mohostudio

An Amen to NYTimes writer Bob Hebert

2009-08-09T17:14:00.000-07:00

August 8, 2009-NYTimes

OP-ED COLUMNIST

Women at Risk

“I actually look good. I dress good, am clean-shaven, bathe, touch of cologne — yet 30 million women rejected me,” wrote George Sodini in a blog that he kept while preparing for this week’s shooting in a Pennsylvania gym in which he killed three women, wounded nine others and then killed himself.

We’ve seen this tragic ritual so often that it has the feel of a formula. A guy is filled with a seething rage toward women and has easy access to guns. The result: mass slaughter.

Back in the fall of 2006, a fiend invaded an Amish schoolhouse in rural Pennsylvania, separated the girls from the boys, and then shot 10 of the girls, killing five.

I wrote, at the time, that there would have been thunderous outrage if someone had separated potential victims by race or religion and then shot, say, only the blacks, or only the whites, or only the Jews. But if you shoot only the girls or only the women — not so much of an uproar.

According to police accounts, Sodini walked into a dance-aerobics class of about 30 women who were being led by a pregnant instructor. He turned out the lights and opened fire. The instructor was among the wounded.

We have become so accustomed to living in a society saturated with misogyny that the barbaric treatment of women and girls has come to be more or less expected.

We profess to being shocked at one or another of these outlandish crimes, but the shock wears off quickly in an environment in which the rape, murder and humiliation of females is not only a staple of the news, but an important cornerstone of the nation’s entertainment.

The mainstream culture is filled with the most gruesome forms of misogyny, and pornography is now a multibillion-dollar industry — much of it controlled by mainstream U.S. corporations.

One of the striking things about mass killings in the U.S. is how consistently we find that the killers were riddled with shame and sexual humiliation, which they inevitably blamed on women and girls. The answer to their feelings of inadequacy was to get their hands on a gun (or guns) and begin blowing people away.

What was unusual about Sodini was how explicit he was in his blog about his personal shame and his hatred of women. “Why do this?” he asked. “To young girls? Just read below.” In his gruesome, monthslong rant, he managed to say, among other things: “It seems many teenage girls have sex frequently. One 16 year old does it usually three times a day with her boyfriend. So, err, after a month of that, this little [expletive] has had more sex than ME in my LIFE, and I am 48. One more reason.”

I was reminded of the Virginia Tech gunman, Seung-Hui Cho, who killed 32 people in a rampage at the university in 2007. While Cho shot males as well as females, he was reported to have previously stalked female classmates and to have leaned under tables to take inappropriate photos of women. A former roommate said Cho once claimed to have seen “promiscuity” when he looked into the eyes of a woman on campus.

Soon after the Virginia Tech slayings, I interviewed Dr. James Gilligan, who spent many years studying violence as a prison psychiatrist in Massachusetts and as a professor at Harvard and N.Y.U. “What I’ve concluded from decades of working with murderers and rapists and every kind of violent criminal,” he said, “is that an underlying factor that is virtually always present to one degree or another is a feeling that one has to prove one’s manhood, and that the way to do that, to gain the respect that has been lost, is to commit a violent act.”

Life in the United States is mind-bogglingly violent. But we should take particular notice of the staggering amounts of violence brought down on the nation’s women and girls each and every day for no other reason than who they are. They are attacked because they are female.

A girl or woman somewhere in the U.S. is sexually assaulted every couple of minutes or so. The number of seriously battered wives and girlfriends is far beyond the ability of any agency to count.

There were so many sexual attacks against women in the armed forces that the Defense Department had to revise its entire approach to the problem.

We would become much more sane, much healthier, as a society if we could bring ourselves to acknowledge that misogyny is a serious and pervasive problem, and that the twisted way so many men feel about women, combined with the absurdly easy availability of guns, is a toxic mix of the most tragic proportions.

Chicago Screening: The Flick the Bird Lesson

2008-10-15T19:19:00.001-07:00

Flashpoint Academy screened $ GAME to a class of film, video and digital students on Monday afternoon, followed by an evening screening for a group of old friends and former athletes from my alma mater, Northwestern University. Here's a shot of me with FP owner & founder Howard Tullman, my longtime pal. Howard gave us a tour of his state-of-the-art school, its hallways filled with his incredible art collection.

Here's a photo of Howard (and me) in a forest with former Northwestern athletes.

Here's me handling Q & A during the evening session. (On Friday I see the doctor and if he says I'm done with rehab, I will no longer have a perfect excuse for wearing sneakers and jeans.)

These two screenings taught me the Flick the Bird Lesson. The younger crowd -- the students, mostly male 18 to 22 -- laughed loudly at the point in the film when the girl flips off Ruby (for no apparent reason). The Northwestern crowd did not laugh. (A few of my friends admitted they didn't get the bird scene either--nor did I, but as a writer-producer-actress who wants to respect a director's space, you must pick and limit your questions carefully.)

The take-away from me was a reminder of what I knew but didn't appreciate until producing something for the screen: what I think is funny may not be funny according to others; what others think is funny sometimes doesn't make me laugh. (My 7th grade students often roared at Austin Powers scenes and jokes; I sat there laughing at my students, not at the screen.) I've heard this lesson from stand-up comedians who say they must adjust their game based on who's in the house. The problem with movie-making is that you want to fill the house and make everyone laugh from sixth graders to seniors without having to change a thing.

Overall both crowds enjoyed the short with the understanding that it's a selling tool for the full feature. But truth be told, the kids laughed more. I text-messaged Tom this assessment and he Tom says we'll take laughter from kids any and every day of the week.

Some more photos...this one of former Northwestern athletes and staff.

And saving the best for last, here is a shot of me with my two college roommates, Steph and Lauryn. I enjoyed staying with them and spending time with their families.

Some of the Pop on $ GAME

2008-09-24T10:29:00.000-07:00

The emails, text messages and phone calls flooded MOHOSTUDIO.COM after the screening. Before I list the sampling, here's a shot of the boy who stole the show, Marquis Rodriguez, who played the role of Ruby. After the screening, I turned around to my family and my dad and uncle didn't say, "Congrats! You were terrific! Loved seeing you up there!" They said, "Who's the kid? He was awesome!" My tap dance teacher was kind enough to let me use her studio for a last-minute casting call two days before we started shooting. And that's where I found Marquis.

“I just wanted to say again how much I admired your accomplishment in realizing "$ Game" to the big screen. There is a ton of energy and good humor packed into it, as evidenced by the crowd reaction the other night, and also a lot of well-earned sentiment. I love the trumpet player parts and thought they carried a lot of that spirit from the longer screenplay into the short. There was a brief moment of eye-contact between you and Reo toward the end that I thought had the kind of chemistry that many films spend two hours trying to establish and often fail.” -- Tim B.

“You were $! Clever, exciting, well-acted, and those hoops scenes were strongly edited. You willed this to happen by the sheer force of you. Your mother would have been very very proud of you.” – Jack R.

“Mo, I just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed your film the other night. It was awesome. And I know you put a ton of work in over the last 5 years. I was so touched by the stories and tribute to your mother.” Jen S.

“Just awesome.” -- Dave L.

"Hey, Mo, Just wanted to congratulate you on an AMAZING job with $ Game! Glad all that hard work finally paid off! Hope I get to see a full-length movie soon! I’m rooting for you!” -- Deb B.

“Just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed the screening on Monday night. I think you and Tom did a great job. From my little experience with writing, I know that it is not easy to put pen to paper and create characters, plot, etc. And then to put it on film is another difficult challenge. You should be very proud of what you put together. Congratulations, and continued success.” – Simon L.

“Dear Maureen, Thank you so much for inviting me to be a part of your world the other night - you have every reason to be proud and joyous. That is wonderful piece of film and I wish you luck with Sundance.” – Tom T.

“The boys had a great time. Hopefully it gave them a good idea of what it means to have passion for something.” – Carol G.

“LOVED IT! Look at you, crazy talented ballplayer. I’m not ever playing against you, that’s for sure.” – Gil M.

“Great job getting to the finish line. You have a terrific supporting cast and a group that had a goal to get it done. Congratulations and keep at it!” -- Rob M.

“Lots of fun, particularly for hoops junkies.” -- Tom M.

“Supercongrats! It was really cool and fun.” -- Nunyo

“Great job, Maureen. You did it and you looked beautiful on the big screen. I can only imagine how much work it took to put it together - good luck with the next phase.” – Dave P.

“Great job, Mo. My mother and I had a great time last night. Thanks for inviting me.” – Ricky “7-footer” Lopes

“I just want to let you know how much we enjoyed being there last night. The film was fantastic. So well done. So fun and funny and inspirational. And, Tom was a fantastic emcee. There was such a great feeling in the room, with all the players there. And Marquis (sp?) who was sitting right in back of us, was so incredibly cute.” – Linda B.

“Mo, CONGRATS!!! The film was great – from the acting, to the sound, to the editing, all of it! I also thought your acting was great. I know that this was your baby, and you put so much into it, and I’m happy for you that it finally hit the screen! Enjoy it!” --Ted S.

“On behalf of my wife and myself we'd like to thank you for having us at the premiere last night. It was truly a great film and I fully expect big things from it.” -- Elix B.

“Hey, Mo. Wow that really was terrific. I thought the short was really realistic—a great message! I was so impressed with the participation and the cooperation to make it.” – Jamie M.

$ Game Screening News & Photos

2008-09-18T10:58:00.000-07:00

Well, here he is folks. Tom Cavanagh basked in the applause as he led us to the all-city title last night, bringing the house down with his artistic brilliance. The theatre was packed with 350 people--adults, teens, kids, men, women. When we gave people a chance to leave after the film -- to get home and put kids to bed -- not one person moved and someone called out, "Play it again!"

Here's the packed house:
Thanks to Ryan and Kevin Holohan, who drove three hours to stand in as bouncers for the screening (I asked them to put on weight and look big for this role). Immediately after the show, they had to return upstate and report to work. And my brother Kevin came, despite the fact that he has three little ones -- the 1.5 year old broke her leg on Saturday coming down a slide -- his wife insisted he go to NYC to see the blockbuster short of the decade.

Such troopers!

Big Ricky Lopes, who played the role of Thug #1 but could not be a nicer gentlemen.

Here's Ben "Boo" Greene, who played our third teammate in the Harlem Hustle scenes.

Line producer Holly Hurley with trumpet coach Joey V.

Keith "Truck" Hudson, our musical supervisor and sideline player strikes a pose.

Me with my hair straightened and sporting the pretty necklace my Aunt Carol let me borrow. I prefer wild curls, but my sister told me I had to look a little more collected for the evening.

Speaking of my sister, her she is, as she put it, "Keeping the reigns on Dad." (Dad is a proud Irish gentleman who can tell stories upon stories, adding much fiction to fact to the point where we have to call a time out.)

Now for the total stud who played the supporting role of Reo, Mr. Chris Collins...

Here's the very pretty and friendly Maureen Cavanagh in the mix...

DeeMorris and Tom.

Dan and Luke ... pickup player, thug & emcee, both stand-up comedians.

Tom with his buddy Rasheed.

Me talking to Rob Burnett, one of the best moments of the last eight years of my life.
Mary Ciuk, my college assistant coach and I laughing along with my brother Ryan.

And before we move to the after party, we must get those team photos. Here are a few that show how difficult it is to get the siblings together and to stand still, show affection and in unison, smile at the camera. Here we are looking for Dad to join us ... he's yakking someone's ear off ...

Here we are. I am one of the smallest Holohans, and I am no lightweight. Ryan and Kevin are going to have a weigh-in at Thanksgiving this year, and we're going to bet on who's got more padding, but not playing any football.

And here we are, after convincing Ryan to stop talking so we can focus and get this over with. Dad, as expected, is in a conversation with someone else.

And here is some of the crew from Wynantskill, N.Y.: Neighbors, high school friends, my post-college roommate, Mama P along with Tom C.

$ GAME After-Party Photos!

2008-09-18T09:07:00.000-07:00

Producer and superb comedic actor Victor Hawks and Ginger.

Tom Cav and our super sound mixer John Bosch...

Some of the girls who road-tripped from my hometown.

My brother Ryan and Jeff Harley. Jeff grew up across the street from us and was by far, one of the most competitive kids on the block. After working at the hardware store for years, never having gone to college, he found his passion: health and fitness. He now owns 37 health and fitness centers in North and South Carolina.

And last, Chris Collins and me.

$ GAME POSTER complete!

2008-09-11T10:54:00.000-07:00

Here's the poster--finished it just in time for screening, $ GAME website + Sundance submission! Screening is at Columbia U on Sept. 15th...over 350 people have RSVP'd!

Photoshoot in the Outerbanks

2008-09-06T10:42:00.000-07:00

My sister Meghan saw that I'd accomplished my goal of writing 100 pages and said, "Good, just get in the car and let's drive." I strapped on my boot, packed a bag, got into the rental and we were off on the first vacation I've taken in about 1.5 years (due mostly to $ GAME cost and timing issues plus an issue I have with not giving myself time off unless I've earned it.)

I was not supposed to swim in the ocean due to my recent ankle reconstruction (thanks to $ GAME, too, another blog) and the fact that the waves, driven by undercurrents of pre-Hannah, were knocking healthy people over. My sister helped me into the water and it was fun until a wave hit me so hard that I crashed into her and ended up being wrapped around her ankles.

Activities (everyone else enjoyed, but I could not participate in) included: tennis, swimming, Marco Polo, synchronized swimming competition (I was a judge), biking, golf.

Activities (where I could play, too): kayaking with Gman, trivial pursuit and sitting on the couch, staring in shock and fear as we watched Sarah Palin become the Republican party's rock star.

Here are my photos, some of them are doctored with a paint tool.

Vote on your favorite photo:

Meghan H. over the shoulder.

Meg H. having a brew.

Patrika and Meg H.

Gman

Lavinia and her husband making a whirlpool.

Mike B and Meg H.

Another one of Mike B.

This could be my favorite. Not the best light and the camera started throwing a fit. But here is pretty Lavinia, aka Vinny, our Romanian sister.

Meg striking a Women's Health pose.

This is Trika. I dry brushed her a bit. The natural photo may be better.

Me as sexy house photographer, dressed like an albino.

Here's me in my OBX office, a screened-in porch overlooking the ocean. I spent most of my working hours planning the NYC screening of $ GAME. I also found a small gym where I could lift and a coffee shop for my daily run. Gman and I did go kayaking though. The plan after we were done was to say the heck with doctor's orders, I'm going to put on the Speedo and swim the sound!

Problem was that the sound was a gigantic five-foot mud puddle. It was best to stay in the boat.

Yes, we did eventually get in the water after going through a demo on land. I enjoyed our easy (free) ride and the lesson on the environment. Meg and Mike bailed on us second before we departed.

Here's a grainy shot of me in the Speedo, having had no luck with our swim in the sound. Meg and I went in the ocean and I enjoyed getting knocked around for a while. The ankle felt great, so I decided to push it with a walk in the ocean, no boot, no brace.

My sister took this photo of me when I was unaware of her presence, preoccupied with simply putting one foot in front of the other. I painted it in photoshop. It's the perfect shot of a washed-up athlete with a sore back and an ankle on the mend.

Looking forward to going back to OBX next year.

Ankle Reconstruction Day

2008-08-01T07:26:00.000-07:00

Last summer while shooting the first few scenes in Harlem, I cut, turned my ankle and went down on the asphalt. I got up quickly, hoping Tom wouldn't see. I looked up and saw my brother Ryan shaking his head at me and I looked at the camera man and shook my head: don't tell Tom. It hurt, I guess, though relative to other injuries I've had, it wasn't too bad. The first day. Only problem is that I was wearing black low-tops, which prevented me from doing two things: 1) choking them up high to protect it and hold the swelling in and 2) get my ankle taped high with white tape. The next morning, it was worse and we had a full day to shoot. The line producer did a low tape and we covered it with black gaffer tape. At the wrap party that night, I realized something wasn't right--the sprain was blue up the side and back of my leg. Rob Lyall, the cameraman kept saying to me, "I think you really hurt your ankle."

I let it go for months. Sure it hurt, like most parts of my feet, but I was functional. I played maybe 3-4 times over the next seven months and then clearly must have lost my mind when I started doing 75 minute runs and jumping exercises and not stretching often enough. I stood up from writing one night and ripped my tendon again, much worse this time. I was so embarrased at the time, and my sister was squawking at me, "What is wrong with you?" I told her I sprained my ankle while writing. Whenever she was around me, I pretended like I was fine.

I had to go to a black-tie affair and coach for about 12 hours that weekend, so I thought the best thing to do was try to walk it off. I walked to Starbucks that night, wrote from there, and honestly it took me about 40 minutes to get home. I went to the black-tie event with a 6-foot-5 date, fortunately, and he agreed to be my crutch. A parent taped my foot so I could move around a bit without major shots of pain or tearing. I made it through the weekend, then tried to treat myself by going to a chiropractor and doing yoga. Three weeks later, I finally went to the doctor. Because I wasn't crying about it, I think he thought I was being a wuss. In doctor's terms with doctor attitude, he told me to suck it up. So I did, despite the fact that I was hearing clicking, tearing, and feeling tingling up my leg to my knee.

The short end to this very long story is I ended up going back to the doctor and saying, "I think something is wrong, and I'd rather risk the humiliation of being wrong than rupture a major tendon. It feels like it's going to pop."

I woke up from surgery, stared at my huge cast from the knee down and the P.A. said, "You did quite a number on yourself." Of course, I didn't believe her. Probably because I've done a serious number on myself so many other times that it's all relative. Four hours after surgery, the doc called me to check in.

He said, "Look, those MRI's don't always show the full picture of what's going on." (This is when I knew he was feeling so guilty for telling me to suck it up. He had no idea how much women athletes in particular can suck it up. Now he knows.) He went on: "Every one of your ligaments was torn, there was years and years of scar tissue damage and you had a huge tear--one of the biggest tears I've ever seen--in your peroneal tendon."

Lessons learned here:

1) Rehab every little injury, especially as you age

2) Stretch, stretch, STRETCH!

3) Listen to your body, even if you're a stubborn ex-jock, who often looked down at her popping, clicking and snapping foot and said, "Well I'm still functional. It's not like it's falling off."

4) Don't get hooked on those pain killers. My prescription was for 75 percocet AND a second painkiller that lasts for 12 hours. I did use them for the first few days because when you have throbbing pain, it sets an alarm off in your body and while I certainly can take the pain, it's hard to sleep. And if you can't sleep, your body can't recover. I was in the cafe at the gym writing (I fell asleep in the corner) and then was up on the arm machine working out within days because I couldn't stand the stiffness. I also stopped the drugs by the third day. I didn't want to get hooked to the perfect cocktail of percoset (to loosen you up and take away the pain) and coffee (to keep you awake).

I will be spending the next two weeks in a cast and on crutches, then a boot, then an ankle brace til mid-October. My friend took a photo of me carrying my food in a bag over my shoulder from the kitchen to the living room, wearing my glasses, a sports bra and short shorts. I looked exhausted and in need of a bath. She said that is not a photo for the blog.

No more blogging for a few weeks. I have to write a book and lead us through post-production, which is three train rides away in Brooklyn. I am like Helen of Troy getting around this city. All for the love of $ GAME.

(P.S. #1 I found a bunch of photos of Helen of Troy -- there's a bunch of very sexy ones. This one seemed to work best for me. Wild red hair, a look of both misery and determination.)

(P.S. #2 More on peroneal tendons: http://www.foot-ankle.co.uk/ content/disorders/peroneals)

A Bike Ride for the Soul

2008-07-02T11:07:00.000-07:00

A tandem bike in Rome. Another one in Napa Valley. L.A. Chicago ... and now, finally, taking the time to ride down the west side of the city. Here are some shots of our featured subject, a tall lanky woman who will go by the name, MeMe, which a young friend told me is Chinese for little sister. And another tall, lanky woman (both ex-basketball players) who will go by the name KK.

