for my watershed moment. Should I switch from The King to The Guy Who Should Have Worn Something More Substantial Under His Costume?
Sometimes, a Go Ask Daddy question takes on a life of its own. Grace asked if I would play in the NFL for $1 million, one season. I dreamed of it as a boy. I drew pictures of my jersey as a boy. I practiced my slow-motion touchdown runs for NFL films as a boy.
And I’d do anything for my kids, you know.
I’ll take on the dangerous (fight a tiger, brave bullets, eat salad). I’ll grapple the profane (wear a dodgers cap, red wings sweater or lakers jacket, under threat of imminent danger.) The girls know there’s no limit to dad’s love.