The Silver Beast: Part II

When Steve said, “Nice day, ain’t it?” the yuppie turned his nose, legged it fast from that green garbage can, the same way someone would when a hobo begs change. I watched my father stand there, button-down flannel and jeans, his few hairs flying every which way, mountain-man style. He shook his head with disgust, the only defense mechanism I ever saw him exhibit habitually. When he came back to the car, sat behind that faded-rubber wheel, he was silent. It was awkward. He’d been in such a good mood before the yuppie’s snub.

I so rarely spent time with the man without my mother playing buffer. But here we were. He’d been humiliated, and I no longer felt embarrassed for sitting prisoner in Rusty Jones’s worst nightmare. For a second I forgot the anger and fear I had for him. For a second we were together, father and son, and nothing else mattered. I felt embarrassed for him, and from that feeling surged a sense of loyalty and anger. This was my father and what just happened wasn’t right, even at 14, I knew that.

I’ll never forget what he said to me after that. He looked at me, and said, “Don’t ever judge somebody by the way they look or what they drive.” I said I wouldn’t, and he started the car, and homeward we were. It was the first piece of perfect advice he’d ever given me. It was the first time I felt he talked directly to me, mano a mano. I no longer wanted to avoid him. I wanted to penetrate that invisible field forever.

By the time we hit the highway, he’d forgotten the whole thing. He was singing the words to a rock/pop song on the radio. The song said, “There's winners and there's losers/But they ain't no big deal/'Cause the simple man baby pays the thrills, the bills.” He beat that faded-rubber wheel with his hands, sang out loud, and I’d never seen that side of him. I’ll never forget that yuppie in the park; that piece of advice, or my father singing those words as long as I live. That day lives like an island in our relationship, separate of the dynamic that otherwise existed. It was the greatest day we had together, because it marks our closest moment, even if the circumstance was less than ideal. And I wonder if it would’ve happened that way without the Granada.

The Granada hung around a few more years. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it sat driveway duty. When it hit 200,000 miles, Steve made us pose for a picture with the car, both my mother and I holding 100 Grand candy bars close together. By the time I graduated high school, it was gone, to the afterlife of Art Dell’s Junkyard. I was sad to see it go.

I wish I could say my attitude about the silver beast changed after that day in the park. I wish I could say I was never as embarrassed about climbing inside and backfiring from the high school lot. I wish I could say I borrowed it when I was sixteen to pick Rachel Sykes up for a Saturday night date, and made her hold the Hefty bag of beer cans while I drove, and she loved it. But I can’t say that because it never happened. I was a typical teenager: short sighted, self involved, stupid. No way the Granada was ever gonna cut snuff in my world.

I guess the lesson of that day at West Land Hills wasn’t learned till much later.

Fast forward thirteen years and I’m sleeping late on a snowy Saturday morning, a few days after the New Year, 2009. I’d heard my cell phone ring from the other room a few times, but ignored it. Finally after the fifth call, I stumbled from bed to see who it was. It was my mother calling, and she was crying, and asking me if I was ready, “Really ready” for what she had to say. My mother’s a dramatic woman and we had a family dog that had been sick, so naturally I assumed. When the line went silent, I thought she’d disconnected. I went to redial, and she said, “Steve’s dead.” Just like that. He’d gotten out of bed at 6A.M., gone downstairs, made a cup of tea, sat in his TV chair, the same chair he always sat in, and died; a massive heart attack. He was 54.

He’d been complaining of exhaustion, working overtime that weekend to secure a future vacation day from his union. But there would be no vacation day. By noon he was in the morgue, arrangements were underway, and the house was filled with friends and family. Two days later his wake brought out 700 of Albany’s finest, passing the casket, and telling me how great of guy my father was. I remembered when I was a teenager and I was sure he wasn’t a man I could look up to. I remembered being embarrassed by his balding head, and rust-filled Granada; how everyone thought I was poor when they saw it. But on that night, I met the man that everyone else already knew, the “great guy,” regardless of what he drove or the jeans he wore.

The material things mean nothing in the real world. Just ask the ones who stood two hours in a snow storm to say farewell to a man who never cared about flash. I was beginning to understand what Steve was trying to teach me when he said, “Don’t ever judge somebody by the way they look or what they drive.”