On the left is MeMe checking her messages while we wait for KK.

We flew down the west side, not stopping for photos. Not the cleanest ride with all the cars polluting the air, but fun to get a look of the city to our left. A ton of construction and some new basketball hoops, which I tend to keep track of seeing that we'll be gunning for a full feature soon.

Here is KK and MeMe with the Statue of Liberty.
We were going to try to go up the east side, until we were told that it's not the best ride and that we'd end up on side streets. KK said her good friend got ticketed for riding on the sidewalk, so we huddled and decided to head back up the West Side highway. We stopped at restaurant and bar along the way. We were all going to drink until MeMe announced that she was "pooped" and we probably should stay sober with all the traffic and people around. Here's MeMe not wanting to take her helmet off, even to eat.

We also had plans to run around in the sprinklers/fountains with the children (not photographed because you can't go up to kids and photograph them these days.) We were going to splash around with kids off all ages, and try to talk some sense into the crazy 10-year-old boy who was acting like a fool, and appeared to enjoy staying in a position where the water shot up his butt for a long period of time. His parents paid him no heed.

Then the cloud darkened, thunder clapped and MeMe called out, "Check, please."

We high-tailed it home, and rolled into the bike shop wet, but not yet totally soaked. But close.

Here's MeMe giving us her best reaction to paparazzi.

We jogged one block to take cover in front of a diner.

And here's my favorite shot, though the lighting is terrible. Here's my MeMe smiling in the rain.

Proud Anna

2008-07-02T10:37:00.000-07:00

One of my basketball kids and young friends who has come a long way .... This is why I coach.

I Ain't No Bum, Mick...I Ain't No Bum

2008-07-02T10:28:00.001-07:00

My "Press Pass" I Used to Cover KG

2008-06-19T20:03:00.000-07:00

The year: January 1995. The season--my fifth year. I needed to write a new story because 1) this is what writers are supposed to do and 2) my team was struggling and I needed something to get me through the most disappointing season of my career. So I started searching for a subject, and heard about this six-foot-eleven high school senior named Kevin Garnett, who was playing for Farragut Academy on the West Side. I bolted at the end practice one day (shocking my teammates for I typically was the last one out of the gym). I jumped into my tiny Honda Civic and raced down to the west side, for what would be one of many trips to cover Kevin, his team, his chances of making it in the NBA. I had a hard time getting into some games because of the crowds, and more importantly, I wasn't always sure if I could get access with all the media covering and his team like they were rock stars. A sports info guy who covered our team said he'd take care of me--he made up an official "Northwestern University Press" pass and had a guy from the equipment room laminate it. My title: "Urban Affairs Reporter."

Embarrassed, I showed security this pass on two occasions, and they kind of winced, out of pity, then let me in. How 'bout that media guide shot? My curls were out of control. Imagine those curls shaped into a mullet in the late 80s, a few missing teeth, braces, freckles, and that was me. Oy oy oy ...

Celtics Thump Lakers in Final Game...

2008-06-19T19:43:00.000-07:00

When people ask me to name my favorite team, I often say, "Whatever team I'm playing on." No, I'm not a Knicks Fan. Or a Giants Fan. No Chicago Bears. The Yankees don't move me the way they move about 95 percent of this city. Aside from rooting for the teams where the players are family and friends (and my alma mater, Northwestern University and USA during the Olympics), I've rooted for three teams over the course of my life: My Team. Larry Bird's Team. Kevin Garnett's Team. Here is my favorite player--and wow, did he get a little nuts in the celebration or what? I watched the post-game interview, and he told the story about knocking the bully's ass out--that's what he felt like after all these years of being told he couldn't win.

To Celebrate My Birthday

2008-06-18T19:15:00.000-07:00

Here are the two people who did all the work to get me here. My dad called me today, reminding me that I was his greatest Father's Day gift. I remember the way my mom would stand in my doorway, and watch me sleep before she called out my name to wake me up, and how she sometimes would crawl into bed with me, even when I was a miserable teenager who wanted to sleep in on a Saturday morning. I woke up this morning, laying in the dark, missing all the nights I used to curl up next to her when she was sick, and rub her back and smell her skin. This morning, I looked at the door, and the light coming in my room, and imagined her standing there.

Classic Hoops Photos

2008-06-11T07:56:00.000-07:00

When I came across this classic wallpaper of Garnett throwing it down at the Garden during game 2, I started to feel nostalgic.

So I went into my files. Here's me in my prime at Welsh-Ryan Arena, just miles north of where KG played his senior year of high school basketball. I wasn't able to find one of me dunking, so I opted to run a different kind of classic that would send a clear message ala KG.

What you are about to see is an advertisement on why a basketball player, particularly one who is a magnet for picks, should wear a mouthguard. (This shot epitomizes the look and feel of most of my college career. Not to get all JFK on you, but I think I got hit twice--once by 43 on the drive, then the second hit and whiplash came from Big Girl setting the screen.)

Ah, to be young, tough and totally nuts again. I miss those days of taking these kind of hits, but I do not want them back. Instead, I'll just live vicariously through a high-def TV and keep talking to #5 ... Yeah, Kev! That's it...Go Green!

Larry Legend, please call Kevin Garnett ASAP

2008-05-03T15:15:00.000-07:00

I'm concerned for the Boston Celtics as they go into their first-round win-or-bury-your-head-in-the-sand-game. Kevin "The Big Ticket" Garnett, who is getting mugged, sandwiched and hammered in this shot, is my favorite N.B.A. player since the league lost Larry Bird back in the 90s. (Joe Dumars is in the top three, though. It's tough to deny Magic unless you don't like showpeopleship. Which brings me to Chris Paul. Is there anyone in the world who doesn't want to play for Chris Paul? Steve Nash? And yes, I'm pretending Michael Jordan because 1) everyone knows 2) if I were on his team, I would have just stood there and watched him, or just gave him the ball and said, "hell, you do it," which would have made me fat and out-of-shape, thus ruining my career. And possibly sending me into a nuthouse later, haunted by the statement and question, "You played with Michael Jordan! Wow, what did you think of him?")

Recently I found a paragraph I clipped out about Larry Bird in one of my old scrapbooks. It was written around the time that Larry's feet were failing him. Without knowing the exact lead of the column, I can guess with confidence that Bird was making fun of himself for having bad feet and how he was never any good anyway. (And ironically enough, the same foot injuries--severe plantar fascitis and bone spurs--that ended Bird's career ended mine, too.) I cut out the paragraph below it, which is a pithy about what it takes to be and remain a champion on the court or in anything you do. And after reading it, I taped it on my wall, part of me wishing I'd played with this amount of confidence, with the nuts to walk on the court and look around ala Larry and say "which one of you a------- is coming in second?"

If Larry can't get Kevin on his cell, I hope KG hears these words as he sleeps tonight:

Larry always talked that way. He liked to have a little fun, sure, but he always stuck that chest out because he believed he ought to be good because he had put in the hours, had taken the hundreds and thousands of jumpshots and had stayed in the gym long after everyone else had gone home. Don't ever think Larry didn't honestly believe he was good. -- Bob Ryan

In the Hoops Huddle with Obama

2008-04-26T12:17:00.000-07:00

The apartment stops when a clip of Obama playing hoops appears on television. One voice in the room says, "He's decent." Another says, "Make him go right." And a third, the journalist in the room, sees the flickering of flashes and says, "Who's going to play serious D on a future president with news cameras rolling?"

Would I trust myself to guard Obama? Absolutely not. Why? At some point during the contest, I'd forget who I was playing against and my pride would supersede what might be for the common good of the American people. We'd get tangled up, and I'd bust his nose or he'd blow out a knee. He'd get the sympathy vote, go on to win the presidency, and I'd go down in infamy.

Obama, if he's got any true-athlete blood in him, must be craving a real game behind closed doors, no lights, no cameras, just him and the guys who don't give a rat's ass who he is. And from the footage I've seen of Obama, excluding his shot form for the moment, I'd say he's decent. Not going to hurt you if you're in an average pickup game. He's certainly an energetic lefty point-guard, who might be hiding his scrawny and aged legs in baggy dark sweat pants. He knows the cameras need to see him passing, sharing the love with his teammates, and making them look great. (I can only hope he knows the value of surrounding himself with brilliant, power players who will turn the White House into Doc River's Celtics, with aspirations to return to heights akin to Pat's Summit at Tennessee, or we are in serious trouble.)

This Barak-as-a-Sports-Guy must be tearing up Hillary's camp. I think Hilary used to play softball back in the day, or maybe it was field hockey in college. Even if she was above average at a sport, if this gutsy Senator attempted to get out there and compete, the media would rip her to shreds because for most of them, criticizing Hillary might be the only sport in which they excel. Part of me wants to see what she's got, even if it's a decent Warrior One, a solid bunt, a mean golf swing, just to balance the playing field. (This is the only photo I could use of Hillary. She looks like she's playing a little D.)

Getting back to a man who seems to have emerged as the fan favorite, before I say advantage Obama, I'd like one shot at pulling him aside between pickup games, and offering him this advice.

1) Keep wearing the cool, simple military t-shirts; and wear those sweatpants that make you sweat profusely. (And if you stop sweating, have someone spray you down.)

2) You are the cool playmaker everyone wants to play for. Stay cool and humble.

3) As per #2, you must take care of the rock.

4) Keep sharing the love.

5) Run out the clock, dang it, do not pull a Memphis, by being passive in the end game when you've rolled over a team for minutes upon minutes.

6) Hit the free-bes and PLEASE

7) ...don't you dare celebrate before it's time.

It's the semis, B. (I'm not sure what his hoops nickname is, and I'm suddenly pretending I'm a guy here. And B seems like a good guess. Better than B.O.)

In the finals, B, if you want to bring home the only hardware that matters, the country is going to need to see your serious game face.

But for now, take one victory at a time, and we'll talk about that when we get there.

EVERYONE, DEMOCRATS ON THREE! One, two, three ...

My Cousins, the Pope and Happy Passover Tanks

2008-04-16T19:52:00.000-07:00

Today I walked across Central Park South on a beautiful spring day, clutching my cheap handheld device, feeling like one of those obsessed workaholics who has no grip on what's important. I said just one message, then typed my sister a note regarding our cousins being in the city for three days and our plans to meet them for lunch on Thursday.

My cousin, Danny O'Brien -- once removed, we think, or not removed enough, according to others -- had his mom, Great Aunt Pat, call me earlier this week to say that Danny, his wife and three girls were coming to the city for a visit. I asked what he was doing while he was in the city.

"The only thing we have is the Bronx Zoo on Wednesday," he said. "What else do you recommend?"

"Row boat on Central Park?"

"What?" Danny said. "Does it even count as boating? We are not going to get in a boat--

"Statue of Liberty?"

"Eh. Too field trippy."

I gave a few more weak suggestions and asked when they were leaving.

"We must leave by Friday," he said.

"Why?"

"The Pope is coming, and we don't want to run the risk of running into him. You know we've been excommunicated."

I chuckled but this is the truth. A few years ago, Danny, his siblings and their families felt that the Catholic Church had been unfairly and wrongly remained rooted in the past by not allowing women to be ordained and by not allowing same-sex unions, among other issues that won't be repeated simply because it's all as irrational and illogical as the billions of dollars we're spending in Iraq pissing people off and getting little to no work done. The head of the congregation was told to change his ways and conform to the "values" of the party line, and when he continued teaching universal, inclusive values (such is the definition of catholicism), he and all those who believed in his teachings were excommunicated.

My religious views have been relatively easy to reconcile, now that I've fully examined what I was taught and compared it to how I live and what I believe to be reasonable in what is more often than not, a gray world. And I answer only to myself, which makes it simple. Raising a family would present far more serious thought. It's tough to knock a Sunday of togetherness in a place where people believe in something bigger than themselves. It's impossible to deny the value of promoting unity, love and forgiveness. I'm just not so sure I would be okay with fooling my kids into seeing past the politics of religion, when I could be teaching them a clear lesson on the definition and operation of one enormous cash cow. The Metro reported that the cost of protecting the pope during his brief visit to New York City would amount to $3 million, at least, and the question was how much is New York city Port Authority & Police Department responsible for? The articles said that parishioners in Long Island, during a harrowing economic times, are raising money to cover the costs. Then I read that Benedict is taking the gap between the rich and poor seriously, spending much time thinking about it and talking about it in his speeches. Days later, he's going to fill up Yankee Stadium with colors and hope and spirit, which he does, lavishly, and the only thing he says that's newsworthy is that he's terribly sorry about the epidemic of sex-offending priests. A high percentage of those folks who are chipping in to raise the $3 million+ for a song and dance, and dose of inspiration will return to parishes where there are no priests. (We were unable to hold my mother's funeral at the new church around the corner that she enjoyed going to with her caregivers when she was sick. We could not hold her services there because the church had to shut down due to no clergy being available for masses and the church not allowing laymen (not women, of course) to run services. So we asked the priest of the parish we had grown up in. My aunt and sister still get pissed off and teary when they recall his rudeness and insensitivity and how put out he was that he had to come in and open the doors. And when he did, almost 1,000 people were waiting to attend calling hours. I am sure he is kicking himself for blowing the much-needed marketing and PR opportunity.)

In the midst of my speculation on what religion means to people and what they're willing to pay for it, even when they might not be able to go to mass on Sunday morning for no good reason at all, I see a caravan of Mitzvah Tanks racing on the south end of Central Park. The Jews in the tanks (clean, rented RVs) are screaming, "Happy Passover! Happy Passover!" And just for the hell of it, I yell back and smile, pleased that they are having such a fine time. I later google what I'm witnessing and find out that some messiah-like Jew started this tank tradition, a man who did not believe in assimilation, or so the piece reads, which makes me worry that most religions are represented by too many individuals who are stuck in the mud. I smiled at these young boys (all boys, now that I think about it) and thought how cute, inspirational and festive, just like the scene would be at Yankee stadium days later (when no females would be on the altar, even in a country where one is running for president and another brilliant, savvy black woman by the name of O is selling an all-inclusive crusade of faith and good will far better than the church is taking donations for hot Sunday morning pancakes.)

I paused at the corner and listened to the engines of the Mitzvah tanks rev past, and watched the conservative Jews and their stringy beards and thin braids hang out the window and blow in the air. I accepted their "Happy Passovers" with a smile, knowing it had nothing to do with me. Apparently I wasn't alone. A vagrant standing next to me at the light had been calling back, "Yeah, yeah, Happy Passover!" and he sounded into it until he let out a shrill, "Yeeee, Happy Passover! I know you got some money in there so how 'bout you pass it over?"

It was the perfect statement to end my meeting on religion. I left my handheld in my purse, and returned to enjoying such a beautiful day in New York.

All-Knee Pad Team Wraps Up Gutsy Season

2008-04-03T09:13:00.000-07:00

Hempstead, Long Island I told my 6th grade traveling boys that our photo, taken just before our semi-final game against the almighty Red team, would tell our story. I lined them up, and when I realized I was the odd number, I jumped out of the photo and am so glad I did. I proudly present Team Mo, which I prefer to call The All-Knee Pad team.

Back in December, two games into the season, after getting pummeled by the Red team by a gentle 33, (honestly, they could have beat us by 50 if they didn't back off), and losing to two other teams that just walked over us, I spent meals eating by myself after the game, wondering, What do I have to do to get these boys to not play like they're rich kids from the upper east and west sides? How do I teach 'em dirty work? Physical play? Wanting to win like it's a bone and they're junkyard dogs who haven't eaten for days? Do they even understand the concept of rebounding? Do they just read books about pride? Passion?

Our team cheer, led by whomever was dubbed to give the Knute Rockne pre-game speech was this: "What are we made of?" Mandatory response: "BLOOD and GUTS!" The kids would say this, a line I gave them, and I would chuckle inside. They deepened their voices, screamed it nice and loud, and beamed. I avoided eye contact with those who had heard us, haunted by a line I'd just heard in one of the five movies I attempt to watch each week. In The Dirty Dozen, Donald Sutherland checks out a good-looking group of strong men, and says to his superior, "They sure are pretty, Colonel. But can they fight?"

Now I'm going to save this line for the next team of basketball players who think there's a net out there on the court, as in tennis or volleyball, and you're expected to be quiet and polite while you stay on your side of the net and make no skin-to-skin contact. (During Holohan family picnics, everyone in the family was allowed to play, including children, seniors, and drunks. We had a full-contact rule at the net, and usually an intoxicated offical or two in charge, and boy, did it get ugly.)

Getting back to my 6th grade boys, and the whole concept of teaching them to fight without having them, or their parents, think I wanted them to punch anyone. I finally discovered what was missing--something I did not know that needed to be taught: I assumed the boys knew how to fall, hit the deck, tackle the guy next to him, get knocked on their butt, and pop back up. One dad said to me, "Throw a cell phone on the ground and they'll dive for it." The boys did not know how to fall toward a round, leathery object. They seemed physically incapable of getting up, without complaining or whining more than a fragile individual in a nursing home. Most of the them had NEVER dived for a loose ball. Once I realized this, I did not allow them to leave practice until they knocked each other around and caught some air in a leaping position toward a lose ball. I always guessed who the last three kids would be left standing, and I was right. Last kid got razzed by the others, and he blushed in embarrassment, annoyance and fear. His name was Jack. Hands down the smartest kid on the team, but he refused to dive. I said, "Your dad played hockey, for crying out loud. You can dive." He screamed back, "My father made all that up." (I later told his dad this, and his dad burst out laughing.) The truth finally surfaced: as few years earlier, Jack dove for a ball and ran into a wall, head-first.

The closest we could get Jack to an actual dive or loose ball in a non-upright position was if he ran over to a ball, and bent over and got down on one knee as if he was downing a football. This drove me insane, yet I didn't want to humiliate the kid or anyone else--and he was not the only one who looked up at me and said, "Why do I have to dive when I can just pick up the ball?" Josh said to me, "But it hurts to dive." I said, "If you do it regularly enough, it doesn't hurt anymore! Trust me. I made a career out of it. I sometimes think that's all I did."

I reflected back upon my 6th grade days, when I began my career as a middle school wrecking ball. No, make that a large, tomato in a tight green uniform and high striped socks. (Will post photo soon. Actually I could go to the gym tonight, in green, take a photo and give you the necessary visual.) I thought of the video I have of myself playing (which I will someday edit), and that's when the Basketball Gods gave me the Answer. My mother, a nurse, who thought I was certifiable due to my addition to hoops and sports in general, made me wear green knee pads. I hated them, primarily because my mother made me wear them (I will post a photo here of me in them.) and now that I think about it, I'm fairly sure she bought a pair for everyone.

So I went out and did as all women allegedly do -- become their mother -- by going out to the store and purchasing the boys $8 knee pads. (White, not green, though now that I think about it, that would have been funny, and certainly festive for St. Patrick's day, even though we had only one Irish kid on the team.) The boys whined and complained, much like I had to my mom, and I told them if they didn't wear the knee pads, then they were off the team. They complained in huffs and sighs and I pointed to the door.

They put on the knee pads and took to the court to scrimmage the "B" team. Keep in mind, as the female coach, I was given the "C" team, or at least that was the label handed to me with the uniforms. This came after the statement made to me: "Do you think you're capable of coaching a team as competitive as 6th grade boys?"

We came out like tanks and rolled over the dispirited B team, whose coach, my colleague, tried subbing in an older brother who was in 10th grade. I looked at him and said, "Ray, you can't sub in a 10th grader." He snapped back at me, claiming he only had five. (I would have given him one of my guys.) He screamed, "My guys are tired. Why not?" Once again, I said, "Ray, you can't sub a 10th grader into a 6th grade scrimmage. That's like one of us subbing in." He glared back at me and said, "If you want to sub in, go ahead."

My boys hustled, scraped, passed, high-fived and even kids such as Jack displayed cool, albeit controlled, superman dives on the court. Why? Because it didn't hurt so much when they fell, making it that much easier to get back up.

