Welcome to America! What would you like in your Super Bowl?

I make no secret of the fact that I am not a football fan. In fact, I'm not a 'sports' guy at all. For the most part, I don't play, watch, or really care one way or the other about them. There's just not much there to hold my interest. Given the choice, I fully admit that I'd rather curl up on the couch with my wife to watch Say Anything or Shakespeare in Love (for the 47th time) than hang with boys to 'watch the big game'. And most contemporary psychological theory would tell me that's okay. Back me up here, Oprah. But I digress . . . .

Despite my almost categorical disinterest in sports, as a kid I did devote that requisite three hours per year with my family downstairs on the couch. While we inhaled our hoagies, Doritos, and clam dip, I did my best to feign interest as we watched the big, sweaty, testosterone-and-steroid saturated men in helmets dance their ackward end-run cha cha's across our giant 20" Technicolor RCA.

The appeal for me was more the combination of clever commercials and junk food than the game. An hour afterward, I would have been hard pressed to tell you what the final score was. But did you check out that new Dr. Pepper commercial?! How'd they get those people to dance on the ceiling ? Probably super powers or something. Amazing. To this day, I love Lionel Richie and Dr. Pepper equally.

So speaking of Dr. Pepper, multi-million dollar airtime, and unbridled capitalism, I was reading the Tribune last Saturday. As expected, the news in Arizona is of course all a buzz this year with Superbowl hype. I normally skip right over the sports section, but as I was making breakfast Karolee was scanning the headlines. She started reading an article to me about what people are willing to pay these days for a good seat. Any guesses? $500? Nope, you can't even tailgate within city limits for that. $1000? Keep trying. (although your Grover Cleveland will will buy you a big new wall-mounted plasma and all the Keystone Light you can drink).

Okay, you really want to know? The average price for a ticket (in the nosebleeds, mind you) is around $4000. The most expensive ticket is upwards of $18,000!!

That's one-eight-comma-zero-zero-zero.

When she read that, I stopped my egg making mid-scramble and rushed to the table, sure that there must have been either a typo or a misplaced decimal. But sure enough, someone-- apparently lots of someones-- out there are willing spend $18,000 to get close enough smell the B.O. and Gatorade. That's around $6000 an hour to sit on a plastic seat, watch some football , and bear witness to a 'live' Britney lip sync (tube sock arm-cozies and all) or experience a celebrity wardrobe malfunction. Maybe you get free appetizers and cocktails.

But $18,000. . . I was speechless. I don't consider myself particularly thrifty and I'm not immune to materialism. But something about this struck a chord. As I stood there mystified, my mind was reeling. My vision blurred. My stomach began to turn. TV commericals from my 1980's adolescence started swirling and overlapping in my head. For an instant, I was Sally Struthers, standing outside a desolate plague-ridden Ethiopian village, pleading to 30 million white, middle-class suburbanites on the other side of the camera lens. "For just 79 cents a day, this poor emaciated little girl can receive three meals a day, clothing, and the medicine she so desperately needs . . . "

Then it all clicked.

Those charity case commericals used to get under my skin. There was actually a time long ago when I wondered why so many foreign cultures despise Americans. If you're still wondering, you don't have to look beyond my newspaper. I even saved a copy for you.

It's not you they hate. It's not me. It's not even wardrobe malfunctions. It's not who we are. It's what you, me, and Britney can and often do become. And it all has to do with perspective.

From the 'outside world's' perspective, Americans live in a big, fast, pretentious, overcommercialized, overweight, shallow, misguided world. Yes, we all know this. We are the Ugly Americans. Everything has become Walmart. People spend more on cars than I did on my house. My house could provide shelter for 17 families in Mogadishu.

Our counterparts in foregin countries see us bask in our ignorant, wasteful, overconsuming, and sheltered bliss. They see our shrines as football arenas packed with money-laden fanatic fans watching armored warriors battle for domination. They see . . . well . . .you get the picture. I don't think the Superbowl is inherintly evil. I don't think that capitalism, sports, or 'finally getting your piece of the pie' are bad things either. I like pie.

I was going to go into the this elaborate, scathing criticism on the shortcomings of Western society and how disconnected we've become from the things we claim to value-- like charity, compassion, identifying a freind in need, helping those who can't help themselves. I was going to talk about all that, but I won't. Karolee told me I need to drop it.

She's right. But . . .

What I will say is that if you feel even just a teeny little bit like I did when you found out that a ticket to the Superbowl costs $18,000, then there are things you SHOULD and SHOULDN'T do about it. You SHOULDN'T spend an entire week festering and obsessing over how warped and selfish this country has come.--like I did. Instead, you SHOULD sit down on the living room floor on a Saturday night and talk to your wife (or husband) . He or she might remind you that change starts with helping our own families, neighbors, friends, donating clothes you don't need, etc. And with that said, I hope I'm not a hypocrite.

I, like everyone else, could be doing a little bit more. I don't have an extra $18,000, but I probably have an extra $1.80. Buy a bum a Coke and sit down and talk to him. Listen to his story (I had a friend named George whom I should thank for that suggestion; without his example I would have never gained the insights that I did from Phil and Freddie 'The Dreamer' Wall). Go volunteer somewhere. Get to know the family next door to you. It doesn't matter. If you give a little more, someone else might not have to take so much.

I just hope someday Americans, with all that we have access to, will reach a point at which they care as much about that filling that emaciated little girl's rice bowl as they do packing the Superbowl. That's all.