A few weeks later, I learned it some more. It was a Monday afternoon and I was with my mother when an insurance examiner called. He’d said my father had built several life policies that nobody knew about. He’d been shrewd with his savings, uncompromising in his vision for a bigger, better future, a day when motorboats and snowmobiles ran. It was the future he’d wanted for his family. It was the future he figured on a second-shift laborer’s job while driving a rusty Granada. The insurance man told my mother her mortgage was satisfied, and it was time for her to retire a few years ahead of schedule, since lacking money would no longer be a problem. His gift to her was the simple: all financial worries dashed, a promise to prolong her life as long as possible.

The other day I was driving with the sun roof down, and Mellencamp’s “Pink Houses” came on. I recognized those lyrics, and remembered the day I ate McDonald’s with Steve in the Granada, and he told me about his dismissed dream of having go carts and being Mr. Fun. I remembered the way that yuppie snubbed my father over a green garbage can. I remembered on the highway how Steve sang that verse with such vigor. When the song made that same part, I hit the steering wheel of my "nice" car, and said, “There's winners and there's losers/But they ain't no big deal/'Cause the simple man baby pays the thrills, the bills.” I thought of the silver 1978 Ford Granada with rust holes the size of soft balls. And, for the first time, I knew what the song said was true, I knew there were winners and losers in life, and I finally knew the difference between the two.

Brian Huba
9/24/11

The Silver Beast: Part I

When I was a teenager my father drove a silver 1978 Ford Granada with rust holes the size of softballs. At a time when being ‘cool’ was a gargantuan deal, the Granada was an embarrassment. I remember talking to girls outside the movie theatre on a Friday night, seeing the Granada coming across the parking lot like a smoke screen, and darting behind the bushes until the girls had gone off. In ninth grade when I had bi-weekly braces appointments that meant I’d leave school on early release, I’d shrink in shame as the Granada rounded past student parking, roared to a stop outside the senior wing. “Is that your ride?” the office secretary would ask. I’d say “I don’t think so. But let me see,” then make that death-row dash from the school’s front doors, praying that nobody watched through the classroom windows, but realizing a thousand eyes were probably on me, including Rachel Sykes’s, the cheerleading captain I had a heavyweight crush on.

My father kept garbage bags filled with empty beer cans on the seats; cans he always meant to recycle but never got around to. Before he backfired from the high school lot, the Hefty bags would be relocated to the trunk, to make room for me. He’d take care of that, and I’d nose dive though the open door onto the sun-cracked, maroon bucket, pull the creaky door shut, bury my head between my knees, eying the blue-collared G.E. shirts on the floor mat. My dad would climb behind the faded-rubber wheel, and say, “You feeling sick?” He’d put the car in gear with an irritated snicker, and off we went with a bang from the bad exhaust.

The Granada was in my life a little over a decade. When it r-r-r-ran, it could never be trusted, dying at red lights, submitting on the shoulder of a rural road. After that it sat at the side of the driveway like a monument in soft mud, beside the broken-down motorboat my father was perpetually fixing, and the ‘slightly used’ snowmobile he never made go. When he put some coin together, the neighborhood mechanic duct taped the silver beast back together, and the Granada was out of its open grave. I’d come home from school, and my mother would meet me at the house’s front door with a look that meant Oh my God, the Granada’s back. When she knew I’d read her expression right, she’d say, “Can you freakin’ believe it?” and raise both clenched fists above her head.

Before our summer vacations to New Hampshire, my father would spray paint the rust holes for the 4-hour drive to the Atlantic Ocean. Easter Sundays, he took mercy on my mother and me by parking at the far end of the church’s lot. He knew the truth: We hated the Granada. We didn’t understand the value in keeping something way past expiration. “Gotta get your money’s worth,” he’d always say. But, when church ended and the Easter pictures were posed for, he always drove straight through the gathered congregation on the way out. Check the back seat, beside the Hefty bag of Bud cans. That’s me, at 12 years old, donning a K-Mart necktie; face buried between the knees of my pleated slacks that would’ve looked oh-so cool without a rust box wrapped around them. When my uncle Jack and his blonde wife came to the house in his midnight blue Camaro with the 5-speed and mag wheels, he’d ask my father, “Steve, how come you don’t get something new?” Steve would give Jack a look like he just suggested shooting the President, then say, “What for?”