We were playing so well that I felt badly for the B team kids, except for one punk who started yelling at me, and making noises while our kids were on the foul line. (His coach said nothing. Neither did his father, who was sitting right behind me.) We were beating them so badly that I asked the parent keeping score to not tell the kids the numbers. (We won by 16 and of course, it leaked. The opposing coach told one of my kids the next day that I cheated.)

After the game, I tried to mix both teams for a fun scrimmage, an effort thwarted by the opposing coach. I said to him during our heated conversation, "Let's not argue in front of the kids." I rest my hand on his arm, and gently tried to sway him to step to the side. "Don't touch me." Then he took his time during time outs, sitting down to annoy me, telling his boys to take all the time they needed, and to make sure, when they got back out there, to send a message on how tough they were. (This is an excellent example of circumlocution. How 'bout this: He is the type of sore-losing coach who will instruct his players to foul the mess out of the kids on the other team, as if this thug-like, by-any-classless-means-necessary mentality is some form of twisted redemption. (Perhaps he is from the Isiah Thomas School of Playing, Coaching & Living When the Ball Doesn't Bounce Because You've Taken the Air Out of It and Are Blaming Everyone Else?)

When I tried to rally the boys on both teams at the end, most of whom were friends, and all playing under the same league, the coach said, "We're not practicing with you."

Ray sent his boys down to one side of the court. My boys and I scrimmaged, ran around, laughed at each other and at me. They told me that I needed to wear my knee pads or I was off the team. My team lost and our opponents rubbed my nose in it. I looked up at the end of our fun game and saw the opposing coach talking on his cell phone, which he had done the entire time we were having fun. (I'm sure someone was calling in plays and special defenses.) His boys were at the other end shooting around, goofing off, wasting time.

The next night we went up to the storied Riverside Church and scrimmaged their B level team, and though we lost, we showed 'em a decent dose of blood and guts. I could not believe the boys on our team who had never got on the floor. Even Jack was diving on the floor, bouncing up, scrambling for any loose ball he was near, and hearing me say, "Thank God for those knee pads!" At one point, Josh, our forward, came off the court, a bit roughed up. And he made the mistake of repeating the forbidden, "They're fouling/scratching/hitting me every time!"

I said, "Do you think you're going to get any sympathy from me? Go talk to Sam!" (Sam is Smiley #1 in the photo.) Josh sat down next to Sam, who said, "I know, I know. It's okay, Josh." He patted him on the back, and we all started cracking up.

From that weekend forward, we were a different team. We had won a few games prior, putting together a stretch of either or seven or eight wins straight. (A few boys tried to get out of wearing the knee pads by "forgetting" them. We had penalty knee pads in a backpack--huge, bulky red hockey-like pads that a player had to wear for the entire first quarter if he broke the mandatory knee pad rule. The boys who grew to love the white knee pads laughed hysterically at the rule-breakers who dragged the red knee pads around like they were wearing splints, until I told them to cut it out.)

We won the first round of play-offs, beating a team we had beaten earlier in a dramatic double overtime game. Then we ran into the Red team, a powerful team of skilled 6th graders. The only chance we had at beating these boys was if their team van broke down and they didn't show up, or if Kevin Garnett made a cameo and ran with us. We kept it close in the first half--stayed within 10--and then the staff of coaches on the other bench stopped playing nice.

We lost by 30+ and at the end of the game, I said to the boys, "Did we deserve to win this game?" They all said no. I said, "Did we deserve to be in the semi-finals and become the second-best place team in the league?" They nodded and said, "Yes."

I am proud of every one of them. I am still working with most of the boys in the off-season, and during one of the first sessions, Josh showed up with his knee pads, thinking he'd be punished if he didn't have them on. I told him the season was over, and it was up to him if he wanted to wear them or not. He said, "Well, I like wearing them. My knees don't hurt so much after the game."

Parents from the other teams in our league stopped me a few times as we were leaving the gym after our weekend games, and said what a great job I was doing as coach. I thought of thanking my mom, but this would have been confusing, yet I can still hear her saying, "Your mother is always right."

So to show my appreciation, I responded by saying, "It's not me. It's the knee pads."

Double High-Fives for Anucha's Story

2008-03-27T20:16:00.000-07:00

If I were to be stuck on an island the rest of my life, and was not allowed to pick family or friends or Tom Hanks, I’d want to be there under a coconut tree with a group of the finest sportswriters in the business.

Here’s some of the feedback on “Game On," my article on Anucha Browne Sanders (who took on Isiah Thomas, James Dolan, MSG and won.) I'm going to run the risk of coming across as boastful (and feel as though I can't carry these guys' notebooks) by running the following blog, yet I ask for some mercy. I'm just a kid who can't believe she's become friends with some of the all-star legends in the business—writers I read as a kid, and those who, along with my 7th grade Language Arts teacher, Mr. Papa, inspired me to write.

“Maureen, Congratulations on a terrific story. You had an inside track and you made the most of it.”
—IRA BERKOW, New York Times writer, author and die-hard hoops junkie

After Jack McCallum from SI gave me the scouting report (see below), Ira and I played HORSE last year. Actually it was 10 games of HORSE, and it would have gone on until someone physically collapsed if Ira had his way. Ira knows I will write about it one day, and has asked to preview of the story before it runs, so he can add his take. In the black and white photograph above is Ira with Walt Frazier. Ira’s hoops memoir is called “To the Hoop.” I enjoyed it, but not as much as our gladiator-like HORSE battle.

“A wonderful piece of advocacy journalism. It should win you some kind of award.”
--JACK MCCALLUM, Sports Illustrated, senior NBA writer

I met Jack during my senior year at Northwestern, when Rick Telander, another SI writer and Northwestern graduate, knew I had just published a story on a 17-year-old kid named Kevin Garnett.
I grew up reading SI and almost did a flip in my apartment when Jack left a message saying he heard I knew how to track down Garnett, and asked if I would give him an assist. I did the best I could, but Garnett wasn’t in town. In addition to feeding me and telling me the best Magic, Bird, Jordan stories ever over dinner, Jack (pictured here) got SI to throw me $300 for my effort, and he landed me a contributing writers credit at the end of the story. Jack just wrote a terrific, spot-on story called “The Real Dope," building a solid case that sports simply reflect our quick-fix, stay young forever Americans culture where most of us are stockpiling anti-aging products and considering a myriad of procedures, raising real questions as to why we're punishing athletes more than average citizens.

A comment from a lawyer who shall remain nameless: “I think you did a terrific job with the story. Very insightful. You presented the facts extremely well and bolstered your theory with impressive experts. I've read a lot of stories on the case, but yours is far and away the most comprehensive and persuasive. I'm glad we were able to help. Congrats.”

Frank Isola, NY Daily News writer, sent me either a sarcastic of good-natured email saying something along the lines of, but don't quote me: So you want me to write about your piece the day after the Post plugged it? Are you bragging? I'll plug your story if you plug my work.

I told Frank 1) I’m not bragging; I clicked you into the mass e-mail list just because I thought you'd like to read the story and 2) If you had returned my previous emails that I sent you months ago, I would have been thrilled to have had you plug the piece (in addition to Lupica, Vescey and Berman. It would have been awesome to have hit the grandslam and have all these writers plug the piece in the same day, and not a stretch, considering no one had any fresh Knicks-related material to write about that week.)

From what I’ve heard there's serious tension between scribes like us who are doing what we do and Knicks PR folks, who are merely trying to keep their jobs and get through another depressing season. I told Frank that we need to stick together and ride it out. We made our peace and I assured my colleague that once I start my puff pieces for Dime Magazine, I will see him at the Garden. There I will tell him, in person, how I plugged Frank Isola's BLOG here and even included a photo of what appears to be a good-looking Italian gentleman.

Click here to read "Game On" in Elle Magazine. (April '08)

And in closing, if the NY Post's Marc Berman is reading this, he's going to wonder where is his mug and plug? Write me, my friend. And let me know if you ever ran that correction that Anucha and I were NOT ever teammates, which was the whole point of my lede.

And another double-high five to Berman for setting me up for the score.

Celebrating March Madness

2008-03-22T10:23:00.000-07:00

Last night, while watching March Madness, Meghan Holohan, a former collegiate basketball player, wanted to replay some of the highlights from her glory days as a shooting guard at Rider University. A friend had mailed her a Rider vs. Siena game tape, and Meg asked me to find the play in the second half when she passed the ball to her roommate, Lats, on the wing. Meg says this is her favorite action shot of her entire career, and I've posted it here so her teammates can vividly recall their days as Broncs. There are two highlights--one nice move by my sister's best friend, Trika, then two boards by Holohan, followed by Lats filling the left lane. I'm going to produce an entertaining segment on Meg's hoops career in the next few months. Sign up for the mohostudio.com mailing list if you'd like to get a sneak preview before it hits the theaters.

Anucha's Story Runs in Elle Magazine

2008-03-18T21:03:00.001-07:00

Finally! It took me years to get a big story like this locked in and over the finish. I owe a big thanks to Anucha, an intensely private mother, wife and professional, and to Laurie Abraham, my brilliant editor--she's on my Dream Team of editors.

Check out "Game On" in Elle's April issue. (I'll blog about the overwhelmingly positive response in a few weeks.)

Here's an interesting photoshopped image of Anucha and Isiah from the piece, which was plugged by the NY Post. Anucha was one of the best players I've ever played on the court; and my favorite T-shirt as a kid was one that had Bird, Magic and Isiah on it.

Spitzer's Sympathy Voters

2008-03-18T17:12:00.000-07:00

Above is a photo of a fallen American who recently has given us every reason to A) despise rich white men B) believe all politicians are dirty and C) never ever--even while under the influence--consider running for office. Although not as shocking and as funny as the cover of New York Magazine, this snapshot will forever hold a special place in Holohan family history. Here, working the crowd at our state capitol, is Elliot Spitzer, protected by a uniformed blood relative. This family member shall remain nameless, per the family policy, in effect due to our mixed lineup of conservative law enforcement officials, liberal journalists, Hillary fans and Bush backers. We will abide by our holiday truce this upcoming Easter Sunday. (Truth be told, the chances of the aforementioned parties reading this blog are about as good as Spitzer returning to politics. Still, I know someone will report me. Just ask Eliot what happens when you try to slip one past NYS Troopers.)

In mid-January 2008, my sister saw this photo on the cover of the free Metro, and cried out amid a crowd of subway riders, “I know that noggin!” Proud of this family member’s perfect posture and focus, we posted the photo on our refrigerator. Eliot appears to be at ease, owning the dignified room during the State of the State address. Patterson is there on the left, or so it appears, adding a shade of color to the white crowd. Everything is just so beautiful, tranquil, polished, for we are looking at Eliot Spitzer from a distance, from an odd angle that keeps his more telling feature hidden from the distant, average voter like me.

A long time ago, having already voted for Spitzer due to his party and another family member’s professional affiliation with him (again, off-limits for the blog), I remember taking note of his famous face and a voice inside of me running a line that said, "The eyes, chico, they never lie." Due to my party and my family's affiliation, I cast my vote in his favor, which I guess, kind of makes me flawed and well, Republican-like. (That was a dig in honor of my Great Uncle Dave, a loyal republican who always likes to get the rest of us worked up.) Then I read an article on him and saw a photo of Eliot with his beautiful and sophisticated wife, Silda, and thought, okay, maybe I was wrong.

When the news boiled over in our living room, the sisters got the photographed family member on speaker and said, “Clearly you weren’t watching the man closely enough.” A friend remained in the room during the family discussion, saying very little during the sisters debate, except for his one keen observation of a guest on Chris Matthews. The guest, who’s name escapes me, was a former Wall Street executive, a rumored player, who, when asked about Spitzer’s lifestyle and the repercussions—something he hadn’t expected—bumbled his words and sat so stiffly that I thought he was going to stroke out and slide out of his chair, leaving him on the floor, where Matthews, the tenacious journalist he is, to hammer him with more questions until 911 arrived. Numerous government officials, looking to say the right thing and protect their cans, called for forgiveness of the man’s transgressions, while many off-the-record nonpublic figures tried to give Spitzer validation by saying a helpless percentage of the entire gender just can’t stop themselves. After getting swept up in one discussion where I yelled out something about wanting "my crotch to be junk-free," I toned it down a bit, reigned myself in and took some time to come up with a list of Spitzer sympathizers. Here we go, in no particular ranking, for there's maybe three citizens who fall in each category:

Child Psychologists: An increase in high-end clients—Spitzer has three daughters—unfortunately two of them bare a striking resemblance to their father—are going to keep shrinks for kids in business for a long time.

Gynecologists: More business for them, which irks me more than anything—the rumors that he liked to go bareback, that he knowingly put his wife in harm’s way. A week before the Spitzer news hit, there was a study on CNN that found 1 in 4 teenage girls have a STD. While this is a separate blog in itself—and a manipulation of numbers—it would be nice to read a study on how many teenagers use condoms. (It's always been my impression that intercourse as well as girls, but maybe we are doing most of the work?) While we're at it, let's poll women who sleep with politicians and find out how many of them are taking actions to fight sweep STDs out of the Down Under like they take on crime-ridden neighborhoods. (Has a politician ever had the balls to stand in front of a crowd of high-risk, sexually active kids and show them how to put a condom on a dummy penis? And why not?) I checked out Kirsten’s awkward photos in the Post and gave it up to a sister on one point that’s being ignored completely: home girl had the guts to say dude, wrap it up or game over.

Sex Psychologists: In attempt to defend men, I'd like to say that I am aware that Spitzer is a sick man, not because he had extra-marital sex or used a prostitute. To be that stupid, that selfish, that obsessed to the point of sheer moronic, hypocritical behavior is mind-boggling. Freud’s granddaughter is practicing, isn’t she? Forget the pastors and priests. We all know that the vast majority of them have their issues. Somebody put in a phone call to a relative of Freud and get this one on the books so we can figure out how the hell to contain the Spitzers of the world.

Johns & Kristens: Johns will give him empathy; Kristens will be stepping up and saying, “Yeah, I do it” (and if I was in charge, I’d be mandating the condom lapel during press conferences.) With the proliferation of porn on the web—the last I researched, there was over 230 million porn sites out there—soon the law officials will be writing tickets, meeting quotas and changing the jurisdiction of highways to keep small towns afloat financially. Soon prostitution will be the equivalent of a moving violation and you’ll have to take a four-hour on-line course to get your ticket written down, and no marks on your marriage.

Unattractive Johns: These frustrated dudes who hate their good-looking rich friends are marching around in their apartments, proudly declaring their right to bare ass.

Guys Who Hate Ivy-Educated White Men: I don’t know how many of you have the uncle in the family, a mechanic, who barely made it through high school, but talks like he could do anything (and no doubt, the man is a skilled craftsman.) Guys like this uncle love it when doctors and lawyers try to come into their shop with their Mercedes and talk them down or act like they know what they’re about. Mechanics like this are going to show Spitzer mercy and add a chuckle inside, for making them look so damn brilliant.

People With No Friends: NBA players, celebrities, Hollywood stars, they all have a circle of “boys” who take care of the guy with the fat wallet. Why? Because he OPENS IT and shares the love so he can get what he wants.

A gorgeous, yet so snotty woman at my gym who’s there all day barely breaking a sweat is one of many, according to a guy who likes to speculate on everything. I’ve been wondering for a long time what exactly she does, and someone who knows her tells me that she’s a mistress for married A-list actor. She told my friend this—and I was like, how do you know? “She doesn’t care—she loves it.” Apparently, she gets paid to be with A-List Narcisis when he’s in town. Part of that payment and contract must mean she’s kept clean, quiet, slim, and sexy. If Elliot needed the stress breaker, he should have pulled the Kennedy, the King, the Bubba, and found people to set up the arrangements, arguably making it safer for everyone involved—his wife, the woman, his children, himself—and let’s face it, that’s all he gave a rat’s ass about in this mess. Why didn’t Spitzer do this? Two guesses from a retired female jock who will no longer be allowed to write children’s books: First, a rich guy like him who’s inherited millions from mom and dad might have realized how difficult, if not impossible, it is to buy a true friend. Second, everyone who knew the Eliot Spitzer pre-public burial, spoke of him as a complete control freak, a paranoid, twisted madman, a cocky rich suit. Eliot Spitzer walked around with his pants down to his ankles, and stuck it all out there, and was so self-engrossed and addicted to orgasm and power that he believed no one was crazy enough or powerful enough to grab him by the balls.

Looking forward what the family has to say at Easter dinner.

Holohan Joins Cast of The Office

2008-01-04T22:15:00.000-08:00

Meghan A. Holohan, 30, of New York, N.Y., replied to an open casting call for her favorite show in September. For weeks prior to her one moment in time, she researched the history of paper, and practiced her filing, stapling, printing and recycling skills. Michael watched her perform and said, "Hire the tall chick with the nice set of ... earrings."

Check out these stills of Meg in unforgettable episode where she challenged Jim to a Make Me Laugh contest and won. Then she hustled Dwight in a game of hoops in the warehouse, and sat him back down again when she was, hands down, the best speaker at the televised morning meeting. "I brought down the house, ala Barak Obama," she said.

Unfortunately the episode did not air due to the Writer's Strike.

Upon her return from Hollywood, Meg read a spec script of The Office written by her big sis, Maureen Holohan and Wali Collins (no relation). The writers sweat it during in their performance review session until Meg gave their script the highest rating of "outstanding" and added, "It was so hilarious that I had to get up and act it out in the living room." Mo and Wali are busy writing their own sitcom, and Meg is planning on auditioning for a hot role we cannot share with you now or we'll give away the premise of the award-winning television series.

Just last night, swept up in the memories of her glory days on the set, Meg stopped on a street corner and said, "Oh, I just gave a great Jim reaction, but I've lost it. Damn it."

Here are Meg and Jim, demonstrating the lost art of flirting at The Office.

The Good Stuff

2008-01-02T23:18:00.000-08:00

My friend Keith walked up to me at the Starbucks on 75th and Broadway, and said, “I never thought I’d say this to you, and don’t take it the wrong way, but you’re a coffee shop whore.” Less than 12 hours later, I looked up from my spot at the Starbucks at 67th and Columbus, and saw Keith, this time with his dog, a rottweiler, both staring at me through the window.

Starbucks Coffee is the closest I’ve ever come to crack, cocaine or any controlled substance; and its cafes are the closest I’ve ever come to a drug house, and therefore, I’ve dubbed my writing holes under one name, often telling my sister that she knows where to find me, at The Crackee House. (Actually I was standing in a packed gym once, talking to a police officer, when he looked at the floor under me and picked up some white material in a baggie. He held it up to me and said, “Do you know what this is?” I said, “Well, it looks like a bunch of old, rotten teeth.” He shook his head and said, “It’s crack.” Oh, and there was the time when my hysterical seventh grade student begged me to go home and see if her sister’s secret stash was real cocaine or not. I saw the razor, the mirror, and something that looked like powder and said, “Should we do what they do on TV and taste it?” She shrugged. I said, “Do you know what it tastes like ‘cause I sure as heck don’t?” I called my brother, Ryan, a law enforcement official, and he yelled, “PUT IT DOWN NOW and get the hell out of there! Are you nuts? Being with a student after hours, at her home, tasting cocaine while playing detective?”)

I’ve been writing in Starbucks for a while, ever since I had to stop writing at my gym’s cafe because I was talking too much to friends and acquaintances, and getting no work done. I spent most of my time writing at the Starbucks in Columbus Circle, for it was one of the few in the city that remained open for 24 hours. (There's recently been a proliferation of 24-hour Crackee Houses in the city.) One morning I was there, immersed in the 63nd write of Money Game in a dark corner, when a guy said something in my ear, I looked up and he winked. After the haze cleared, I realized it was actor/economist/writer Ben Stein. Weeks later, I read an article he wrote for the Times and sent him an email, saying I was the redhead in the corner at the Starbucks in Columbus Circle, who did not comprehend a word you said before you grinned your way out the door. He said he remembered me vividly—he repeated vividly twice in the email—leaving me to wondering if I did something I had forgotten. We had a brief email exchange, I read all his funny books, and soon I had no other choice but to sit myself down and order my usual: the grande regular, two packs of sugar, a ton of milk, (eggnog during the holidays). I finally accepted that my virtual relationship with Ben Stein, a married man who lives in Los Angeles, may have started and ended when I was high.