Keep it in perspective,


Jake

Happy Birthday Baranga

Karolee pretty much said it all on the family blog, but things just wouldn't be right if I didn't send my own birthday shoutout to this crazy, sweet 4-year old. You drive me insane, you make me laugh until I hurt, I hold you almost entirely responsible for these gray hairs that keep appearing on my head, you're incredible. . . just like your mom. And I can tell by the look on your face that you agree. Thank God for you, baby doll.

Happy birthday Miranda.

All my love,

Dag

Weekday Mornings

At 31 years old, I find that I’ve reached a point in life at which I love early mornings just as much as late nights.

Today I woke to the sweet sound of Maddy's soft, sleepy morning voice. She was awake-- ready to have Mom do her hair, eager to select today’s hottest fashion, and famished from her adventures in dreamland. I hopped out of bed with a greater sense of urgency than usual since we had less than half of an hour to get her out the door and off to school. We were rushed, but considering that our internal clocks are set to Fritz-Mecham Standard Time (FMST) which runs anywhere from 7 to 23 minutes behind the presiding time zone, it was nothing unusual. Rushing is something to which we’ve simply had to adapt.

But provided we have enough time, the early weekday morning ritual is one I cherish. Sometimes we talk a lot over cereal and sandwich-making; other times we’re still sleepy and silently enjoy that daddy/daughter time together at one of the calmest hours of the day. (Miranda and Pitter Patter generally don’t start stirring until Maddy's off to school). On the best days, Karolee will have just finished her morning run by the time Maddy and I make our way downstairs. Sometimes we’ll make parfaits with yogurt, fruit, and granola. Occasionally Karolee will have old-fashioned oatmeal or German pancakes ready. Whatever the daily fare, it’s a rare chance for the three of us to ease into the day over breakfast, coffee (well, for me anyway), newspaper horoscopes, and tales of fervent 1st grade boy-chasing.

I love those mornings.

Despite the aforementioned FMST handicap, our running behind today was primarily due to my having stolen a few minutes too many of what I consider to be the very best kind of sleep . . . those sensuous nine-minute intervals in between snooze cycles on the clock radio. As parents of three, Karolee and I both enjoy precious little sleep. We each set the alarm a bit early most days to ensure we’ll have at least two or three chances to stave off the unwelcome AM torrent of incessant beeping and FM static.

Note: We intentionally set the radio dial between stations (Country and/or Top 40 stations work best as they’re all basically total crap) to achieve the most jarring combination of noises possible. This helps to ensure that we will actually wake when the alarm sounds.

There’s a subtle psychological gratification to playing the “snooze game”. It’s just one of the myriad ways in which we fool ourselves into thinking we have control over our external world; that we can somehow manipulate it according to our needs or desires. If time is an unyielding oppressive taskmaster, then our stupid clock radio-- in its gloriously brazen discord-- is his obnoxious, autocratical henchman. The truth is that despite our own wishes to the contrary, inevitably we all surrender to the taskmaster’s command. But it can be immensely satisfying to whack his henchman squarely on the head a couple of times before we do. . .

JF

A Letter From God (It is Sunday after all, right?)

This is a lyrical piece by a freestyle MC from the UK who goes by the handle 'Scroobius Pip'. I hadn't heard of him before this afternoon. Karolee stumbled upon him online and we were both impressed. If you know me at all, you already know I love this kind of 'street prophet' heady intellectual hip hop stuff. The first thing Karolee and I thought to compare him to was sort of a British (gentile?) counterpart to Matisyahu (of whom we're both huge fans).

However you care to label him or his style of expression, it's hard to argue with the understated salience of this piece. Personally, I was blown away-- both by his message and its delivery. I can't wait to dig into more of his work. Some of his material is available on YouTube and MySpace (you can link to that page from his name above). From the looks of it, he's pretty much keeping things street level, but I wouldn't be surprised to see him blow up the way his 'kosher counterpart' (forgive me) did. But enough of my words . . . Happy pondering. This one'll make you think.

Panic Division is the Coolest Band in the World.

You would be better off if you were to watch the video for 'Big Day' by the Panic Division. Thus, I have provided it for you below. If you have doubts, you should know that I recently received confirmation from a number of trusted sources that they are indeed the coolest band on the planet. This band is amazing. Seriously. Please enjoy.

Think the Giant Orange 'Jake' Header is Silly? Me too. (but it's staying)

Okay, I updated the page a little bit, added some songs that Matt and I have been working on, etc. There isn't much in the way of words here yet, but when I think of some words, I'll put them here so you can read them if you want. But if you don't want to, then by all means, don't. I'm tired. It's late. Sleep well.

Please go away immediately.

Good evening and thank you for deciding to read this post. Chances are if you're visting my page you already know who I am ( I am Jake). If you don't, please leave immediately. Your time would be better spent reading the blog of someone you know or with whom you share common interests.

If you do know me, please also go away immediately. There's nothing here yet. That isn't to say that there won't be, because there will be. Oh yes, my friend . . .whatever your name is . . . there will be. It's very likely that this blog will become your favorite virtual place. I can't believe how good it's going to be.

But for now, you really should either hit the back button on your browser (the page you just navigated from is more interesting than this) or get back to work or help your wife (or husband) (or Mom or Dad) with the laundry. You know there are piles of it. And how long have you been putting off getting that oil changed? If you have over 15 minutes to spare, maybe that's what you ought to be doing.

I'm sorry to disappoint you, but there just isn't anything to see here yet. And please, don't think I'm trying to force you away. I'm not. I care about you and would hate to think that you wasted more than the 15 seconds it took you to read through the fifth sentence of this blog (that's the one in which you were instructed to go away).

But please do check back because boy, is there some good stuff coming. Just not now.

So please. Go.

You're still here!

Come back later.

We're closed.

Good night.