It was after one of those orthodontist appointments that my father brought me to McDonald's. I was 14 years old. He ordered his usual: three cheeseburgers, medium fry, medium soda. We drove to a little league park behind the Mickey-D’s called West Land Hills, parked the car and got busy with the grub. My father always ate his cheeseburgers the same way. He’d set the sandwich between the front seats, carefully pull off the yellow wrapping, hold it in his hand, biting in a clockwise circle till it was finished. In fact he always did everything the same way. Kept his wallet in the same spot on the counter with his car keys. Smoked Kool Ultra 100’s in the same chair at the table, played the same lotto numbers at the grocery store in town. He left for second-shift work at exactly 1.45P.M. Always. The. Same.

While we sat there that day, he told me about a time when he was much younger, and wanted to start a go-cart park behind that McDonald’s. It was his dream for the kids to call him Mr. Fun. When I asked him why it never happened, he said his father, Grandpa, said that idea was a dumb idea. “That was a long time ago,” my father said, and he went back to his lunch. After we ate, my father FINALLY decided to clean the car’s interior. He was a packrat by nature. But sometimes enough was enough. So he backed the Granada to a green garbage can; started filling the receptacle with old newspapers, plastic shopping bags, coffee cups, everything in between. I ate fries while he worked; all four passenger doors and the trunk popped open. As he carried another armful of crap to the garbage, a yuppie-looking guy with a pinstriped suit and stylish eye glasses, came to the can. Probably a State Worker on his 12PM break. But I didn’t know that then. I just saw the suit and got impressed. My father dropped his junk, looked at the yuppie, and said, “Nice day, ain’t it?”

Even when I was young I knew my father and I had very little in common. I wasn’t sure he was someone I could be proud of. Did I love him? Fear him? Hate him? All of the above. Growing up, I always made strategies to avoid him. If he was out back I went through the front. I hated saying happy birthday to him. One Father’s day I told him he wasn’t my dad. Why? I wanted attention. He had an invisible field around him that meant do not enter. Sometimes that field was no bigger than the kitchen, sometimes it was the size of Saturn. Steve came from a tough-guy bunch from the city of Albany. When they were teenagers, they hung by a convenience store called the Courtesy Mart, playing cards and smoking butts. As adults they worked hard, partied hard. My childhood was littered with memories of Stacky’s camp, Five Mile parties with bikers, and guys named Six Pack and Big John. My dad worked a labor job at General Electric I didn’t understand.

My parents were young. They argued a lot. We lived in a basement apartment with no windows for five years before buying in the country. He didn’t like tossing ball or shooting hoops. He was bald by twenty five. He grew a full beard and mustache, and looked like Homer Simpson the one time I saw him shaved clean. He didn’t care about material things or fancy clothes like my uncle Jack. He didn’t have a college degree or golf-club membership like his six brothers. I never imagined one day being like my dad. And I sure as hell would never drive a rust bucket on wheels . . .

The Silver Beast:Part II to follow

Brian Huba
9/18/11

What Could've Been

My favorite sight in sports is watching NY Giants’ Head Coach, Tom Coughlin, stalk the sidelines during an NFL Game. And tomorrow I get to see it again for the first time in nine months, the first time for real that is. If I were an NFL Head Coach I would do it exactly like he does, play the part of Mr. Miserable, feign ignorance with the reporters when he wants to dodge a question, the only guy who could worry about the work that still needed to be done with Lombardi’s Superbowl Trophy in his hand. I love the way he’s handled this Plaxico Burress joke. All is right with the world if I guy like Tom Coughlin can still better loudmouths like Rex Ryan, and it’s my greatest hope that he will best him this upcoming season, but I also know that NFL Football is like life. Because of that I love the game of football more than any other. Because of that I worry about Big Blue’s 2011-12 chances. Let’s go back before we go forward.

Last December, the New Meadowlands Stadium, NYG’s up by 24pts against the hated Philadelphia Eagles. The Giants were about to do what nobody in the league thought they could: Punch their return ticket to the NFL playoffs. All they had to do was cling to that titanic 24pt lead, and the GB Packers, last year's champs, don’t even make the playoffs. All they have to do is protect the ball, play smart, and Coughlin gets a new contract, and this season’s injury issues aren’t such a big deal, because there’s a great chance the Giants would be fresh off a playoff run, and possibly a Superbowl berth. Why not? They were staring at a #2 seed if they could seal that gimme game. Fast forward fifteen football minutes, and Tom Coughlin slams his paperwork on the Giants’ sideline as DeShawn Jackson dashes past him towards the end zone, taking the game and everything I just mentioned away in one 65yrd punt return, a yard for every one of Coughlin's 65 years. What a turn of events and legacies.