I avoided the Starbucks for a few days one spring, after two incidents. The first being when I’d noted that one disturbed dude developed this scary habit of throwing himself into conversations, spewing his vitriol, twisting everything into what he believed to be enlightening commentary on slavery and oppression of the black man. He bobbed and shook at other times, his hand and phone attached to his ear, holding a screaming match with himself over precisely when the world would end. The second instance occurred when I spied a group of young adults stirring up a ruckus, leading one young Starbucks employee to scream, “Don’t make me go get my heat. ‘Cause I’ll bring it back and y’all are going down.” Somewhere around then, I called it a night, packed up and moved with my back to the wall until I slid out of the joint. (I thought of crawling, and don’t think anyone would of noticed, for they were either sleeping or arming themselves.)

I reported both instances to my brother Ryan. Proud of my immediate response to flee and my strategy for escaping a hostile environment, I failed to get the props I had expected. Instead, my brother Ryan said, “And why are you wandering around New York City and going in and out of these places at the middle of the night?” I told him I tried to stay away, but the mere scent of the beans, which you can smell every other block on the upper west side, drew me back. Within days, I returned to the same Crackee House, and stayed until late on a Saturday night. I looked up, and saw this attractive bald guy wearing a red baseball cap. Par for the course, our eyes met and he walked right past me.

I said hey, that guy is…Bruce Willis.

Or I could have been hallucinating.

A seat at Starbucks is a tough ticket in New York City anywhere between the hours of 7 a.m. and midnight, particularly in the winter. On New Year’s Eve, if they didn’t close the place at 10:30 p.m., it would have been packed to the gills. For people who visit during normal hours, I blame the record-setting attendance levels to some highly addictive ingredient in the coffee that is so powerful that it makes you return to the store—and run to the bathroom—like clockwork. I sit here now, at 2 a.m., not letting anyone around me know that I’ve got a $100 Starbucks gift card in my purse, thanks to my dad, who’s enabling me, feeding me and my addiction, and running the risk of pissing off my sister, who only got $50 on her Gap card.

My guess is that Starbucks are one of the cleanest, safest places in town for people who are trying to hide the fact that they have no place else to go. Not everyone falls in this category, but most of us, without a doubt, are in no need to rush to any place that brings us any comfort greater than what we will find here. This place is where I work best—I drink my fuel, I write, I refill, I observe.

After deducting another 54 cents from my card for a second hit, here is what I see:

Two old white men—both well dressed and without suitcases—are hunched over asleep. Check that. Three old white guys. I just spotted the third after looking over my shoulder at the side of the joint that is now closed down so that all the crackee addicts are forced to one side of the ship as if we’re on the Titanic.

Across from me is a fine-looking Caucasian in a red baseball cap, flipped backwards, gray scarf around his neck like he’s posing for a catalog. He’s warm and charming and having an intimate conversation with a cute African-American women. I keep checking him out. He knows it.

In front of them, sits a black man or woman, hidden under clothes, his or her Ug boots lined up next to her row of suitcases. Christ, I think, how hard it would be to sleep sitting up for days, weeks on end, in a frigid winter, and carrying all your crap around. I think, hell, I’ve got two options. I can call slumber party at my place of residence—I live with my sister and her boyfriend—and she would have me removed with all my guests immediately. Or I can drop my card on the table and buy a hit for everyone.

In walks a lanky 6’3” blonde girl – her big features and forehead remind me of my Russian teammate when I played ball in Israel. Well-dressed with a large designer handbag, she sits by herself right in front of me, sees me studying her, and pecking away. Feeling like a jerk, I look past her, spotting two boys, one stands, nods to his friend who’s hiding under a hood, and moves across our house. As he moves, my eyes meet with Sara’s, who I just know is thinking the same thing I’m thinking. She turns away from me. From under her two pair of glasses she doodles on any her publication while surrounding herself with her suitcase and a stack of files. She knows what I know and I know what she knows: something is about to go down. I look at the suspects and see that both boys have hips are the size of one of my legs. It’s a safe bet to say they’re gay, lost and homeless, or trying to make a statement to their lousy parents, or a world that they believe doesn’t give a rat’s ass about them, or all of the above.

I’m sitting in Sara’s seat tonight and I don’t think she’s too happy about it. I wouldn’t have taken it if I knew she was coming. This cubby comes with an outlet, a good light, all of which constitute prime real estate, though my back is to the room, which is something I like about as much as I enjoy the draft coming through the window. Actually the draft doesn’t bug me as much as the fear of breaking one of Capone’s tenements—never sit with your back to the room. (I learned this while swing dancing at a joint in Chicago that Capone used to frequent. He always sat facing the room, and the wall behind him was proof.)

It is my bet that Sara is living at Starbucks, though I haven’t seen her in a few days. A regular speculated that Sara—not having to pay rent, electric, maintenance, taxes—could have possibly saved up enough money to go to Florida for a few days to celebrate the New Year. Sara and I first met about six months ago, when I had to pee so badly that I was doing the Jane Fonda Workout while waiting for a person to get out of the damn bathroom. When the door opened, she looked up, with glossy eyes, appearing to be a few sheets to the wind. She left behind her a clean bathroom. Everything was neat, she did not have a hair out of place; it was as if she showered in there. Right now, Sara is in the middle of the store, face and glasses looking downward, sweater and coat appearing to hold her head up.

I tried talking to her three weeks ago, leading with the clever, “Hi, what’s your name?”

“What do you mean, what’s my name?” she snapped in her whiney, nasally voice. “What kind of question is that?”

“I just see you here a lot, and I wanted to know your name.”

“Well, you’re not getting it.”

(I forgot Rule #1 of being in a house like this: never ask for any form of ID.)

“What do you do?” I asked.

“I’m a copy editor for ABC,” she said, and she turned away from me, and stared at the ABC building across the street.

I later found out her name after a few rosy students went up to her and asked Sara a question about news or a play or something where she could shed some knowledge on the area. I’m thinking of the same approach, and hope to be pleasantly surprised that she does, in fact, work as a fact checker at ABC, or make up that she was on the firing squad when the hit was sent out for Dan Rather. Then I remember he works for CBS.

I’m also hoping that the hot white guy with the black chick will stop staring at me because it’s either the coffee or it’s him that’s making me hot and jittery. Hot guy is sitting right next to my old friend from the Starbucks down the street, another part-time vagrant, Caroline. She told me she leaves her house at night because it’s disgusting and there’s no heat, and roaches and rats eat through her belongings. Caroline, who is at least 65, tells me that she is a freelance dancer. I ask her how she can afford $1,000 month for her apartment, and she assures me that she’s gotten a lot of dancing work at the opera, plays, etc. I tell her that I once was a basketball player and knew my days on the court were numbered—do you have a plan for an income—anything that can get you a pay stub—as if I have any room to talk—but I’m worried that she’s going to need an income statement or she’s going to freeze to death.

“Yes,” she said. “I have a plan. I’m going to be a writer, just like you.”

She went on for 25 minutes about how she wants her essays to remain untouched. I said it’s not possible—and not smart, for I enjoy working with most editors. I suggest to Caroline that she speaks to Sara. “She says she works at ABC as a copyeditor, but seems to have a lot of free time on her hands.”

They’re all conversing over there in the corner—Caroline is talking to the hot guy, the hot guy to the cute girl and they’re all yucking it up, everyone believing everyone else’s fish story. Next to them is Dan, a friendly brother with dreads who says he’s banging out his first screenplay within a month, before he has to find work again. God love Dan, for he seems to be telling the truth and keeping me updated.

Hot white guy just stood up and dang it, it looks like he weighs about 132 lbs. Two high school boys have not robbed the joint, yet. Russian girl is gone. Three guys are still sleeping. And there is now a large woman, who has parked her cart outside, right next to me on the other side of the window. She is sitting directly across from me, staring dead at me, teeth clenched. I look away to avoid the awkward moment only to see the hot guy fixated one me as his girlfriend sleeps on his shoulder. He wants me and I think would have me on the bar if Abraham Lincoln’s cousin and a security officer weren’t crowding it. I blush and turn from him to see Sara walking around pretending to be talking to one of her writers on her cell phone, and think, hell, I need an editor—but can I trust her, can I trust anyone in the house? I start to think this is what the cold, the crack, the coffee does to you—it makes you hard, numb, delirious, suspicious, doubtful, paranoid. And as if on cue, the delivery guys enter, wheeling their carts behind the bar, stocking the shelves with the good stuff that keeps me coming back for more.

Bites and Elbows

2007-12-11T21:32:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, I walk into a gym teeming with 7-to-9 year old boys, who are jumping out of their shoes with excitement. They're warming up for an evaluation session, where they will be divided up and put on teams for a league. I'm told to go cover a basket and am the only female on the floor. I pick a hoop and feel the pressure to say something to a bunch of rugrats, but I'm not fired up to bust up their little party, filled with running, crashing and tackling, and throwing the ball with no respect for any rules of the game or a civilized society.

Two little guys who look alike are beating up on a lefty in a Ray Allen jersey. Three other boys are buzzing around them and the hoop, and it's a train wreck waiting to happen. I say, "Guys, why don't brothers stop beating up on Ray Allen and you start a game of 3-on-3." Three buzzing boys look at me and run away from our hoop. I ask them to come back, they run faster. Smiling Brother #1 looks up and says, "They don't want to play with a girl."

I let it go, look around at the masses, and say, "All you need is one!"

Smiling Brother #1 yells, "You're on!"

I guard Ray Allen, and totally shut him down.

I record another hoops sound bite for the books the next day when I'm coaching my 6th grade boys' traveling team. We do okay in the first half, despite not having any players that understand why great athletes play to win and sometimes get emotional about it. We basically have a bunch of nice boys from the upper east and west sides of Manhattan, and their collective indifference is going to force me to take drastic measures soon. I'm just not sure I have the pipes or the energy to blow my top like the coach from the other team does during a timeout. The coach yells at his guys so loudly that my boys come to the huddle shaking.

And it works. We lose by 15. At the end of the game, we shake hands. I am a good sport on the surface, and a coach says to me, "Well, at least you're the prettiest coach in the league."

"Thank you," I say. "But too bad that counts for absolutely nothing."

Next game I'm going to have one of the boys ask the official if it's okay if our pretty coach subs herself in. The boys will do it. They do everything I say except show any dramatic, even desperate signs of needing to win like a starving dog needs food.

That night I go to the gym and play pickup, which is always a risky endeavor. I've played occasionally in the past six months and after the last few runs, I've seen myself in the mirror and stop in shock. I am so red it's alarming. I think it's a combination of being out of shape and embarrassed by my play. I've started the habit of having a meeting with myself before we start, and in this meeting I remind myself that I do not have to get every loose ball, every rebound, and make every shot. I play, I hustle, I pick my moments, with the hope of keeping safety in mind. By the end of the second game, a guy on the other team says to me, in front of everyone, "She's the bruiser out here." He starts pointing to areas of his arms and body where I've tagged him with my blade-like elbows. I say I'm sorry, I never mean it, but I've just got these really sharp 'bows and I just use them subconsciously. It's Darwinian.

A guy on my team, Dave, who I enjoy playing with quite a bit, says, "That's right. She's our Charles Oakley."

Everyone starts laughing and I'm embarrassed. I try to tell them that I didn't get good feet, but I do have the gift of the 'bows. One time during the off-season at Northwestern, while playing against my teammates, I drove down the middle and took it hard to the hoop against M. All you need to know about M is that she was so into her looks that she had photos of herself around her apartment and by her bedside. I take it to the hoop and catch her, barely, above the lip and she screams. I stop, thinking, I didn't get her that bad, did I? She takes her hand away, and our point guard and captain looks at M, her jaw drops and she says: Oh. My. God.

M is hysterical. I'm embarrassed to admit that I started crying, but I did. I swear to you, hitting this girl in the face, and sending her to the hospital to get stitches under her nose was as bad as ending some players careers.

Now that I think about it, if I want to spare myself comparisons to Charles Oakley, while there's no one I love more than a blue-collar rebounder, I am now considering elbow pads.

I try to take a photo of my 'bows to show the blades that are attached to them. But it's tough to take a photo of your own elbow, especially when you're so white you're almost see-through and you're in a white room.

I point one of my two weapons to this shameless promo and click the button.
And lastly, getting back to the topic of kids, check out this shot of Sophie.

This is one fine, harmless elbow.

Garnett's High School Sidekick: Ronnie Fields

2007-12-11T21:09:00.000-08:00

I stumbled on these YouTube videos that were a blast from the past. I wrote a story on the stars of Farragut High School on Chicago's West Side during my senior year at Northwestern. One kids was daKid -- the now internationally known KG -- and the other was an unbelievable leaper named Ronnie Fields. Ronnie, only 6'2" had the body of a grown man. When he jumped, much to my surprise, I stood up as if I was going up with him, and so did everyone around me. A guy I was dating at the time went to some of Ronnie and Kevin's games with me, and he said that the only person he saw jump with such a burst of force, power and grace was Jordan.

I spoke with the writers who came into town and knew I had the in with Farragut and the boys after spending so much time watching the team. I told my friend Jack McCallum that there was this one move that KG made during a DePaul game--this turn around jumper that was just a piece of art in motion, and I knew right then he had the skill, and after speaking to him many times, I knew he was smart enough to protect himself and not trust anyone. Garnett, even at 17, was one of the best interviews I've ever been part of. Ronnie, on the other hand, trusted too many people and always had a big goofy smile on his face. He was so friendly and kind to me that he came to Northwestern's campus that spring and he played on my team in a 3-on-3 tournament. The last play in the championship game: Ronnie threw the ball off the backboard, to himself and dunked on two college football players.

I saw Ronnie at a bunch of events over the years and he always came up to me and gave me a kiss. I was rooting for him, but unfortunately Ronnie trusted too many people and made some poor decisions. He also never seemed to put in the time, and let his weak jumpshot remain the same for too long. It may have been a case of things being too easy for him too early in his life. As I was watching the videos of him on YouTube, one commentator summed up Ronnie's career when he said, "Ronnie just looks bored out there."

Until he found an open lane ... check this out. I remember where I was sitting when I saw the first dunks in this clip, the one when he's in the yellow jersey and he almost takes off from the foul line. Our entire section rose to our feet.

My Grandmother Had 10 Children

2007-12-11T20:18:00.000-08:00

It's funny that after writing my blog on sex education, I log in and see one well-written, eloquent comment, and the author? My cousin, the mysterious Catherine, who occasionally drops by the blog or myspace and puts on a writing clinic, and then tells me she has no confidence in writing.

The funny part to me that I've been walking around the streets of New York City and thinking about our grandmother and the health and power of her plumbing, and wondering if she had a sex ed teacher who told her that the rhythm method was effective. The back story: Grandma Anita Rose Holohan, a brilliant woman and pianist, was offered a full scholarship to college, but her dad said a woman's place was at home and he did not let her go. She married our grandfather and had not three or four or seven children. She had TEN. Yes, she was pregnant for approximately seven years, which leads me to believe grandma and grandpa used absolutely no method of contraception, unless you count getting pregnant as a way not to get pregnant.

I needed a piece of art for this blog, so I googled "sex" and found a photo of Grandma back in her day, practicing their form of contraception:

Whatever a parent says to a child, it's just important to be honest, to put all the options on the table, to say sex is a powerful act and here's the positive and here's the negative of what it can do to you and to others. And I'd even tell the kids that I am not running around and telling Bush that he nor anyone else need to preach to me about spirituality and sex as a special moment between two people. I act responsibly, and if there's any doubt that I'm doing something that makes me uncomfortable, I do not proceed, and would tell my child or anyone else's to do the same. So if anyone can't get through to their child, call me and I will level with them free of charge. I once had to do this after house sitting for a week, and busting a girl for drinking and sneaking a boy into her room. Mom and Dad needed to get their heads out of the clouds and so did the girl.

Regardless of whether or not one waits until marriage, the problem I have is spending a billion dollars in ten years in attempt to persuade kids to wait, which is pretty much saying you've got to get married to partake in what can be a rewarding, fun and positive experience between two responsible and respectful individuals.

All this writing about sex is making me horny.

Why My Sister Thought She Was Pregnant

2007-12-02T21:04:00.000-08:00

Here will be the beginning of the end of a conversation I will have with the next guy who wants to sleep with me and I'm looking for a good excuse:

"I really do want to have sex with you, but I can't, it's Bush."

He will wince and say pardon me? I'll say, no, no, no it's PRESIDENT BUSH.

"The man who believes he's the Great God of the Western World says I should abstain. Actually he would like you to abstain, and cross your legs in solidarity along with every single man and woman, boy and girl, here and everywhere on this earth even in places where young girls are forced to have sex, and young boys and men feel it is their right, their duty to do the deed, an act that, honestly, might just be a natural one that might relieve them of stressful and violent tendencies."

And I will look up and this guy will be gone.

Last year a friend of a friend made a case over dinner that world violence would be reduced significantly if teenage boys across the world were allowed--even encouraged--to have safe sex, particularly in oppressed and depressed Third World Countries where boys, out of sheer boredom and lack of identity package all there angst and aggression and direct it at the U.S. (I'll save this topic and research for a separate blog.) As I tried to figure out the logistics of marketing this concept, and somehow selling it to the Department of Defense, he suggested that teenage boys be paired up with 30-something single women. My burst of laughter almost made me cough up my wine and I had to call a timeout.

I admit I'm going nowhere with this blog, but so is President Bush. Let me do as he does and continue. I'm going to write to the U.S. Sex Department and propose a two-part experiment. The first part will require that every single American girl and women to be given a government sponsored chastity belt with a big B for Bush. At first I went with the arbitrary and lucky number seven -- as in doing this for seven days -- until I envisioned major bloodshed, heads rolling, not any work getting done, and realized all we would need here is seven nighttime hours for the federal government to order a recall of those faulty, hazardous Bush belts.

The second experiment would require boys and men to put on the Bush belt. Take a look at this cute visual and envision a big bling of a B right over the lock, hanging on there like a hood ornament.

And if boys and men worldwide had to wear this thing for seven hours, seven days, even seven minutes, there most certainly would be bloodshed, a march on Washington, heck, Bush might be impeached not because men couldn't control themselves, but because all this talk about what doesn't work is so ridiculous, so embarrassing on so many levels. Let's start with the fact that the President of the United States is trying to look comfortable talking openly about sex. I watch him and think this is worse than having to listen to my mother, a nurse, tell me about it; and more awkward than when she used to send me and my college roommates a care package of cookies, banana bread and condoms. President Bush might want to consider leaving the delivery of this topic up to the health professionals. And if he feels pressed to step up to the podium, and make us all wonder, was Ms. Bush the first and only, he might want to remember he's got the wind behind him and the finish is in sight, the game over, the victory of him surviving two terms near complete. And while things are a total mess in Iraq, and there's no end or answer in sight, let's try and stick to what we can do as reasonably thinking human beings, who might want to stop dumping hundreds of millions of dollars on something that studies show does not work.

Check out this information in "Get the Facts on President Bush's Pet Project" by Rebecca Regan-Sachs, Georgetown University" in Campus Progress (http://www.campusprogress.org) under the headline: Bad Science, Silly Gender Stereotypes, Dangerous Misinformation : Why Federally Funded Abstinence-Only Education Isn't Working.

This "Abstinence only" endorsement, which now has a $200 million price tag, is still going on in Washington, despite no proof that it works. Jessica Arons, Legal Policy Associate for the Women’s Health Program at the Center for American Progress, says it is inaccuracies such as these that trouble her, not the inclusion of abstinence in a sex-ed curriculum. “I would like to see sex education be based on medically accurate information instead of distortions and fear,” she said. “Teaching the benefits of postponing sex is very important and should certainly be part of any sex education class…[but] sex education needs to be medically accurate and it needs to help all the students—even those who decide to have sex.”