And the only people the NYG’s could blame were themselves. For one moment, the always meticulous, always on-top-of-it Tom Coughlin let his guard down, and the Eagles wriggled an on-sides kick past the sleeping Giants, which began a meltdown of epic proportions, and gave the Eagles the victory in last year’s most impactful regular season game. The loss was so grandiose that it sort of blurred out the epic triumph of defeating the Perfect Patriots in the 2007-08 Superbowl. That’s how huge it was. A few days later Coughlin told the media he went home after that game, sat in the dark for six hours, trying to make sense of it. He promised the team would bounce back, move past it. No way, they never did, still haven’t. That fifteen minutes of football set the NY Giants back five years. They’re still reeling from it. And it’s my fear that shot of Coughlin chasing punter Matt Dodge onto the field will be the lasting and final image of him, the game that will haunt him forever, all that could have been.

Now the NY Giants MUST make the playoffs (can't miss it 3 straight seasons), and every football omen is screaming NOT THIS YEAR. The preseason injuries have been cartoonish, the Plaxico mess has been insane, the loss of key weapons on both sides of the ball unexplainable. Maybe this is the curse of the Patriots. Since that glorious night in Glendale the NY Giants have seemingly been cursed. Starting the ’08 season 11-1 till Plax shot himself and the organization out of contention, the ’09 season that saw so many injuries the Giants were beaten unrecognizable by the end of it, and last season’s everything-went-wrong reality, from fumbles, INT’s, blown leads, weather-delayed games, etc, etc. If the G-Men didn’t blow that mountainous lead against the Eagles, all that I just mentioned wouldn’t matter. Tom Coughlin would be sitting on a new contract and job security, and the Giants would be able to easily work through this mess of injuries, with a playoff berth from 2010-11 to ease the pain. But no such luck. If this injury-depleted team doesn’t somehow battle through a loaded NFC and make the playoffs, Coughlin will be gone, left only to ask what could’ve been. Then the blow up and rebuild will begin in the heart of Eli’s career.

That’s how football’s like life. You can be the smartest, hardest worker, with the best ideas, and longest resume, but if you fall asleep for a second, all that can get washed away, and you could end up on the short end of things. It’s unfair, perhaps, but football like life takes care of those who do ALL the little things, ALL the time, take the time to dot the I’s, cross the T’s. Don’t fumble the ball/Don’t waste your money, Don’t commit penalties/Don’t break the law, Protect yourself against injury/Take care of your health, Be a good teammate/Be a good person. Life, like football, is a smart man’s game, that’s why people like Plaxico Burress will always be bottom feeders. Because even the smart have to be smart ALL the time, and that’s impossible for the ignorant.

For one brief moment in time, Tom Coughlin let his guard down, blew a 24pt lead with everything to lose (symbolically drove drunk through a stop sign just once), and it could end up costing him his dream job. Is his NYG legacy intact? Of course. He beat an 18-0 team in the Superbowl. But . . . But it will take a lot to erase the image of him after that Eagles loss. Maybe more than this NYG’s team has right now, this season. Waste no opportunity in this life, suck the marrow out of every opening, and always over prepare for everything, never get blindsided. Tom Coughlin taught me that. Tom Coughlin forgot that for fifteen football minutes last December. Now what? We shall see. Enjoy the NFL season, the greatest game in the world.

Read More: http://espn.go.com/blog/nfceast/post/_/id/30332/enough-with-plaxicos-pity-party

Brian Huba
9/10/11

Go to the Villa Valenti, you fools

Last night we went to dinner at our favorite restaurant, the Villa Valenti, and we were the only two people in the place at 9.15PM, which was pretty great because of the real 1-to-1 service. (For the record, it was very busy earlier in the night, a 30 minute wait at the bar.) It was also weird having nobody else in a restaurant at that time on a Saturday night, while Lombardi’s parking lot, a mile down the road, looked like the outside of Giants’ Stadium ten minutes before kickoff (I mean Met Life Stadium). And it was a little sad, because the Villa Valenti is the best restaurant in the world, and I should know because I’m the greatest dishwasher the place ever had. You’re probably saying, “Brian, how can you say the Villa is the best restaurant in the world. Have you been to every restaurant in the world, even Europe?” Yes. Yes I have.