After going on a about the numbers, percentages and risk associated with condoms, birth control, etc. the article goes on to state:

Even teens who openly take “virginity pledges” to remain abstinent until marriage don’t always follow through. A CDC study showed that while many pledgers postponed having sex, 88 percent of them lost their virginity before marriage. More troubling still, the students who break this pledge are less likely to use contraceptives. In comparison, students in comprehensive sexual heath classes do not engage in sexual activity more often or sooner but do practice safer sex more consistently.

My sister told me that when she was a kid, maybe around nine or ten, she was told, by me, the commanding and all-powerful older sister, and my small group of silly friends, that if a boy touched any part of her abdomen -- just touched it with his hand -- she would become pregnant. In gym class one day, amid an intense game of dodgeball, a boy who wanted a ball stripped my sister of the ball, and in doing so, ended up poking her in the lower abdomen.

She freaked out, keeping her secret to herself, asking "How I going to tell Mom and Dad?" For weeks, she watched her stomach, and after about a month, not seeing any growth, she just forgot about it.

Maybe Bush should enlist the help of older brothers and sisters, knowing that kids are far more likely to listen to them than a man in a suit. If they used this same line, sure, it would be an untruth, but it seems to stand a much better shot of being effective than telling kids to abstain, particularly when most reasonably-thinking individuals know that kids tend to do the opposite of everything adults say.

I think I'm going to write the Sex Department, telling them that I'm going to vote for the candidate--male or female--who I think has the guts, savvy and compassion to talk about the power of sex, the option of abstinence, and then take out a dildo and show an auditorium full of kids how to put on a condom properly.

I tell this story from my experience as a teacher. In my first year as an English teacher, fearing for my job and not confident in how to raise the subject appropriately, I avoided all conversations about sex -- I even skipped over passages in literature that were of a sexual nature or said such minimal, rushed comments that I know it left the kids baffled, particularly after we read of the alleged rape of a white woman by a black man in To Kill A Mockingbird. In my second year, I took a deep breath, and promised myself to just talk to them and treat them as responsible young adults. (It certainly helped to know that I had already decided to not return to teaching the following year.)

In the Spring, feeling as though I had nothing to lose, we read a story in a women's publication, a story so gripping and moving that I must retype it or find a link to it one of these days. It was about women and children who were cast aside in India because they had AIDS.

As I'm sure you know, women, left with no other option of making a living, often work as prostitutes in order to eat and provide shelter for themselves and for their children. Married truckers on the road are their regular customers. But the story wasn't about a prostitute. It was about a married woman who, like too many, was faithful to her cheating husband. She was a virgin before she got married. In fear of crossing him, she never asked her husband to wear a condom when he came home. She contracted AIDS and passed it along to her child. The writer told the story of women and children spurned by families and friends, and sent out of the villages, cast aside, unable to access any pay for the medicine. They are sent away to die.

By the end of the story, we had also followed the life of a boy who was living alone in one of the few AIDS shelters for women in children afflicted with AIDS. This boy was four years old, so sick that by the end of the story, he was down to less than 20 pounds. When the last few paragraphs about the boy, my voice cracked and I had to pause. There was a collective gasp at the end of the article, an even longer pause, a look of anger and shock and sadness in all of their eyes.

Some of the boys became infuriated with the men. A few boys didn't care; they laughed at the girls who got all worked up and glared around the room, and then begged aloud for the women to have not let the men treat them with such inhumanity. Two girls were so upset and disturbed that they came up to me after class and just looked at me. Nothing came out of their mouths. One of my favorite students approached me after they left; he was so shaken that I thought he was going to cry. In a few broken sentences, he told me that he was going to wait until he was married. And I said, "Good for you." Then I added, "If you ever change your mind--not that I would want or encourage you to change your mind--please make a wise decision."

We discussed the story more the next day, and surprisingly--maybe it was because I was teaching in liberal Manhattan--I wasn't fired or even given any heat. I reiterated to the kids that I regretted not talking as openly with the previous year's class about the risk, rewards and power of sex, and how I simply wanted them to protect themselves and others.

Everyone lives in such fear about writing about this taboo that I hesitated to write about it here in my own blog. Why? I coach kids--I'm coaching mostly boys right now. I'm now wondering if a parent reads this, will they think that I will discuss it, huddle up the boys and underline the message with a "One, two, three ... CONDOMS!"

Totally inappropriate for a basketball coach, but certainly not for a president who could take that $200 million in abstinence-spending and buy trillions of the one thing that we know works.

(A day after posting this blog, there was a leading story on teenage pregnancy increasing, and a source said that $1 billion has been spent on abstinence-only programs in the last decade. And seriously, how can it cost a BILLION dollars to pay people to tell kids not to have sex? The link: http://www.cnn.com/2007/HEALTH/12/05/teen.births.ap/index.html)

Stop Giving Dogs Their Day

2007-11-11T22:32:00.000-08:00

I spend almost three days walking around aimlessly trying to come up with serious blog material for this week, despite the temptation to start recording some of my sister's hilarious stories about growing up as the youngest in our family, material that will be presented in upcoming weeks either here or in the MoMoirs.

Feeling some added pressure due to the fact that I'm up to a weekly average of 9.7 readers and setting myself up for a nice bonus, I become stuck, fixated, furious with Duane “Dog the Bounty Hunter” Chapman, who, as you may or may not know, was nabbed by his estranged and embittered son last week. The crime? A taped private telephone conversation reveals that Dog pulled an Imus in his I’m-not-a-racist-but-we-call-some-black-folk------ tirade in regard to his son's African-American girlfriend. Dog, his mullet and leathery skin under the lights of prime time, chokes his chain as tight as he could, but no tears surface when he asks--make that begs--Larry “The Rabbi” King for forgiveness.

Then, I’m fairly sure I hear Dog say, “I’m getting flogged.”

Yes, he uses the word FLOGGED. What's worse is that Larry responds not by saying, “Get over yourself, Dog” or “Where, former prison inmate, are the marks, wounds, black and blues from such lashings?”

Larry King responds by saying, “Is this worldwide?”

I laugh and moan, “Oh, come on, Larry!” ala the charming and arrogant Jerry Seinfeld. Then I have to replay the entire painful interview so I can hear Dog reply with: “Yes, sir.”

Within hours, Dog continues to flog all right; flog as in its second, lesser known-definition: to sell, especially aggressively or vigorously, to promote & publicize. Later in the day, the AP reports that Dog has made arrangements to be buried at a historic slave burial ground near George Washington's Mount Vernon home.

I stay up til 2 a.m. attempting to concoct a story about how irritating it is for the media to jump like scavengers on an entrapment story, sold to and broken by the National Enquirer. Has journalism gotten so pathetic that we’ve officially put up the white flag on this one, too, as yet another sign that we are admitting, with alarming frequency, that if we can’t beat ‘em, we must join ‘em? And even more troublesome is what message this sends to the public who, unlike those of us who went to J-School, don't care or are just growing more accustomed to divisive, non-newsworthy stories that promote a culture of fear and disillusionment in America. This story reveals a white man reeling with a defense that he finally has realized that he is not cool enough to use the N word, even during a private conversation, which gives African Americans even more fodder to say, “It just shows racism is still out there.”

Here's what I'm not afraid to admit: I have an uncle or two who will spew out the occasional, totally inappropriate racist remark during the holidays, the type of comment that sickens me to the point where if I don’t say something directly, I pelt that relative with darts shot directly from my eyes.

One uncle, after hearing about a friend who might be dating a black guy, said, “Why does she have to lower herself to that level?” By the time I could even catch my breath to respond, my sister was mid-attack, and he shut up quickly. My parents never uttered the N word. My brothers—both in law enforcement—have never said the N word, at least in my presence, and if they did, my sister and I would make a citizen’s arrest. Furthermore, my friends – not even while intoxicated – have never spewed such filth.

Is race a problem in the United States? Agreed, indisputably, as long as you accept the oldest adage in the book: It’s not white verses black because it’s always about green.

This Dog Catcher story broke in the same week that Imus, recovering from a nice severance package and extended vacation, returned to the air. The story broke about a month after a jury ruled in favor of Anucha Browne Sanders’ testimony against a billionaire and celebrity coach at Madison Square Garden, which included Isiah Thomas repeatedly, for months, calling her a bitch, f----- ho and motherf-----.

So there I am irritated that all the men in these cases are gainfully employed millionaires, who are not only attacking African Americans—they’re attacking African-American women, and I’m growing wary of who’s really sticking up for whom. Oprah didn’t call Browne Sanders. Maybe it's because she's tied up in Africa, in that unfortunate mess involving young African girls. I consider calling Jesse and Al, and tell them that I’m on board for that March on Madison Square Garden, but then I remember there’s no such thing. I'm thinking they're not there because if they did protest, they might have to give up courtside seats, probably given to them for free. Or they're busy, working for days on end bogged down by thoughts of an Internet course in American history called Race Relations 101: Respect the Double Standard. They might want to schedule Dog as the guest speaker who repeats his statement: “I thought I was cool enough to use the N word, but I’m not.”

I tell myself that I will stop my habit of rolling out of bed and checking CNN headlines every morning. I hold my own writer's strike and start walking in circles in my bedroom. I start chants refusing the glorify bigots, I get dizzy, I need air. And food and coffee. I go out on a wet, cold fall day, and stop to get my regular grande at Starbucks. As I pay for my coffee, unable to believe that no one else is in line, I look over my shoulder. For some reason, I break from my tunnel vision for just long enough to notice the sad and stressed eyes of a woman walking up behind me. I notice that she’s carrying more weight than the average cold, miserable, stressed New Yorker. No small feat.

I’m on my way out, but something won’t let me go.

Behind the woman in Starbucks stands a tall African-American woman bundled up in a hood and jacket. As I get a closer look, I see that it is Good Morning America’s Robin Roberts. I have read about Robin’s recent breast cancer diagnosis, and how she had surgery and is doing well as she undergoes chemotherapy and radiation.

On my list of things to do this fall is: “Write Robin Roberts.”

It is cold, wet and windy. Robin is tired. It’s safe to say that all she wants is some fresh air and a cup of Joe, and I don’t blame her. In two seconds I have to decide if I am going to stop and wish her well or walk by, saying nothing at all.

My mother never would have walked by Robin, or any friend or family member who’s carrying the weight of seeing her through what has to be the toughest challenge she has faced in her entire life.

So I stopped and with great humility, I say, “Hi, Robin.” I quickly re-introduce myself and add that a few years back when I was peddling my girls’ sports books, she called me and wanted to do a segment. The segment never panned out, but I say that her efforts meant a lot to me, and I appreciate all she's done for women and girls in sports. Ever so gracious, she smiles, and unable to filter my thoughts, I say, “How are you?”

“I’m doing … okay.”

Living in the chaos of New York, as a public figure, out on a cold, wet day, trying to deal with a fan who knows you’re sick and nauseous and tired from treatments, and Robin Roberts finds it in her to end her honest answer with a smile.

On the walk home, the air no longer feels as cold, nor do I find the rain and wind as annoying. For hours I cannot stop thinking of Robin Roberts. During this time, I smile as I think of my neighbor--a white man--who was her biggest fan: Great Uncle Harry, Our Favorite Uncle.

Great Uncle Harry Flanigan is not my uncle. As for the adjective and tag reserved for royalty, Great Uncle Harry Our Favorite Uncle, though no older than my parents, perceives himself to be a wise old man. For years, as I shot hoops in his driveway, he’d come out to his car, clap for the ball, take a shot from downtown, airball, make up a funny cheer or noise or hurrah that he would somehow turn into a pearl of wisdom that often made little sense until he decoded it for you.

One day a long time ago, when I was either in my senior year in high school or during one break during college, while watching a sporting event on TV in our living room, Great Uncle Harry pointed to the television and said, “What do you think of Robin Roberts?”

I said, “Who?”

He took off his glasses and said, “You don’t know who Robin Roberts is?”

He pointed to the television, and feeling embarrassed and ignorant, I said, “Oh, yeah.”

“You have no idea how much she’s doing for you girls,” he said.

I saw Robin Roberts interview President Clinton after the U.S. women’s soccer team won the 1999 World Cup. I’ve watched her for years sit in the booth and as a former college basketball player from Southeastern Louisiana University, she held her own and always seemed to be having a good time. Never up as early as Robin—for I’m usually going to bed about the time she gets up—I read about her moving accounts of her return to see her high school destroyed by Hurricane Katrina for Good Morning America. Then I read a moving sentence about how Diane Sawyer, showed up in her driveway to attend her father’s funeral.

Robin Roberts is going to fight, hang tough, get well, and smile. She will always outshine those few miserable and ignorant souls who spend their entire lives sleeping though one wake-up call after another, while the rest of us can rely on a hard-working, honest and gracious professional to get America out of bed and on its feet in the morning.

I am now a Yao Ming Fan

2007-11-04T20:12:00.001-08:00

After seeing this photo ...

Apartment Gives Clayton Two Thumbs Up

2007-10-29T09:01:00.001-07:00

George Clooney has done it again. He picks a tight, compelling story of an unsung American hero. He surrounds himself with the best actors in the business -- Tom Wilkinson, Tilda Swinton, Alan Arkin -- and brings us Erin Brokovich's long lost cousin, Michael Clayton.

The beauty of Clayton is that it was a story didn't play or belabor the grief, suffering and gross injustice of the innocent and poor victims. It focuses on the lawyers--Clayton as the firm's bag man--and how they struggle with ethical issues that arise when a top firm defends the corporate powerhouse U/North, the defendant in a billion-dollar class-action suit. U/North is so massive and profitable that a $600 million settlement could easily be turned into a favorable tax write-off, and a chilling disregard for people who continue to live and work amid their poisonous pesticides.

One victim, the innocent Anna, represents the weak and powerless, as she pulls on the heartstrings of Arthur Eden, a brilliant lawyer with a soul. Played by Tom Wilkinson, Arthur is the the biggest, craziest and most entertaining hero in the story. Tilda Swinton also did some show stealing in her role of devilish corporate lawyer Karen Crowder, appearing so traumatized by guilt that I wonder if the mime-like and bug-eyed Swinton physically vomited on set.

Despite the hype, given that he didn't appear to contort himself into a dramatically different character than the heroic, amiable guy he appears to be in real life, I doubt Clooney will win an Oscar. If he does, then he should let Oscar take turns sitting on the desks of Wilkinson and Swinton, as well as first-time director Tony Gilroy.

The only issue I had with the film is the believability of such a ruthless and heinous U North existing in the United States. I'm sure there are many present-day cases that cross international territories and take place in Third World Countries, though they never seem to hit the radar. Then, after not much research, though it's dated a bit, I found one case that took place a neighborhood called Love Canal, in my own state during the Carter Administration. It seems as if it took only 17 years for Occidental Petroleum Corporation to cut the check.

August 7, 1978 - President Jimmy Carter declared a federal emergency at Love Canal (a neighborhood in Niagara Falls, New York); those living closest to the site were relocated;
December 20, 1979 - Environmental Protection Agency announced today that the Department of Justice (on behalf of EPA) filed four suits against Hooker Chemical Co., and its parent corporation, Occidental Petroleum Corporation; requested the company clean up four chemical waste dumpsites in Niagara Falls, New York, which pose substantial danger to residents of the area; suits seek a total of $117,580,000 in clean-up costs from Hooker as well as reimbursement for more than $7 million spent by Federal agencies in emergency measures at Hooker's Love Canal waste disposal site, and unspecified civil penalties; sites involved, each the subject of separate actions, are Love Canal, Hyde Park, 102nd Street and the "S" Area landfill; suits specify that Hooker disposed of 199,900 tons of chemical waste at the four sites between 1942 and 1975 and Olin Corporation disposed of 66,000 tons of chemical waste at the 102nd Street landfill; EPA scientists found 82 toxic chemicals in air, water, and soil samples near the dumps; numerous toxic chemicals (dozen of which are carcinogenic) discarded at Love Canal over the past 30 years triggered several health problems, including miscarriages, among the area's residents, have transformed whole sections of this once pleasant community into a ghost town; June 22, 1994 - Occidental Petroleum agreed to pay $98 million to cover New York State's cleanup costs; December 22, 1995 - Occidental Petroleum agreed to pay $129 million to cover the federal government's cleanup costs at Love Canal.

Abortion Study Results Speak Volumes

2007-10-28T21:48:00.000-07:00

Dedicated to the unnamed individual who is Anti-Abortion because she believes:

1) girls use it as birth control and
2) human life begins at conception.

She may be right on point #2.
Or she may be wrong.
Or she may be 51.24 percent right.

We will find the answer if we get a little cooperation from the hundreds of religious icons, who must rise from the dead and meet in an undisclosed location with a handful of leading scientists and atheists, and come up with a unanimous vote, to be sent up in a cloud of smoke that will end global warming.

In the meantime, let's look at some recent numbers that were buried deep in the news a few weeks ago, when headlines raged about a Portland, Maine elementary school giving out birth control pills to girls as young as 11 years old.

Here's what was lost:

From the New York Times, October 11, 2007
(Note the city. I love it when Rome takes on the Vatican.)

LEGAL OR NOT, ABORTION RATES COMPARE
(this ambiguous headline fortunately ran
with the following subtitle:)
Global Study Concludes Outlawing Procedure Doesn't Prevent It

ROME, Oct. 11--A comprehensive global study of abortion has concluded that abortion rates are similar in countries where it is legal and those where it is not, suggesting that outlawing the procedure does little to deter women seeking it.

The Times article then later goes on to state...

"Generally, where abortion is legal it will be provided in a safe manner," Dr. Van Look said. "And the opposite is also true: where it is illegal, it is likely to be unsafe, performed under unsafe conditions by poorly trained providers."

Who knew? And check out this revelation:

"The data also suggested that the best way to reduce abortion rates was not to make abortion illegal, but to make contraception more widely available, said Sharon Camp, chief executive of the Guttmacher Institute.

And where do our leading, international policy-making officials stand here? What does the Bush administration, in typical form, continue to do?

Refuse to pull out.

The Bush Administration has promoted "a multibillion-dollar campaign against H.I.V./AIDS in Africa, directing money to programs that promote abstinence and to condoms only as a last resort." (Interesting. I'll have to check into the definition of "last resort" and follow up.)

The article revealed that of the 20 million abortions performed each year, 67,000 women die as a result of complications from abortions. If we're going to spend billions, how about we do something practical--save lives, perhaps--by encouraging other countries to follow South Africa's lead. In 1996, South Africa made abortion legal, leading to "a 90 percent decrease in mortality among women who had abortions, some studies have found."

Here's what else we do know:

In the case of abortion, a girl or woman who is breathing air, is indeed, without any doubt, a human being. That being the undeniable case, in the name of being one of the ten consistent, non-hypocritical Americans left in this world--I'm certainly not one of them--please, uphold her option to protect her right to life, regardless of the circumstances, whether she lives in the slums of India or attends a public middle school in Maine. And hope, pray, wish -- whatever works for you -- whereever she is, whatever the case, let her parents or adults be in her corner.

As for the middle schoolers in Maine, it's important to point out what FOX news did not:

Only four percent of students who went to the nurses office last year reported sexual activity.

Nonetheless, for a minute, like most, I was slightly disturbed at the ages of the girls, and boys, who seem to have been lost in the background while the intense media attention uses language that pertains to "girls" and "birth control pills" and "pregnancies." Then I recalled my middle school class, and guessed that the number of sexually active kids in seventh and eighth grade -- middle school is typically 6th through 8th -- and I estimated that of the 50 kids in my class, four percent might have been a slightly lower than the activity of what I now deem to have been a horny group of girls AND boys, ready and eager to experiment and tell, a habit of most pre-teens and teens seeking to achieve status and acceptance. In my class, at least two girls, maybe as high as five, according to rumor, had abortions.