Here’s what I propose.

The economy is pretty rough, and my male-modeling career for Hollister is beginning to go dry, (How many shopping bags can your shirtless likeness appear on?) so I am submitting my letter of interest right here and now for the unadvertised opening as the Villa Valenti’s Marketing Director, working for Ralph Valenti and family. Prior experience? Greatest dishwasher ever. Need I say more?

My campaign would be a simple one. I’d tell Ralph to stop playing the game of dinner specials, blanket emails, and presentation over substance. I would tell Ralph to stop all the dot.com advertising and 4 for $20.00 dinner nights. Forget it. Under my direction, he would go in the newspapers, on the radio waves, and say, “You want specials, I don’t do specials. Here’s what I do. I SELL THE BEST FOOD IN THE WORLD, and I’m right down the road.” The second commercial would go like this. Cue Ralph Valenti saying, “Go to your so-called favorite restaurant and get your so-called favorite dinner. Then come to the Villa, get the same exact thing and I promise: YOU’LL NEVER GO BACK TO YOUR ‘FAVORITE’ RESTAURANT.’ Why? Because I SELL THE BEST FOOD IN THE WORLD!”

I’ve been everywhere in the Region. Sam’s, Lombardo’s, all those Café places in Albany, Verdile’s, the Brown Derby, D’Raymond’s, Ralph’s on Central, TJ’s, that place by Lark Street with the curbside seating, the Circus Cafe. NOBODY can touch the Villa. NOBODY. The place should have 1,000 people every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. The Villa bread and salad bar? Don't get me started. I could eat the Villa 8 days a week. If I was on Death Row, for last meal, I would send the Jailer Man and Sailor Sam to the Villa Valenti for their chicken parm, eat it, and die a happy man. Go to the Villa Valenti you fools.

You need a coupon offer, here it is: It's the best dinner you'll ever have. How much is it? I don't know: The fairest price on the planet. Less than its competition, I'm sure. And don't give me that crap, Averill Parkers, about how the Villa used to be good but now it's not. The Villa was the best in '81, '91, '01 and still in '11.

When I was 17, I washed dishes in the kitchen at the Villa, and it was the best job I ever had. I washed five feet from the restaurant’s matriarch, Emma Valenti, who would show up for work every day, except Tuesday, sit behind a pushcart and cut tomatoes, shred cheese, slice onions so thin they were invisible. From 2PM till 10PM she would pick apart every single thing I did wrong as I slaved over that dishwasher in a kitchen that would hit 100 degrees, and I loved every, single second of it. Then she rewarded you. Free food, bread, homemade dessert, it was great. Every 17 year old needs an Emma Valenti in their life. Maybe our younger generations wouldn’t feel so entitled, run so fast from hard work if they had an Emma Valenti telling them where the rubber hits the road. I betcha.

My greatest memory of Ralph Valenti is years later as I waited at the bar for a takeout order. He told me that night if he could work any other career it would be as a teacher. I won’t tell you how that influenced me, Hollister career aside. They are a great family, but more importantly they are the architects and engineers of the greatest restaurant menu in the business. If you have never eaten at the Villa, you have never eaten Italian-American food.

Every year on my birthday, the whole family goes to the Villa, of course. Right now I am staring at the receipt from the night of my 29th birthday. My father had such a great time that night, we all did, and he paid the entire $279.00 bill, a bargain for the seven of us, I promise you. I keep that receipt because it’s the last time we ever went out to family dinner with him, as he was gone 3 months later. Thank you, Villa, for that great final memory.

Go to the Villa Valenti, you fools.

ON THE EDGE the TU: http://blog.timesunion.com/kristi/41772/groupon-villa-valenti/#.Tlgsw98nW8w.facebook

Villa Website: http://www.villavalenti.com/

Brian Huba
9/4/11

Irene and the MTV VMA's

I'm beginning to get the impression that Hurricane Irene is not getting the respect as a total destroyer that she justly deserves. Monday night CNN was debating whether this was hurricane or hype, and one media member was upset because the news networks were making way too big of a deal about this total dud of a storm. I feel the governor of Vermont summed up the storm with a perfectly-worded quote. He said everything there was to say: Devastating.