Second, I closed this unsettling issue thanks to the advice my distant cousin, a pediatrician, told me a few years ago. I had left her a large space to fill out words of wisdom she would pass along to girls, as one of many role models I was covering for a website.

Most of the women made long-winded statements that covered not giving up, staying in school, believing in oneself.

Never having heard my sweet and fun cousin curse, talk about sex or even use language of a sexual nature, my jaw dropped when I read her two words of advice for girls in an email:

USE CONDOMS.

Roland Martin on Marriage & Divorce

2007-10-28T17:03:00.000-07:00

Whenever I see Roland Martin on CNN on a TV screen while I'm working out, I turn off whatever I'm listening to so I can hear what he has to say. Whether I agree with him or not, I know that this is the face and voice of an intelligent, passionate and rational American. Before you judge him as pushing the African-American agenda, read "Barak O'Bama's Black Wake Up Call," and see he's loyal to what he believes is reality in America, which includes how and why Hillary Clinton is winning the black vote.

The top story in his blog this week is his article on "Saving Marriages" and how he believes doing so should be a national policy, insight from a man who is now with his second wife. In a perfect world, part of the new marriage policy would require a series of tests and paperwork, prepared by a board of Dr. Phils, Suze Ormans, and males and females like Johnny Carson (how many marriages?), and it would be available online. After submitting two weeks worth of paperwork and references, experienced professionals would review each case as they do when making a car purchase, filling out an application for a mortgage, a line of credit, financial aid for college and arguably the most frustrating, infuriating and laborious of all legal headaches: filing for a divorce.

Mr. Martin, a far more practical thinker, says this:

"I strongly believe that for too many of us, we’ve accepted the notion that marriage will be perfect; that we won’t endure trials and tribulations. But that isn’t true. In fact, where is that ever true than in someone’s fantasy life? What’s amazing to me is that when faced with difficulty on the job, so many of us will buckle down and work harder to prove ourselves worthy to keep that job. But at home, we’d rather leave, even if that means putting our kids through a divorce."

The Perfect Mate

2007-10-22T09:35:00.000-07:00

From the archives---Tuesday, May 29, 2007

(Shortest blog in the history of TMB as of May 29. 2007.)

I was out on a date with a European guy, a personal trainer, former pentathlete, who will go by the name Vincent. (I'm changing his American name and 2) I can't pronounce or spell his Eastern European name.)

Somehow I was saying something along the lines of procreating with a track star, who possibly, in my mind, would be darker skinned, hope being invested in my belief that he would add to the missing gene in our family: footspeed. I did not know how well my long-time belief, endorsed, dismissed and ignored by both blacks and whites alike, would be taken by an odd dude who once made this wacky comment about Hitler and Mel Gibson that didn't make sense, but took on a tone that made my inner Mo say, "Leave now. Say goodbye and run like a tortoise."

"You should definitely conceive with darker-skinned man," he said.

As I sat there, a bit shocked by his support, he then pointed to his skin and added, "I know I'm not dark like African dark, and you probably don't want me, but I think you should still go for darker skin and it's got nothing to do with the footspeed of your children."

"Why then?"

"Ozone layer."

Tropical Dancing

2007-10-22T09:33:00.000-07:00

(From the archives--Tuesday, May 22, 2007)

Tropical Dancing...

As I parked my compact neon blue rented Nissan in front of a public middle school in Los Angeles, my biggest concern was getting the peanut butter off my Ballplayers T-shirt. L.A. was somewhere around my 105th out of the 150 cities I visited in my three years as a self-publisher. My tours included days filled with school programs—assemblies, writing workshops and basketball clinics—designed to encourage kids to play sports, read, write and buy my books. At Public School 000—a district representative has requested anonymity—the librarian had said on the phone that she couldn’t pay for my services because she had already spent her funds for the year, yet she would be delighted to have me, a former college and pro basketball player turned author, visit a small group of students in the library. I had no other schools scheduled, and was certain that if I rejected an inner city librarian and spent the day at the beach, I’d be cursed with writer’s block for life.

When I walked into the main office, the secretary asked if I was here for the ICA event. I guessed that the C and A was for cultural arts, a category I figured into, so I said yes. She pointed down the hall and said, “Hurry.”

The noise of raucous crowd grew louder as I reached the double doors. I stepped inside the auditorium and was shocked to see hundreds of hyper, clamorous middle school students—one of my biggest audiences to date. I looked at my watch. It was 10:45 a.m., which meant that I’d be in front of the toughest, moodiest and most unpredictable age group just before their feeding time.

The principal, a white man with spiked hair and the body of a retired linebacker, rushed up to me and said, “Are you here for the assembly?” Assuming the librarian had made the new arrangements, I said yes. The principal grew anxious, staring at the rowdy crowd, then back at me: a pasty, blue-eyed redhead dressed in a T-shirt, sweatpants and sneakers. He asked if I needed anything. I nodded and said, “A microphone, an overhead projector and three basketballs.” I needed the projector to outline the writing and publishing processes, and to show my book covers; and I used the basketballs for the end of my gig, confident that if my never-give-up theme made them want to launch spitballs, I’d win the crowd over with stupid basketball tricks. The principal shrugged, shook his head and said, “All right.”

Within minutes, he was on stage, trying to charm the crowd. “Today we have a very special guest,” he announced. Whenever I hear what sounds like it’s going to be an inflated introduction, I shut off my hearing and imagine myself at my 100th city, Orlando, where I stared at rows of empty seats and fell asleep at my own book event. “Her name is Okinowi Kimonio. She is from Polynesia.” After about a three-second delay, I stopped digging in my bag for a wet erase marker, and tuned in. “At the age of three, Okinowi’s grandmother taught her how to tropical dance.”

I looked over my shoulder, waiting for this dynamo to burst out from behind the curtain on stage. You know you’re big time when you have a Polynesian tropical dancer opening for you. Then I noticed one teacher, then five, then ten, then an entire section of people staring at me. Wait. There’s no way that they could possibly think that I am a—

“Let’s give a warm welcome to Okinowi Kimonio.”

While the crowd roared for the sake of roaring, the principal turned to me, microphone extended. I put my hand over it and said, “I’m not a tropical dancer.”

“What are you?”

“I’m a former college and pro basketball player who now writes a girls’ sports series.”

The principal’s smug grin spread across his block-shaped head. He turned back to the student body, and just as the applause subsided, he said in an incredulous tone, “This woman’s grandmother taught her how to tropical dance so well that she became a college and professional basketball player.”

And he handed me the microphone. Raised eyebrows stared at me—a healthy Irish woman so adverse to tropical conditions that I often wear a large hat and sunscreen for babies when I’m on the beach. I smiled back at the principal, held the microphone to my mouth, and said, “Due to the late start, we’re going to skip the part about my dancing career and talk basketball and books.”

I gave the kids my spiel about my overseas hoops career, the foot injuries which ended pro basketball for me, and how I channeled my energy into writing. During the Q & A, one boy raised his hand and asked, “Have you ever been to Hawaii?” I stood there baffled, until I heard the principal whisper, “You were a tropical dancer!” I turned back to the student, “Yes, Hawaii was great. Next question.” Another boy asked, “Are you going to dance for us?” I looked over at the principal, whose chest and stomach was convulsing with laughter, and said to the crowd, “How ‘bout some basketball tricks?”

The assembly was a hit, and after it ended, the librarian rushed in and swore off tropical dancers for good. The staff begged me to stay for the second assembly, insisting that I would be paid. At the end of the second show, when I realized the librarian was passing an envelope around the crowd of teachers, I wanted to flee out the back door. In private, I told the librarian to keep the money. She stuffed the envelope into my bag, gave me a hug and sent me on my way.

Later I drove my tiny blue Nissan through Beverly Hills, and for a special treat, I stopped at a bagel shop, and doubled my usual order. Curious as to whether or not authors were pulling in as much as tropical dancers these days, I dug around for the envelope.

After opening it, I counted $37.

The Glory of the Substitue Teacher

2007-10-22T09:32:00.000-07:00

Am I Mo Imus? Sub Teaching in NYC public schools...
(From the archives--Saturday, May 19, 2007)

One of my most recent writing mentors, Marcelle Clements, a brilliant author and journalist who can think, speak and make me laugh as she scans her shelves and puts her finger on books for me to read, gave me advice that I find myself repeating often. It’s my last gut check before I consider folding and leaving the writing table. "It's not a matter of whether or not you have the talent," she said. "It's a matter of how long you can withstand the humiliation."

Today, it was as if the police hooked up the hoses to the fire hydrants and sprayed me with it. One more time.

As a writer living the dream, humiliation comes in two forms: First, the rejection letters and emails that make the dating game seem like a ride on a gondola. Second, disgrace often accompanies any part-time and meaningless job you have to take in order to make ends meet while you spend hours every day honing your craft, half of which you spend wondering how the hell you ever convinced yourself that you could do this, eat and remain sane.

One of the dead-end jobs my sister told me not to take occurred last spring, when I took a waitressing job at an Irish pub. Within three weekends, I got canned.

Check that for a moment (and post a comment if you want the details of the waitressing gig). For now, let me digress. Recently I was hanging out with my friend Hugh, a loyal, bright and entertaining former student-athlete at Northwestern. Hugh and I were talking about a guy who might work on the short of my movie. I told Hugh about an offensive, inappropriate and just plain stupid remark this guy on staff made to me, which was along the lines of “You are crazy to think you can do any of this, sweetie.”

Hugh said, “Mo, ass-can that clown."

Going back to my waitressing job, as my manger advised that maybe it wasn’t the place for me, I had myself believing I quit, ruling out the possibility that I got fired. How the hell would a hard-working Maureen Holohan--a tall Irish girl with freckles and red hair, who was often found smiling in the front room with my set of new teeth, in a pub where you could throw food on the table and no one would care--how would she get fired? I had asked my boss for the proof of my flaws: “Am I not hitting the tables hard enough? Is my timing off? Do I need better wrist action when I pour?" Despite my pathetic plea—a request I made through clenched teeth—I was the one feeling as if I got more than fired.

I got ass-canned.

Since ripping off my apron and vowing to never wear it again, I've taken gigs writing cover letters and marketing brochures, and have held those jobs. I babysit. I give basketball lessons. Yet the hardest job I've ever had in my life begins anywhere from 5:30 a.m. to 9 a.m. After going to bed anywhere around 3 a.m., I hear the vibration of my cell phone against my desk, and I leap toward the light. I groan a hello, and hear my friend, the Sub Finder, an automated phone system.

"Hello," she says in a pleasant computer voice. "This is the Sub Finder for the New York City Department of Public Education. We have a job available. Please enter your access ID."

Bleary eyed, I punch in my six digits, mistype, do it again, and listen to my location for the day. I beg to hear LaGuardia, a heavenly school filled with kind, driven, passionate students who adore the arts and don't treat sub teachers like pinatas. But I know that their secretary always calls directly when she needs a sub, so I sit and wait, and on my scale of 1 to 10, one being the worst, 10 the best, I hope for a school I’ve taught in and ranked around a 4-7. If it falls above a 4, I know I can bring my computer and not worry about kids accidentally throwing it around the room like a football. As an Upper West Sider, I don't mind teaching up in Harlem, and sometimes enjoy it, except that the train ride can sometimes be longer than I'd prefer, especially when Ms. Sub Finder says you have all of 25 minutes to make it in on time. I usually roll out of bed and resist my urge to put on a sports bra, force myself to put on the more professional one with cups, grab a shirt and a pair of pants, and hope they match. I pull back my hair and wrap it in a frizzy pony tail, put my feet in shoes chosen on the basis that, by wearing them, I can move if I need to grab a kid or run from one. These are shoes I need to be in when I work at the closest and most convenient school, the notorious Public High School X.

Prior to my first day of walking through security, I had heard about the tumultuous, and in some instances, violent reputation of Public School X, yet I was not entering unfamiliar territory. In addition to my two years of full-time teaching experience in a private middle school, during my junior year in college, I did a 10-week internship teaching 10th grade English at a Chicago Public High School. I've also played ball or chased down stories in some of the poorest housing projects in the nation. One story I reported from the police station within one of the most dangerous high-rises in Chicago. As I walked down the sidewalk to the entranceway, a gauntlet of sorts—police officers stationed at the unit told me they used to run to and from their cars during gang wars—never in my life have I felt so many hard, suspicious eyes on me. Walking through the metal detectors is par for the current state of inner city education; however, walking through X’s first floor, occupied by of one of the city’s regional security units, a nest of dozen's of officials and police officers, made me feel as though I was going into a prison.

With copies of my resume in hand, I listened to the security officer’s advice and walked from school to school, as Public School X is now broken down into five schools instead of one dangerously enormous one. The first principal I ran into wanted me to stay for a two-hour student presentation as a way “to get to know her students,” and I thought, not unless you pay me. Then she said to me, “You do know that we call sub teachers stunt doubles.” I asked why. “Nobody respects you and it’s dangerous.”

I led her to believe that I would stop back, and willingly sit and listen to get some insight on the intricacies of the inner-city child, who, apparently for some reason, along with an alarming and increasing number of suburban and parochial kids, seem to have a difficult time adhering to what should be a bipartisan educational philosophy: Be prepared, sit down, shut up, and do what your told.

When I reached another school with an inspirational name, and said I was interested in sub teaching, a man in a suit looked at me and said, “What do you teach?” I told him English. “When can you start?” I said now. He glanced at my resume, handed it off to the secretary, told me about an emergency leave situation by a 9th grade English teacher. “Can you fill in for one to three weeks?” I said yes. “Be back tomorrow at 8 a.m.”

For the next two-and-a-half weeks I had the pleasure of teaching 9th grade English. Anywhere from 15-30 kids showed up per class, attendance seemed to range anywhere from 40 percent on a good day, 80 percent if the kids really wanted to put you through hell. My classroom, though filled with posters shouting excellent advice for English class, had an ancient chalkboard, no windows and thin partitions separating me from the social studies teacher next door. The kids came in sloppy—loud, frustrated, out of control, cussing, junk food in hand, clothes hanging off them, bags dragged behind. Some of them cheered at the thought of having a sub. Others made odd computer or animal noises over my voice when I spoke. When I raised my voice, they laughed in my face, and spewed at me: “Who the fuck do you think you are?...Don’t mother fucking talk to me like that…You don’t know who you’re talking to.”

I quickly learned that I had to adjust my game because raising my voice and acting tough and firm was creating a series of avalanches. I finally got the kids to start reading the play I had dug out of my purse when no lesson had been provided. Thirty minutes before my first class, I asked the principal if I could put together lesson for the controversial “Take Me Out,” a story about a baseball player who announces he’s gay, and tie it in to that week’s announcement about John Amachi, a former NBA player, being the first former NBA player to publicly admit his homosexuality. The principal agreed, enthusiastically. It didn’t hurt that he was gay.

The play caused an immediate uproar amongst most of the kids. I was told by another teacher that minority students, especially what he said were the more religious Latinas, have a tougher time with issues of homosexuality, and he advised that I need to carefully monitor what I said and did. Irritated, I told him that aside from there being no biblical proof that Jesus would condemn a homosexual, if English teachers can read stories about murder, rape, theft and greed, then they should certainly be allowed to teach a lesson about sexuality, diversity and tolerance, which might speak directly to at least an estimated 10 percent of the class. He warned me again. After two days, I noted that the play was a problem only for kids who bitched and moaned about hating school, teachers, homework—by students who refuse to read, sit up straight, take out a pen or do anything that remotely resembled learning. I offered a part of the lead to one student, who looked around and said, “I’m not being no gay guy. Fuck that shit.”

I told the same student that he would be a natural in the role of Shane Mungitt, an ignorant bigot who takes his anger out on the mound (and ends up killing a batter).

He scoffed at me, put his head down on his desk, and fell asleep.

Finally having gotten half the kids under control, the door banged open. I told the kids to keep reading as I quietly and calmly approached a girl and her friend, who wandered in with a bag of chips and a soda, 20 minutes late, licking their fingers. As they wandered around the room, smiling and brushing up against a few boys, I said, “Please take a seat.” One glared at me and said, “Why you gotta shit on me?” I replied, “I did not say or do anything that involved shitting, but I did say, politely and calmly, ‘Please take a seat.’”

“Fuck school,” said the tall, freckled boy in the front row. His phrase of the day, and possibly his life, came out of his mouth at least 10 times at the beginning of class. I started ignoring him around the fifth time, refusing to look at his smiling face and ask him to stop again. We made it through the class, although for most of it, the kids were so loud while we were reading a play that I could not hear the cast. At the end of the class, the classroom emptied and I told myself that I might have to compromise at this point in my life, and marry the last guy who proposed to me: Alaji, a 5’2” Arab oil tycoon from Yemen. He said I could call him Al.

Then I turned around, looked at the board and saw the words, “Fuck school.”

I’m going to give Public School X a rating of 2 on a scale of one to ten. Two indicates the twenty-percent of students whose eyes occasionally get pissed at others around them when they’re trying to learn. They stand a shot and might make it in the real world. The rest will someday find out that they will be forced to comply, an unlikely concept given their reckless and fearless behavior habits just a few years shy of days when they’ll be asked to follow orders. Or they will opt to survive by any means necessary.

And as much as people want to say that all kids treat sub teacher’s like dirt and do not work when they’re under their supervision, I heard the social studies teacher in the room next to me. He was a kind, firm, bright white man, who had a model voice—he never screamed or yelled, he remained steady and in loyal to his job—and I still could hear the kids talking over him. Teachers at Public School X are as heroic, in a class only behind doctors and nurses, and fire fighters, police officers and military figures. Whenever other teachers heard my class getting out of control, they ran across the hallway, entered and did what they could to put out some of the fires. Kids often turned and cursed them out, and even mocked the principal as he stood right in front of them. One girl told the police officers who walked in, upon my desperate request, to go fuck themselves. Through it all, the teachers, living on the front-line everyday, knowing the odds are stacked against them, did not relent.

It makes me sick to read articles on teachers being accountable for the success of their students. I would love for politicians to walk into a school disguised as a sub teacher and try and deal with students like Pancake, a 300 lb. white kid with a red mohigan and wire-rimmed glasses. The class roster revealed that his formal name is Robert, but he said he would only answer to Pancake. For 12 out of my 15 days teaching his class, if he came to class, he never once took out a pen or pencil or followed along in an entire lesson plan I made up due to a teacher’s emergency leave. When I spoke to him, trying to get him on board, he told me to leave him the fuck alone; he laughed at me, ignored me, blurted out noises. Between classes, I tried befriending him, strategically hoping to make him an ally by talking about football. He blew smoke about how he was going to leave this shitty school and go play football for a team up in Harlem, where he lives. We bonded and left the afternoon on a positive note, until the next day when Pancake, like most unpredictable and moody teenagers, turned into a tornado of emotional distress and misery.

One of the greatest highlights during my first long teaching gig was when Pancake got into trouble at home, or possibly with a potential football coach, and he had to have a sheet signed by his teacher every day, with notes on his performance. He eagerly approached me at the end of class, and surprisingly, for the first time in weeks, he actually had a pencil. He extended it to me, smiled, kept telling me how great he was in class, and asked me to sign it. I said I would, I did, and then I told him that I needed him to do me a favor during tomorrow’s class. He begged me to tell him. I refused.

Pancake showed up the next day, asking me what’s up, so I put him to work building an inner square of chairs for students who would be reading Much Ado About Nothing. I told Pancake how intelligent I knew he was, and how much I needed a smart, confident student like him to play the role of Benedict, a savvy, smooth bachelor, not wiling to give up his freedom or money to any woman. I told him how important it was for him to be cocky and arrogant when he clashes with Beatrice, a sassy feminist who refuses to be used as property by men. He shrugged, sat down, and jumped right into the part. During one moment during class, it was so quiet and tranquil, and almost everyone was either reading or following along. Then as the language grew more dense, I had the cast pause as I summarized the lines and broke down the story. “What we have going on here is Beatrice fighting the tradition of girls and women being forced into marriages to increase her father’s wealth and power, and build a stronger family legacy. Beatrice knows of the struggles women have with powerlessness and boredom. And what do women do when they’re bored?