I know NYC, North Carolina, Virginia, and many areas in our region didn’t get rocked to the level expected, but there were areas of Vermont and Schoharie County that were decimated by this disaster. I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures. Mud, water, flooding, death. I actually think Irene is one of the greatest natural disasters (in this region of the country) ever! 27 deaths have already been credited to Irene. That is a huge number if you ask me.

As I sat in my dry house, on my dry couch, and watched the news footage of the overrunning rivers, flood-covered streets, mud-thick houses, lives ruined, etc, I fell down on my knees, and thanked God (whatever or whomever that may be) for not dropping the brunt of this mighty storm on the front stoop of my life, or my family’s life. Wow, thank you. But still it makes me think: My day is coming, and water is the one earthly force you can't stop. Some areas in Greene and Schoharie Counties will take weeks, months to clean up, if ever. Imagine your whole life washed away in mere hours, watching your house become buried in a tomb of mud, while some talking head on CNN calls Irene a media-created dud. Wow.

We lost power for a few hours on Sunday, and I missed the fight between the Situation and Ronnie on JERSEY SHORE. Hey, hey what can I say? JS has been good this season. I have watched every episode. Guilty as charged. But the power was resumed in time for the 2011 VMA’s, and after bashing MTV and its programming earlier this month, I have to say: It was the 2nd best VMA’s I have ever seen (2000). To me, it was Lady Gaga’s crowning as the biggest star in today's music world. Her opening performance was the 2nd best VMA performance I have ever seen (Eminem 2000). I get it now. When I first heard Gaga was playing her male alter ego, Jo Calderone, I thought she was referring to the YNN Channel 9 Sports Reporter. I was wrong. Another Jo(e) Calderone. Beyonce gave the performance of her career. Bruno Mars was amazing. Pitbull and Adele, forget about it. Great, great, great. I was excited about Lil Wayne, but disappointed in his actual show-closing performance. Too much swearing and craziness. And, maybe, it's time for Jay-Z to stop performing on stage, fade to the background with his NY Yankees hats and millions. I'm kind of done with HOOVA.

My favorite moment was when Gaga as Jo Calderone won Best Female Video. After she hugged Jay-Z and Kayne West, she stepped back as everyone was standing and clapping for her, and, in a very cool way, fixed the collar of her suit coat, and took the stage. It was her moment. She knew it, and everyone in the room knew it. The only part I disliked was the show's inclusion of some rapper named Tyler the Creator. He was a jerk on the Black Carpet, a jerk when he won Best New Artist Video, and a jerk every moment in between. I don’t know if he was trying to be outrageous like Eminem used to be, by insulting Bruno Mars and sending “the kids” a profane-filled message when he was on stage. But it was disgusting, and nothing like the great Mr. Mathers, who balled fists at the pop world with humor and cleverness. On yeah: Eminem also sold 100 million albums. "I'll commit suicide if Bruno Mars wins a VMA because I hate his music," Tyler told an MTV reporter during the pre show. Then used the MTV mic to make a blatant sexual reference at the reporter. See? Not funny. Not clever. Tyler the Creator: I’m done with him after one night. Too bad. I was in a ready-to-be-won over mood on Sunday.

In the end I was happy to be with my family, in a dry home with power, watching a night of TV that I used to really look forward to, but has lately been a grand disappointment. I was happy it was well done on Sunday, and happy to have been spared from Hurricane Irene’s main wrath. And anybody who thinks this storm was hyped too much has probably been taking PR advice from Tyler the Creator. Stay dry.

Irene Photos: http://www.timesunion.com/news/slideshow/Most-dramatic-photos-from-Hurricane-Irene-30584.php

MTV VMA's: http://www.mtv.com/ontv/vma/2011/

GLADD speaks out against Tyler the Creator: http://www.complex.com/music/2011/08/glaad-speaks-out-against-tyler-the-creators-appearance-on-the-mtv-vmas

Brian Huba
8/30/11

Get Rid of Text Messaging

The other day I was walking out of Wal-Mart, and a young woman with her face glued to a cell phone was walking in, texting as she went, oblivious to anything that was happening around her. At the last second I side stepped out of the way or she would’ve walked into my chest. I side stepped, and she kept going, fingers of fury, 100% unaware. Then I imagined that same woman behind the wheel, going 65MPH, and how mad I would be if I had to drive into the ditch to avoid a head-on accident, while she kept driving, eyes off the road, another LOL or smiley face.

So I ask: Why can’t government make cell phone companies drop text messaging capabilities?

Before you jump down my throat about big brother’s watchful eye, I ask you to think about what good text messaging has brought to society. It helps you avoid conversations, I suppose, which I dislike, and occasionally it saves time, I guess. Other than that: What has it added? If you are aged between 14 and 24 (but all ages are guilty on some level) you are most likely largely unable to communicate on a total scale. You live on your text messaging screen, unwilling to focus on anything else for any extended period of time.

Exhibit A. Last night we went to dinner at D’Raymond’s. The four of us talked for two straight hours, catching up, telling stories, etc. The night before, we were at Friendly’s, sitting across from five teens-early 20's eating ice cream. There was not a speck of conversation. All five of them had cell phones flipped open, texting people who weren’t there, presumably. For me that was a scary thing to see. When we paid our bill that same night, the cashier was texting while on the clock, and we had to wait till she was finished. Wow, I thought, when did that start?

Even more than that is the knowledge that people are texting while engaging in activities that require 100% focus. The scariest of these situations, for any age, is driving while texting. As a driver that really terrifies me. I cannot imagine my life, or the life of a loved one, terminated or diminished because somebody was busy sending a text message, caused a major collision. Can you imagine your life ending that way?

Just get rid of text messaging. Eliminate the capability in cell phones, across the board. Why do we need it? For every PRO there are 20 CONS, with serious consequences. I am not suggesting getting rid of cell phones or handicapping any other email or technology advance, of course not. That would be like trying to stop a runaway freight with a wet napkin. But, in my opinion, text messaging has proven to be far too much of a distraction. It has marginalized communication, in younger and older people. And no number of laws prohibiting texting while driving is going to stop it. People will still do it, still crash/cause crashes, still die in accidents where texting played a part.

When people watch the news, and wonder about the recent slippage of the almighty America, I wonder if the introduction of this little technology (these kinds at least) are playing a part. Maybe. We're so engrossed in these phones. Even at McCartney people were on their phones all over the arena. I know everybody reading this has a text messaging story like the one I began with. "But, Brian, how would we text in our vote for American Idol on Wednesday nights?” That’s not a problem I considered here, but I’m sure there’s a solution.

Remember when you had a crush on a really cute/popular girl in school? Then a friend of a friend told you that she liked you, and the next move was making the dreaded first call. You’d pace by the phone, put it off, make excuses. Then finally you grabbed that receiver, sweaty handed, dialed her number, and it would ring, and her father ALWAYS answered with that gruff, irritated, “Hello.” It was up to you to say who you were, why you were calling, and then she got the phone from dad, and it was game on. Could you talk your way into a Friday night date at Secrets or Hoyt’s, or did you just strike out? What a great time. What a great test of character. Now all that’s out the window, replaced with a sent text message. Just like Jack says in A FEW GOOD MEN, “All you did was weaken a country today, Kaffee. That's all you did. ...”

Read More: http://www.middletownpress.com/articles/2010/03/13/news/doc4b9b0725f1f30333416113.txt

Read More: http://www.operationstop.com/teendriversandcellphones.shtml

Read More: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/8443201/Novice-driver-killed-woman-while-reading-text-message.html

Brian Huba
8/27/11

Zack Morris vs. Brandon Walsh

Who is the bigger pop culture icon: Saved by the Bell’s Zack Morris, played by Mark Paul Gosselaar or Beverly Hills 90210’s Brandon Walsh, played by Jason Priestly? Neither one of them can make another acting gig work from type casting, and both of them have spent every day since running from their most famous role. So let the debate begin.

As crazy as this may sound, I have to argue that it’s Zack Morris. I say crazy because I think we can all agree that Saved by the Bell is a far inferior show to 90210. Bell only ran for 4 seasons ('89-'93), on Saturday mornings (NBC) vs. 90210 which ran for 10 seasons ('90-'00) in prime time (FOX). The set for Saved by the Bell was basically that hallway and one room that went from Mr. Belding’s office, to Zack’s bedroom, to a classroom, to the Max, back to Belding’s office. Did they EVER go outside on any episode? There were some scenes when it was supposed to be Zack’s bedroom, and Belding’s principal degree props were still hanging on the wall. It was either plain lazy or running on a soup kitchen budget.