“Masturbate,” Pancake said.

I’m not exactly sure if Pancake was sure as to whether this answer was a thought that passed through his mind or a statement that came out of his mouth in a low voice that only the inner square of characters, and myself, heard. Thrilled that one of my most difficult students finally listened to me and participated in a class discussion, I said enthusiastically, “Thank you, Pancake.”

Unfortunately things weren’t so funny when I went in to teach last Thursday. The good news is that when most of X’s 9th graders see me and hear me say hello, they respond with brief eye contact, a glare, a smile, a “Hey, you’re back” or a “Hi, Ms. H.” I do my best to foster a positive interaction with the kids, which requires a calm demeanor and a call for entertainment on occasion. One time I did basketball tricks in front of the entire class. This won their respect for all of seven minutes. Another time I told them stories about my dog in Israel, named Itchy. I told the boys about how I beat Kevin Garnett in a game of HORSE.

Some of the 10th graders had heard about the basketball-playing crazy white lady teacher, and went a little easier on me. Then I had two classes of 9th graders who knew me, and relatively speaking, we all got along. Maybe six out of 15-18 kids per class did the work. I did a decent job of protecting the kids who cared about their upcoming state math exam, walking through the problems, working them out on the board. Considering it was May, the weather was heating up, there are no windows, and most of the students would do far better in some vocational work with a paycheck than trying to sit still and listen to an adult, we did okay.

Until the dreaded 6th period.

I had been warned.

And I was letting much slide for a while, calmly requesting for the hyper boys to put their butts in seats. But the boys wandered around, yelling, jumping, climbing on the shelf under the TV. Girls came in late. One boy who was not in the class came in and said he needed to talk to a student. Now. I said no. Both students had their meeting anyway. I tried to stop it, couldn’t, so I put my foot down and gave them another 30 seconds. Surprisingly, they finished what seemed to be a conversation about sex and a girlfriend, and after giving each other five, they parted ways.

Another group formed as I was talking with three boys in the front row, asking where they were from. One was from Africa, and the others were from Mexico. I told them that I had guessed they were foreign kids because the foreign kids, in my experience, are much more controlled and respectful of adults than your typical American punks, most of whom were running around, sleeping, complaining, and talking to others like we were at a School for the Deaf. I told the boys and one girl, who was the American exception, how much I appreciated their kindness and cooperation.

Meanwhile, the boys in the back were moving toward the door, and I was saying, please, please, boys, stay away from the door. The boys started talking in Spanish during my next request, laughing at me, prompting me to say, “Cut the Spanish crap and get away from the door, please.”

An pimple-faced punk with a no-good smile yelled, “Did you hear what she said? She’s a racist! You gotta problem with Spanish people? How many people here are Spanish?”

All eyes and ears were on me for the first time, and all the boys were now away from the door, one step closer to the seats.

“You know I didn’t mean it that way,” I said.

The ring leader ran up in front of the room, and screamed, “It’s like me saying, ‘All white women love to suck dick.’”

As I told the student that I ought to write him up, one teacher appeared in the trap door, saying, “It’s so loud in here I cannot teach my class.”

I apologized. The kids all screamed that I was a racist. I told the other teacher I had things totally under control. Behind me the kids were saying, ““Fuck you…You think we’re going to listen to you?...Fuck that shit….You’re ugly.”

He told them to cut it out, they did, he left, they continued.

I began my case: “It is rude to intentionally speak in a second language—

“It’s our first language!”

“Excuse me. It’s rude to speak in a language that is not the first language of the country you are in and when you are doing it to—

“Fuck that.”

“Seriously, if I had a problem with Latinos or Spanish-speaking people,” I said, “do you think I’d be a sub teacher in New York City public schools?”

Within a minute, another teacher, Ms. G, opened the door and in true Public School X teacher form, her muscles were tight, her eyes intense, as she was ready to take down any student who stood in my way of controlling the class. I rolled my eyes at her, knowing the tide was coming in again. One girl had run to get her, saying I was a racist, and she wanted to know what was happening. The kids spewed out the “Spanish crap line” and if the principal were in the building, and not on jury duty, I wondered if he would have been standing with her.

Ms. G settled down the students and said, “As a Spanish-speaking person, I do not take offense to what has been said, and all I will say is that we must rise above.” Just as I thought she was bringing in the ACLU, she accused the kids of looking for an excuse to get out of their work and told them they needed to stop.

I made it through the class, and thought all was said and done until I found myself face-to-face with bug eyes, a huge Afro and leper-like skin. It was the kid who was sitting on the TV cart, despite my numerous requests for him to get off of it before he knocked the TV over and blamed me. His response: “I’m not paying for nothing, bitch.”

This time he told me that I was a “good-for-nothing low-life not even worth ten dollars.”

I said thank you and goodbye.

When the last student left, I closed the door, stood in the silence and said somebody please ass-can me now.

Why, Ricki? Why?

2007-10-22T09:29:00.001-07:00

(From the archives -- Tuesday, May 15, 2007)

While in Barnes & Noble tonight, I came across three celebrity women--Ricki Lake, Jenny McCarthy and Kirstie Alley--and decided that they are either being managed by the best sharks in Hollywood or they are simply womanhandling the media, and in turn, allowing the media to sell fraudulent stories to women across America.

I think I like Ricki Lake, as far as I know, though I'm not one of those people who has the time, wickedness or twisted need to just rip into others, until we get to Jenny McCarthy. But getting back to Ricki, without a doubt, she did well for herself, and clearly is launching her personal campaign to reemerge with something new. Instead of doing it with her brains, she's doing it with her body, following the exact strategy of Kirstie Alley. I loved Rebecca Howe on Cheers. I loved her because she was sometimes so unlikable and flakey, yet so real, in her complications, torn by her drive and determination that to balance her professional goals and personal goals, hell bent to have romance in her life, at least superficially, when all she wanted was power, money and the respect of more than Cliff, Norm, Sam & Kramer. She wanted to win over Carla because all women know that there's nothing more crippling than women-on-women crime.

Kirstie still has her controlling eyes, murky and deep, and what a beautiful mane of hair--it's what every woman wants, except for Jenny McCarthy who already has it and much, much more because she's a blonde. She's undeniably hot and shows no shame in being an airhead who is more boring than she is obnoxious. She's turned her 15 minutes into a solid 45, maybe even 60, because she's done exactly what Ricki and Kirstie are doing, as women representing 30-40 something women of the age of cellulite, and living at a time when our entire culture is obsessed with women who either are too skinny or women who become...

Lard asses.

The interest in can-size reaches all new heights when you're a reasonably attractive woman, who's slipped out of the spotlight and are afraid nobody cares about you anymore. Instead of torturing and starving yourself into rehab for anorexia, put on 30-70 pounds, say you're damaged due to a broken relationship or marriage, a newborn child or a depressive funk, take lots of pictures, and then see which diet company will pay you the most to slim down. Unlike Rosie and Oprah, who admit to always struggling with their weight, in a far more empatheic and admirable fastion, get yourself on US magazine's cover wearing a bikini with the headline "HALF MY SIZE." Women across America will celebrate you, and men will say she ain't half bad as long as she doesn't put back on the other half of the person she once was.

I know there are people out there reading right now -- my two loyal readers Meg and Mike, thank you -- and they're saying, "How insensitive! We love Ricki! Check your facts! Get her story straight!" If it weren't so late, I'd stop everything, go back to the web and google to see if I'm spelling Ricki's name right and if she is in a bikini or a classy swimsuit or scantily clad outfit because to me, that's all that matters at this hour. And I do believe that all two of my readers would be agreeing with me: these three women are frauds. The only exception to a degree may be Ricki, who, despite her choice of attire, I may pardon due to her history of being overweight for most of her childhood due to sexual abuse, which she apparently, and conveniently, mentions in the article, which is a first-time announcement, according to one brief promo on the US article. I'm not doubting her claim nor the damage of such abuse, but I am questioning the motive behind the announcement, and whether or not the contract said once you reach your goal weight, include the story about being molested as a child and receive a bonus for X amount of dollars.

These three women do not represent an alarming number of people in our country who truly struggle with their weight, which is posing serious life-threatening health risks to women, mothers and children, not to mention the increased hospital and insurance payments we're all going to have to compensate for what seems to be future generations of gluttons. Would these three women be able to come up with a plan on how to eat as a single mother of three while living on welfare or toeing the poverty line with not enough money to pay for food containing essential nutrients, a increasing challenge in our society as reported by the New York Times two weekends ago? These three women have all day to go to the gym--the same type of gym I am fortunate enough to attend--a place that is filled with women and men who have literally bought into a healthier lifestyle, a tough sell to a vast majority of Americans overrun by fastfood and toxic screens: televisions, computers, video games, cell phones. These women put on the weight and then hire personal trainers to get it off of them, and then they pay thousands for makeovers, fashionable clothes, using their bodies to attract the spotlight, and beaming as the checks clear.

I saw McCarthy backstage on the view, via Rosie O'Donnell's blog. Yes, she seemed sweet, I guess, or so they said, and sure she was stunning even as she wore not a stroke of makeup. I saw her once, in person, at a basketball game in Chicago when I was playing against her sister, Joanne, in an exhibition game. Joanne was a decent college player, and one of the dirtiest players I've ever known in my 20 years of playing. I can still recall some of her shady behavior on the court--an elbow digging in my friend's side, a nice shove as another player hung herself out like a clothes line. And my friendly and perfectly safe retailation for all the surreptitious crimes she committed when Joanne went in for a wide open layup. In the form of a perfectly legitimate foul that she saw coming, I knocked her, gently, to the ground. Then I extended my hand to lift her up and said quietly, "If you're gonna dish it, you'd better be able to take it."

While Jenny lit up the gym, surely to Joanne's dismay, Jenny's glow gave all the glory to the guy next to her, Rob, a guy I dated in college, who, at the time, was dating Joanne. My hand to all respective symbols and figures of worship, my statement-sending foul took place years prior to this relationship, and by no means was I jealous of Joanne because she was dating my former date, who had dumped me for an ex, but it's hard to call it a true dump when the relationship hadn't really started, and I felt that during most of it, he was full of stink. Anyway, it just killed me to see him smiling like a third-grade boy who just farted in the lockerroom as he strode in with Playboy Playmate Jenny McCarthy on his side. A graduate of the Catholic school Mother McCauley, McCarthy's body was perfect and her breasts just had an identity in and of themselves. Her teeth straight out of a tooth paste ad. She looked like a happy, walking Doll, who honestly, seems to be slightly off--hell, she's now dating Jim Carey, she must be a little nuts--but she also appeared to be more than just okay with being hot and sexy and a total celebrity in the making.

I laughed when Joy and a few others from the View called Jenny, "So nice and down to earth." I have a hard time believing that a women who was a Playboy centerfold is down to earth, though maybe I'm being too harsh. Jenny does have a book out that is titled something like I, Jenny McCarthy, Will Tell You All You Need to Know About Life Even Though You Have Absolutely Nothing in Common with Me, a Rich Hot Blonde Who Has No Identifiable Talent.

Yet she's got something on all of us and she knows it. And if I am the feminist I believe I am, I support women surviving and succeeding as our male counterparts do: by any means necessary. True respect, however, is a different issue. If I do throw a bit her way, it's not because she went on a diet and lost weight. It's because she was smart and shrewd enough to pack it on and shed it for a profit.

Let's see if it works for Ricki.

Trim the Blog, Jerry Falwell, Guilt, My Movie

2007-10-22T09:27:00.000-07:00

(From the archives -- Thursday, May 17, 2007)

First I know my blogs are too long. I'm going to transform myself and make myself a better blogger, but it's not happening tonight. I also think I have to lose the preachy tone at the end, and pull more of a Sedaris. After a long set up, a dramatic and entertaining middle where we choose sides and split up characters we love, we hate and we both love and hate, with great dexterity, a skilled writer will, when no one else is looking, pull a string, leaving the biggest jerk of the bunch standing there with his pants around his ankles. Most of the time I am the one looking down at my lighter than pale nakedness, so blinding that my body glows like an institutional light.

Not knowing what to write about for the day, I went to Rosie's website, read through the R Blog--you must check it out--and stumbled upon this interesting quote, which she posted in response to the hits she received for a comment she made recently regarding Jerry Falwell. I think someone said he had passed and Rosie responded with a "Whatever." Here's one of the many quotes she posted from Falwell, a Bush supporter: "I listen to feminists and all these radical gals - most of them are failures. They’ve blown it. Some of them have been married, but they married some Casper Milquetoast who asked permission to go to the bathroom. These women just need a man in the house. That’s all they need. Most of the feminists need a man to tell them what time of day it is and to lead them home. And they blew it and they’re mad at all men. Feminists hate men. They’re sexist. They hate men - that’s their problem."--Jerry Falwell

From Wikipedia: more on Falwell, who made a decent amount of cake in our country: After the September 11, 2001 attacks, Falwell said on the 700 Club, "I really believe that the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People For the American Way, all of them who have tried to secularize America. I point the finger in their face and say 'you helped this happen.'" Fellow evangelist Pat Robertson concurred with his sentiment.[34] After heavy criticism, Falwell apologized.[35] As for homosexuality, Falwell remarked, "AIDS is the wrath of a just God against homosexuals." Falwell's ghostwriter, Mel White, said Falwell remarked about gay protesters, "Thank God for these gay demonstrators. If I didn't have them, I'd have to invent them. They give me all the publicity I need."[36] He said this about Martin Luther King: "I do question the sincerity and non-violent intentions of some civil rights leaders such as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Mr. James Farmer, and others, who are known to have left wing associations."[37]

I've spent the last 24 hours wondering if I should have written my last blog, for my good friend said it was out of nowhere and not reflective of my usual character, particularly in my opinions of the professional celebrity dieters. The one thing that I'd like to point out, concering McCarthy, is that like her sister, the former hoopster I referred to as one of the dirtiest players I've ever played against. Maybe I shouldn't have dragged Joanne into this, and stuck to Jenny's strength in her being simply fasincating, not because she's overtly dirty or underhanded or evil, but because she is...well let's call it complicated. She's this hot blonde, an "actress" who acts like her unpredictable, odd self, a graduate of Mother McCauley who becomes a Playboy centerfold. Though one of the tinest women I've ever seen prior to her recent "blow up," she puts on some weight, can't stand what her ass looks like, bringing even more attention to it. She gets major pub, more deals as she's returned to fine form, looking damn good at A-lister events next to her enigmatic boyfriend and being called by women on the View as "very nice." Then she "writes" a book on life, and people actually buy it. (I'd like to drop in a plug here: my free blog has been hit 31 times.) I wonder if Falwell would consider her a radical gal, a failure, having blown it. I feel myself now rooting for McCarthy and wondering if Falwell had some serious size issues, so here I go again lowering myself to tabloid dirt, feeling guilty but not guilty enough to stop. Clearly addicted to pub, maybe Falwell also had a habit similar to that of Richard Pryor, who said he often woke up in the middle of the night, in a cold sweat, picked up his phone, called his accountant and said, "Where is all my money? Okay, good. Bring it to me now!"

Moving on: Good news on the movie front. About five weeks ago I received coverage on my script from a major independent film company, we'll call X Productions. I read what had to be the toughest criticism of anything I have ever written in 20 years, which left me baffled for I've received a stamp of approval from two major writers, the heaviest hitters in the business right now, who were attached to the project up until February when they opted to drop it, probably because 1) they wanted a short list of A-list stars to carry the female lead and lost hope that they'd get one and 2) they signed multi-million dollar writing projects. In any case, when I received the coverage from X Productions, I could not sleep. I could not think of anything else. I took a day to consider whether or not I was chasing my own tail. Friends read the coverage and said not to listen. It's just their opinion. I liked it. This made me even more crazy. I spoke to a guy who writes screenplays in L.A. for two hours on Easter Sunday, come to find out that he flagged many of the same issues at X Productions. I started eyeing my tail again, began the spin, then said, NO, STOP! YOU CAN DO THIS IF YOU GET YOUR NOSE AWAY FROM YOUR TAIL!

Every possible spare minute for the next three weeks I worked on that damn script. I started by throwing the damn thing against the wall, breaking it into pieces, and picking out the gems of the true story I always wanted to tell. With the help of my sister, a hard-nosed, no-nonsense successful business woman who is currently housing me, God Bless her, I revised the script for what has to be the 43rd time in about four years. I even stumbled upon a few first-screenplay contests, and their May 1st deadlines, pushing me to write hard or go home.

Yesterday, I decided, for the sake of pride if nothing else, to write to one of the women who wrote the coverage for X Productions.

Here is what I wrote:

Dear Production X EMPLOYEE,

My name is Maureen Holohan. Five weeks ago, you read my script “Money Game” and sent an email to my contact stating that you had opted to pass. Despite a few opinions that your coverage was too harsh and undeserved, I sat down and spent every available minute considering every issues you raised, revising a story that led me back to my original intention when I began writing four years ago. Over this period of time, I had been receiving notes and direction from a basketball friend, who is one of the hottest writers in the business right now. Since last fall, he and his partner were set to produce my film up until early February when they decided to focus on their multi-million dollar writing projects. I’m not using their input as an excuse, for their idea to sell a light, female White Men Can’t Jump could have worked, and as a rookie writer, I very much appreciate having had the chance to work with the pros, and have left our relationship on nothing but good terms. However, it has always been my feeling, as it seems to be yours, that Jo needed to be an underdog with a soul, stuck in a no-win family predicament where she hustles because she has to, not because she wants to, as she actively and dramatically pursues her goal of making the New York Liberty.

My sister, who can be a Simon-like critic, particularly when it comes to my work and just about anything I do, never really took to the previous versions of “Money Game,” until I showed her my revision, “Rockaway Girl.” When she finished reading it, she text messaged me: “You nailed it. Finally.”

My hoops friend DIRECTOR WE'LL CALL BOB is interested in directing, and a few of our mutual acquaintances from the gym, who are Wall Streeters, are looking to invest in the film industry. We are going to meet in the next few weeks to come up with a budget and plan to produce “Rockaway Girl” and make it a winner. I do not know what your policy is on re-reading scripts, but would ask that you consider another look. Also, I will be in Los Angeles in early June, and possibly moving out there this summer. I would enjoy any opportunity to meet with you and any representatives from X PRODUCTIONS.

Once again, I just want to say thank you for your constructive input as it has helped me focus on my goal and increased my chances of success. As ideal as I believe it would be to work with a company like X PRODUCTIONS and a sports fan like Mr. YOUR BOSS, regardless of your final decision, I am confident that I will find the right team, and do what it takes to get this film made, even if I have to bet the house.

Thank you for your time and consideration. Best wishes for continued success.

Sincerely, MO

Within 1 hr, I received a response, which I now cannot find, but it went something like this: We would be more than glad to re-read your script. Please know it is our job to heavily critique every project, even the ones we take on, for we want to bring the work to its highest level. It seems like you have a better handle on your vision for the project and the ability to incorporate some of the issues we raised. I will look at your script this week, update our creative team and get back to you.

I also emailed two other potential production companies. And my friend from MAJOR MEDIA OUTLET emailed me and said: "Finally finished reading your script. I absolutely loved it and will do whatever it takes to help you get it made."

It's too bad that a religious figure like Jerry never really took time to understand, respect and support motivated, driven women, and equally as important--he didn't even know real, admirable, honorable and intelligent men--because when you know and work with both, you give mutual respect and support, feel good about yourself, and believe, as a person lucky enough to be born into this phenomenal and free country, you are capable of going after your dreams and living a great life, and can do so, without feeling the need or sense of evil, narcissistic entitlement to commit the chronic sinfulness of intentionally, repeatedly and maliciously judging others.

And the good news is that we, your dreaded men-haters, are polite enough to forgive even you, Jerry, and know that sometimes the best we can do is be wise enough to say "Whatever" and simply move on.