Then the show would write characters in and out, without rhyme or reason. Zack’s main squeeze, Kelly (Tiffani Thiessen), who ironically went from Bell to 90210 in '94 to play that horribly annoying Valerie Malone character, would just appear and reappear as a regular character all the time. Then Bell tried that awful spin off, The College Years. Hi yi yi yi, was that bad. But through it all, who can forget Zack Morris’s huge cell phone, and gigantic sneakers, and ridiculous dyed-blonde hair? My favorite Bell episode was when Zack and Slater fought over that random biker chick, Tori, the show wrote in for 3 episodes then you never heard from again. Leah Rimini as Stacey Carosi for the summer episodes filmed at the country club. I liked that, but still I don't think they ever went outside. Ahhh! Go outside. All the characters are pretty memorable, I grant you that, Screech, Jessie Spano, even Lisa Turtle, and Miss. Bliss (way back), but the show itself was really low grade.

Of course 90210 was the far superior show. In fact, I think it’s one of the best TV shows ever, and probably one of the most copied. The reason why Brandon Walsh isn’t culturally as big as Zack Morris is because the show was so good, and the rest of the cast was rock solid, which left him lost in the shuffle, a little. Shannon Doherty was a great actress when 90210 first came on, the class of the cast in fact. The first 3 seasons of the show belonged to her, and every season the last few episodes always revolved around her character. She carried the season finales. Some of the scenes she did with Luke Perry (Dylan McKay) were A+ television, can't deny it, people. Remember the final scene when Brenda is in Dylan's Porsche, and they're arguing, and LOSING MY RELIGION Is playing? Great last-episode scene. It’s understood that Priestly was the star, but I don’t think he got the best story lines (Dylan), and I don’t think he was the biggest talent (Brenda). In fact you were either a Brandon fan or Dylan fan, maybe a Steve Sanders fan (18A4RE), so that divided the potential influence on pop culture, I suppose. Not too many people were A.C. Slater fans, or Screech fans, over Zack.

Bell just didn’t have the cast of characters, interesting storylines, and consistency of 90210 (Save the last 2 seasons of 90210). But Zack Morris WAS Saved by the Bell, and because of that his character is more memorable than Brandon Walsh’s, even though Walsh was the far richer personality, and drove a really cool Mustang. Of course Zack didn't have a car, I don't think, because they never went outside. Remember the episode where Zack crashes the car after drinking at the toga party? I think they dressed Belding's office up to look like the inside of a car for that scene. I mean: Come on.

Also, when debating this hugely important issue, you must consider that Brandon Walsh couldn’t stop time and talk to the camera like Zack Morris could. That's pretty awesome, I have to admit. So in the end the greatest debate in pop culture will wage on: Zack vs. Brandon. Who was the bigger icon? And perhaps the larger question still remains: How is Mario Lopez the only one who still has a relevant career? Huh?

Let's look at some other Saved by the Bell vs. 90210 Matchups. Who is a bigger pop culture icon . . .

1. DADS: Peter Morris vs. Jim Walsh
2. SCHOOL ADMINS: Mr. Belding vs. Vice Principal Teasley
3. TEACHERS: Ms. Bliss vs. Gil Myers
4. OTHER DADS: AC Slater's dad General Slater vs. Rush Sanders
5. HANGOUTS: Max/Max's vs. Nat/The Peach Pit
6. SUMMER BOSSES: Leon Carosi vs. Henry from the Beverly Hills Beach Club
7. THE GANG: Jessie Spano vs. Donna Martin
8. THE GANG: Lisa Turtle vs. Andrea Zuckerman
9. THE GANG: Tori the Biker Chick vs Steve Sanders
10. THE GANG: AC Slater vs Dylan McKay
11. THE GANG: Screech Powers vs. David Silver
12. KIND OF THE GANG: Stacey Carosi vs. Ray Pruitt
13. EVIL: Jeff who stole Kelly Kapowski vs. Garrett Sland who assaulted Donna Martin
14. MIXED TAG TEAM MATCH: Kelly Kapowski & Valerie Malone vs. Kelly Taylor & Brenda Walsh
15. SCHOOLS: Bayside High vs. West Beverly Hills High
16. QUOTES: "The sauce you can a have, but the secret she's a mine" (Screech Powers) vs. "Donna Martin Graduates!" (Class of '93)


Brian Huba
8/18/11