One day sales and gift cards...

2007-10-22T09:25:00.000-07:00

Monday, May 14, 2007

(From the archives 5/14/07)

It was a humid, crowded late Saturday afternoon in the heart of Herald Square. I stared down at my feet, sweating in socks and pink Nikes, and racewalked with lower back pain, mostly from self-inflicted psychological damage. My hair was a wispy mess tied back in a folded and twisted bun, my tight, tattered Seven jeans—along with along a T-shirt comprise my sophisticated wardrobe—had been yanked up over my can so many times that I’d ripped a hole in front of the right pocket. I was hustling to the gym, undergoing the tail end of personal crisis, saying the best thing I could do is sweat, calm down, rationalize, and then announce a confession that might have me asked out of my gender.

If there’s one event in my life that I dread worse than going to a baby or wedding shower and sitting in that huge gift-opening hole of phony bliss, it’s clothes shopping with goal and a deadline. Leisurely shopping on a whim and stumbling over that gem or steal, I can handle, on occasion. But shopping for an upcoming posh Napa Valley wedding, which would include a pool party, wine-tasting party, the wedding ceremony and a brunch. Then I was headed to L.A. for a business/beach trip to L.A. The pressure to come up with a tight, but decent-looking wardrobe made me wish that I was Mrs. Jetson, in her luxury space condominium, sitting in a comfortable chair, pressing a few buttons and letting a robot dig into a deep wardrobe and dress me while I listened to Mozart.

I can do Home Depot. Nike Town. Target. Best Buy. Even Walmart, only when I have a sinus infection and cannot fully smell the wave of body odor that hits me as I walk through the one in my hometown. But give me a $200 gift card to a solid department store like Macy’s with the assumption that 1) I can make fashion decisions and 2) that the trip will improve my appearance, wardrobe and make me feel better about myself, well, here’s what usually happens:

I know the trip will be a two or three part series, which puts me in a foul mood early. I fly solo, and kid myself into believing that I can be my own stylist, but on last week’s trip, I had company. My friend, Kirsten, knowing I had the gift card and the upcoming wedding, emailed me: One Day sale at Macy’s. See you there at 5:30.

I wanted to point out that Macy’s seems to have a One Day Sale every 48 hours, but I think Kirsten was up for a female bonding event, so I agreed, reluctantly, hoping I wouldn’t irritate her with my poor attitude. I arrived about an hour and fifteen minutes late, having gotten tied up in my Hoops Comeback at the gym. Limping and sore, I caught up with Kirsten in the casual women’s section, on the second floor, and she seemed more bothered by her inability to find the right dress than by my tardiness. So there we were, two 30-somethings, and former basketball players—Kirsten stands about 6’1” and I’m about 5’10”—wincing and rolling our eyes at clothes that we knew would not sit right on us, making us turn toward the comfortable T-shirts and casual wear that we promised ourselves we would not buy. We wandered up to the fifth floor, and grabbed a lineup of dresses, shirts, anything that looked like it would work. We spent the next hour or so taking armfuls of clothes into the same dressing room. Kirsten tried on dresses that made her look like June Cleaver and I found myself looking more like Marcia Brady. We kept running to the woman behind the register, Pat, who gave us free advice on the blue or the black, and if black, what about the red? Pat said how fabulous we looked in everything, and her sales ploy worked so well on Kirsten that she was beaming at the register as she said she was taking all three dresses that Pat assured her were “timeless and classy.” Kirsten did look good in the dresses, and she said that she’d wear them around the city, which made me laugh aloud. I was shaking my head, taking my two—a bright blue one along with a black, both simple, dress up or dress down pieces, with shallow v-necks, cut just above the knee. Rather simple. More like boring. I picked up a blue shirt and jean skirt, we left, reminding each other about our option to return everything, and my knowing that the final answer would come from Meghan, my sassy sister who describes her style as anywhere between Anne Taylor and J. Lo.

As Meghan unpacked from her business trip, I tried on the blue dress. She shrugged. “It’s all right.” The black one. “Eh…I’ve got something better.” Meghan took out two dresses I could wear to the wedding, I tried them on, they fit. She said to keep the cute, jean mini-skirt and lose the ugly, old lady shirt.

Two days later, I was back at Macy’s on the Saturday before Mother’s Day, and what a surprise—another sale day. The lines, the wait, the clueless older woman behind the counter who had no idea how to give me my $200 credit back had me wishing I was a fish or a member of an African tribe so that I could swim, live and work naked. I thought about going for another round of dresses, but saw the long wait in the dressing room, thought of all the other things I could be doing with my life at that moment, but, feeling pressured to check something off the damn Trip to California list, I ended up being sucked into the shoe department. Women moved like bumper-cars, and all the heels looked so painfully high, particularly for my surgically repaired feet—arches cut after two years of chronic pain—marking the end my pro basketball career and the beginning of my unsuccessful campaign to have a “Men Wear Women’s Shoes to Work Day.” I gave up and went down to the “comfort” shoes department, found a pair of geriatric-looking casuals, but they didn’t have my size. Still with the $200 gift card in my pocket, hoping someone would steal the damn thing, I wandered down to handbags, confident I’d find a cute gym bag big enough to carry my clothes and sneakers. No luck. Too big. Not big enough. Too many crazy colors. $250 for a designer gym bag?

Now, feeling as though I was in the 23rd mile of a marathon, pushing my way through the crowd with a delirious forward lean, I said, “Come on, you can do this.” Who was I kidding? The entire time I was wandering around the crowd, lost, depleted, aggravated, I kept thinking I’m a freelance writer living on a substitute teacher’s salary. Making matters worse were the thoughts of my mother, a selfless nurse and workaholic, who put on her makeup while driving the car, and turned away the few pieces of jewelry my father offered her, saying, “The kids need boots and braces. Take it back.”

I ended up buying some jewelry that would match my sister’s dresses, and called her, leaving a proud message to let her know she could borrow it. After telling myself that the third leg of the trip will involve sitting in my chair and ordering my shoes and casual shirts online, at a tall women’s store, I bought my mom a cheap one-day sale necklace and earring combo, and spent the remaining $100 of the $200 gift card re-gifting for a friend I would see in San Francisco. I hadn’t seen her in a while, and her son was now almost one, and I’m sure they’d need clothes for him to grow into and something cute or practical for a new room. I gladly tucked the gift card in my purse—one of two purses I own—and told myself to tell my friend that Macy’s is always having these great one-day sales.

Posted by Mo Holohan at 1:04 AM 0 comments

Labels: california, gift cards, shoes, shopping

Lonely on the Treadmill...I came out of Hoops Retirement

2007-10-22T09:19:00.000-07:00

From the archives. Friday, May 11, 2007
(I've played a handful of times since writing about this run.)

(Coming off of a day as a sub teacher in the NYC public schools...waiting for a phone call...)

The potential director is finally back in town, and text messaging me--a good sign, but not enough for me to believe progress on the film, or in my life, is being made. So what do I do yesterday so I would not crack up? What do I do to keep myself from thinking about another day of walking into a public school and put on a vaudeville act like I did again today, when I was approached by a wise-crackin' eighth grader who told me I look like Steve Nash?

I lace up a pair of worn out low-top, black Air Jordans, the color a pasty, slow white girl like me should not be wearing, and I step out on the court. Actually I spent a solid 30 minutes warming up, looking either like the The Golden Boy or a drug addict. Though I hoped that I would know no one on the court, I ran right into good ol' Pete, a guy who's cool and happy and always there, the ubiquitous, neighborhood pooch everyone loves. Pete, well-groomed and active, gave me a peppy smile, a welcome back and introduced me to a few friends. I kept lapping the court, staying oiled, until I realized that I had a bit of a wait, so I hit the treadmill. There as I jumped around, skipped, ran, slid on the belt to trigger all muscles and get those glutes firing, I promised myself I would not try too hard. I would just do the best I could, let the game come to me, or hope I played something that at least resembled the sport of basketball. I specifically said DO NOT DRIVE TO THE HOOP, which is the result of living with my sister's boyfriend, Mike, whom I should hire as my probation officer. As much as I kid him about his passivity on the court, the way he plays, as a mid-30s guy who banks on his eye for the hoop, Mike's philosophy is enjoy the run, have fun and instead of playing stubborn and stupid, simply play smart. For the first time in my life, I honestly told myself to follow these basic Mike rules, in a similar mode of conduct that one might expect from a convincted felon who's just been given parole.

And then I stepped on the court.

One thing about pickup, if you've played it for two decades, is you can often call the line and know your own odds the second your random team is read off the list and standing in an informal circle on the defensive interior. There are three factors here. The first is taking a look at the exterior: if they're big, fast, strong and have a point guard, I personally send out a wish to the basketball Gods that they shoot the ball like they have Tourette's syndrome, and missed the sharing lesson in kindergarten. Step #2: After assessing the bad guys, you then have to take a moment to look at the draft you've been dealt.

Now there are those who believe in the adage, "Don't judge a book by its cover" and I can come up with a few exceptions to what a basketball player should look like, but the truth is we judge in seconds. I would know this because usually I am on the receiving end of the judgment, and the occasional eye roll or wince doesn't bother me, and can be used to my advantage, as long as it's not vocalized or presented in an insulting or offensive manner. For instance, saying something like, "All right, we suck," or even worse, "I'd rather play with four than with him," or one of my personal favorites was when a guy looked at me and said, "No earrings" and laughed at himself and then at me. I'm all for silent judging early, as strategy is part of the game, and critical when you are putting something--like your pride, not to mention your body --at risk.

I looked around at my team, and saw red-flag #1: No point guard. Forget about wildlife and glaciers for a moment, and somebody please tell me where have all the point guards gone? Why have they disappeared? And I never go for the pseudo point guards, or quite honestly, delusional players who say they'll play the point, and wait in the back court for it to be inbounded to them. I watch these belly-flopping' busters struggle to catch the ball, put their head down and dribble it up the court, moving like they are jumping ropes and dribbling. My favorite is when the biggest guy on the floor decides he's a point guard, and even better, when the action heats up on offense, he refuses to make body contact with anyone. So you have an enormous guy bringing the ball up the court, usually with a handful of gel in his hair and matching, All-Pro, "I'm an all-star" gear from head to toe, and he's stopping at the arch, shooting threes. The game becomes his own little shooting drill and the rest of us are just running next to him like his entourage. And most of the time, we're losing.

The good news is that the first guy who attempted to be point guard, a slithery fellow with no muscles nor signs of coordination. Here's a guess at how to spell his name: Jacques. Seconds before first check, J had to tell me his name three times so I could quietly practice the accent in a whisper to myself--flipped his head to the right, clearing the hair away from his eyes. He eagerly ran toward the inbounder in his furry running shoes. I said, "I got it, Jack." He was kind enough to agree, and so were my teammates. I looked to a decent sized brother on my team, who looked like he needed me, and knowing he was our only shot, I said, "Kobi...SCORE!"

He nodded. Who wouldn't?

Aside from the fact that this guy was Kobi with an i, contrary to my wishful thinking that it was Kobe with an e, Problem #2 was that we were all about the same height. The other team had one thin post player who could move and score, but he could only do so because of his teammate Jose, a guy who played or should have played on an O-line. So at this point, I'm drastically increasing my chances of recividism, and bending, if not cracking, Mike's Rules of Hoops. How so?

I wanted to be the point guard and be the big man.

I was perfectly content to let Kobi score all he wanted, which only would have worked if all of our guys got out of his way and three guys on the other team fell down. Unfortunately we were up against one of those powerhouses where no one sets screens. Time out for a reality check. Slithery dude in the furry sneakers not only didn't set screens, he was so thin and weak that it probably made no sense for him to risk bodily harm or inflict major guilt upon guys who could crush him with one accidental bump. Two other teammates were so nondescript and uninvolved that they reminded me of the animated clones on video games, and all you see is the offensive player, like Shaq or Kobe or Jordan, just dunking on them like they're strangers out there who were walking around Central Park eating ice cream cones and ended up on the basketball court under the hoop.

We lost. There was about a 99.9 percent chance of this happening from the start. The other team continued to remain strong while I sat out two games, climbing stairs on the Stepmill, waiting for redemption. For the sake of full disclosure, I arguably waded in some gray area regarding the rules of basketball etiquette: I opted to not play in the next game, and not be the one to "shoot for three," because I refused to stay in the mix of guys who are probably really smart, successful and talented in many things other than basketball.

After sitting out, I eagerly get on a team with a former collegiate shooter, let's call him Phil. Phil almost made it into the league ... but instead, he got married, had a few kids, started a line of clothing, made millions and now plays ball to break a sweat, even though he's one of those forever skinny guys. Happy to have Phil on my team, and knowing that if we went down, at least we'd go down shooting, I looked around and was pleasantly surprised to meet the others standing in the inner circle. There was Kobi, who would be able to move now that he was with players who had played; and another thick, short, scorer who could pass for a musclehead, but he's one of those quiet dogs in the pack. And you should always beware of the quiet dog. This dude, let's call him, Todd, was Eddie George with a jumpshot. So I'm thinking let's give Eddie the ball and have Kobi and Phil fill in. This worked beautifully for game one, and was also working well until a very hot soap star on the other team started limping a slow, contemplative limp. I like to call this nice, sweet guy Dreamboat. It's a stupid name, really, so I'll just call him Dreamy because if you saw this guys teeth, hair, skin and scruff, it's almost like your'e talking to a billboard, and wishing he was an underwear model. Pardon me for objectifying an attractive male, though it's something I've been trying to do more of lately just because it's fun and beyond fair. Moving on, Dreamy, a former college player who told me during our pre-game stepmill climb, said volleyball was his best sport. After taking the wrong step, he winced and looked down at his bad wheel, taking a moment of deep introspection, and recalling that he's 25 pounds over his playing weight. It's one of those moments where guys think I can wear baggy T-shirts, my wife still thinks I'm hot, she's stuck with me even if she doesn't, but the Achilles isn't so tolerant. Dreamy veered back on the court, forcing himself to suck it up, then winced again, called out a "Nope," and headed for the door. I was relieved. I'd hate to see such a fine man be in pain.

When Dreamy subbed out, stud point guard who doesn't look like a point guard at a first glance, kind of like an ethnic, olive-skinned, dark-eyed Steve Nash with a pony tail, subbed in and he kept the same so simple and effortless, that even as an opposing player, I looked at him and shook my head. He included everyone in his highlight show, including the big, wirey man, who really wasn't that big. Just limber enough to score on Phil, the former college star, whose defense comes with many apologies, though never any concerted physical effort. Limber guy must have scored nine points on Phil, who countered by chucking up every pass thrown to him. Granted, he was a prolific shooter in his day...but now, in his 40s, one has to wonder how many meetings, if any, he's had with himself regarding hoops. Has he ever--in his entire life--told himself, like I had done that day, to play smart? To take it easy? To pass the ball?

If I were in Phil's head for thirty seconds, all I would hear is "Shoot, Phil, Shoot. Shoooooooooot." In the same way all Forest heard was run. Phil can have his entire back to the basket, be falling down on one foot with two guys on him, and he's launching. A ball can hit him in the hands while standing in the doorway, and he's turning toward the hoop the way Native Americans rise in the morning and immediatlely find the sun. And he'll go on smacking his gum, jogging down the court, being a guy's guy, and still come off as charming, likeable and sexy even though he's only shooting about eleven percent.

And what am I doing during all of this? Trying to play. Trying to stay under control and the body in tact. I took it to the basket twice in the halfcourt, which, as Mike would say was two times too many, and I would have no case, given what happened. It's just so much harder to stop and change direction, and to react to the ball. I see it, I know I need to get it, but it's like everything, everyone is in slow motion, and I'm swimming in a swimming pool. And often times there's pain involved. Pain in taking the bump. In twisting and trying to go up. The knife in my left knee. Then the tweak in my right, and another jab sticking in my back a few hours later.

If I just shot the damn ball, instead of driving, if I just passed it to Todd the quiet dog, if I more carefully chose my moments to give the ball to Phil so he could get his high, and if I could tell myself, it's okay NOT TO REBOUND when you're the lightest, slowest, skinniest player on the floor.

Despite having a chance at hanging out for one more or jumping in a game that ended on the other court, I walked off. I noticed that I had worked up quite a sweat without feeling winded at all. And now, I'm still sitting here, thinking about all the dumb mistakes I made, replaying the two possessions I blew for my team, in three games, then laughing at the thought of how incredibly stupid I looked trying to take it to the hoop. I almost tripped over myself twice in about five steps to the basket.

I'm going to request the first comment here to be made either by Mike or my sister, his spokesperson: Have I violated my parole? Am I to be trusted amongst the general basketball population? Should I take another crack at it?

Posted by Mo Holohan at 12:18 AM 0 comments

Labels: HELP, hoops, life, movies, retirement, shooters

Mo's First Blog

2007-10-19T22:20:00.000-07:00

(From the archives: Monday, May 7, 2007)

Welcome to The Mo Blog, a place where I'll do what every wanna-be writer, actor or entertainer should do regularly: I will put myself out here. Naked. Every day. Like a bird in a bath. A patient sitting with her legs in the holsters on a table at the GYN. A stand-up comedian every time he walks up to the mike. Paris Hilton on the first day she walks into jail.

I'd like to start by giving a shout out to my sister, my most loyal fan and critic, who often imitates Simon's impatience, disgust and praise. I frustrate her to no end, and apologize constantly, but we somehow still enjoy each other, particularly when we make up random competitions against each other--rockclimbing, handstands, aerobics, games of HORSE, spinning competitions (the bikes don't move in spinning, but we pretend they do). As we gun to beat one another, and often laugh hysterically while doing it, we seem to entertain anyone around us until we turn to them, and pleasantly ask if they want next.

My sister and her boyfriend have been so kind as to let me live with them while I pursue the writer's dream of making an indie film. (I will not use names until I get special permission for I may risk losing my lease.) Her kind boyfriend is a common-sense and intellectual guy (two separate things--he has both) AND he has a great jumpshot, although he does lack any desire to drive to the hoop, hit the boards or play defense. He is hoping that I am successful, in the very near future, so that I move out as soon as possible. And there are my two brothers, both police officers--state troopers to be more specific--who hate when I brag about them and their jobs; and my gregarious father who, like my brothers, hardly reads my work, unless it is a story about my basketball success. (I am 75-99 percent retired, though I think my dad makes up stories about me still playing or boasts that I should be playing in the WNBA, making his case to random strangers at bars and restaurants, who really don't care at all. When no one listens, he shares embellishments about his children with animals and children.)

But there is one exception where I've succeeded in getting one brother to read me: the story in which I accidentally wrote "chicken-shit brother" in a foolish piece about basketball and dating. My brother had let an enormous, hulking college wrestler/football player run me over three times during a pickup game. Nameless brother did not do anything except watch me, a skinny, freckle-faced high school freshman with a mullet, pick myself back up and get hit again, three times, until the guy got tired of testing me. It also helped when a handful of guys around us started to openly question whether or not he was aware that we were on a basketball court, not the gridiron.

Following the on-line publication of this pathetic story, "To Give or Not to Give a Rat's Ass," my nameless brother sent me the first and only email of his life. I saw it and almost jumped out of my seat with excitement. It read: "What's up with the chicken-shit brother? You meant the other brother, right?"

My reply: "It's always fiction and it's always the other brother."

I also added that I now know how to get him to read me, and that he should plan on being included more often in my work.

He replied: "I'm fair game, but keep my wife and kids out of it."

Wait until he hears about the blog.

Welcome to Mo's Blog

2007-10-07T14:49:00.001-07:00

Welcome. I'd like to start out by saying that one of the most fulfilling moments for a writer is when she hears a reluctant subject say, "I shouldn't be telling you this." Even if you don't think you have anything worthy of a keyboard workout, write an anonymous, clean one-line zinger. Or make something up and let me put a virtual polygraph on you. Ask a question. Again, keep it clean. Play the role of a cheap shrink. Overanalyze This and That. And be sure to come back.