Category: People & Human Interest

Against arch-rival Jasper, the work paid off. Garrett dropped back to pass and in the words of his head coach Dan Hooks, a 72-year-old East Texas coaching legend with over 250 career wins, “just threw a perfect post-corner route for a touchdown. It was a beautiful pass.”

The crowd of 6,500 exulted. Garrett’s second touchdown pass of the game, midway through the second quarter, put his team up 21-0. Hooks remembers locking eyes with his quarterback as Garrett ran off the field. “He was smiling, the biggest smile you’d ever seen, just happy at what he’d done,” Hooks told FanHouse on Saturday

As Coach Hooks, a 48-year coaching veteran who has been head coach at West Orange-Stark for the past 30 years, turned to ensure that his special teams were ready to attempt the extra point, Garrett collapsed on the sideline.

“It happened so quick none of us knew what to think,” Hooks said.

FanHouse

The 17-year-old quarterback died at the hospital before the game was over.

“Anyone who says to you, ‘As long as you’re safe, that’s only stuff you’ve lost,’ doesn’t understand. That stuff is valuable. Most of what we value is in our homes,” he said. “You don’t just lose stuff, you lose mementos, keepsakes, photos and memories that help define your life. It is irreplaceable.”

Gone are the shoes that are perfectly broken in or the favorite sweater that you always looked your best in or cherished family recipes, Rosenthal said. He lost the sports coats that once belonged to his father.

Fourmile Fire – Boulder Daily Camera

Latest reports state 169 homes have been burned. Residents in some areas were allowed to return today but are encouraged to evacuate again tonight in advance of a forecast for 50 mile-per-hour winds.

The Consumerist asks, “Imagine if you will that you are standing before four doorways, each of which could magically improve one facet of your life — wealth, waistline, IQ, youth. You can only go through one doorway; which one do you choose?”

The results from an Ad Week/Harris poll:

43% chose richer
21% thinner
14% smarter
12% younger

Lord, what fools these mortals be! There’s always the chance to make yourself richer or thinner or more educated (if not actually smarter).

But younger, that would be the ultimate prize.

“Thus, on several occasions I have apologized for almost bumping into a large bearded man, only to realize that the large bearded man was myself in the mirror. The opposite situation once occurred at a restaurant. Sitting at a sidewalk table, I turned toward the window and began grooming my beard, as I often do. I then realized that what I had taken to be my reflection was not grooming himself but looking at me oddly.”

Oliver Sacks, writing about prosopagnosia, a condition that makes people unable to recognize faces. Link is to abstract of article.

Columbia University professor Michael Stone knows evil. He’s a forensic psychologist — the type of expert that provides testimony on the mental state of accused murderers when a declaration of insanity can mean the difference between life and death row.

Inspired by the structure of Dante’s circles of hell, Stone has created his own 22-point “Gradations of Evil” scale, made up of murderers in the 20th century. “I thought it would be an interesting thing to do,” he says.

The 22 examples in this NPR story are interesting to read about, too. Pleasant dreams.

“You think it’d be impossible to share your house with your wife, your daughter, and fifty million or so Argentine ants. And you would be correct.”

Tom Junod explains.

Read the breathtaking true story behind one soldier’s last trip home, The Things That Carried Him by Chris Jones.

A remarkable article. Everyone should read this.

“Do you remember this photograph? In the United States, people have taken pains to banish it from the record of September 11, 2001. The story behind it, though, and the search for the man pictured in it, are our most intimate connection to the horror of that day.”

Read The Falling Man.

Tom Junod’s wonderful profile of Fred Rogers.

Do yourself a favor and go read it. Seriously. You were a child once, too.

From three years ago today.

Hello, Mini-Maids

Wow, this house has more spiderwebs than Peter Parker’s bedroom. I just pulled one down (highlighted by the early morning sun) that could have trapped small mammals. Kind of pretty; maybe I should have left it until Halloween and just back lit it with a candle.

NewMexiKen used to have a house cleaner but she mostly just relocated all the stuff on shelves and tables so that it took me (not that I’m anal) almost as long to realign everything as it would have to clean myself.

Alas, but I don’t clean myself. I mean the place is tidy; no dishes in the sink, counters shiny, no papers on the floor, bed usually made, trash always out to the curb early Wednesday.

I just don’t dust, mop or vacuum much. Spiders like that in a housekeeper.

Timothy Noah says we’re the same person now that we were when we went to camp.

People (like myself) who didn’t enjoy camp tend to have a problem engaging in organized activities of all kinds. Later in life we often become criminals or sociopaths. The more respectable among us often become journalists. If we’re extremely bright or creative (or aspire to be), we may become writers or scholars or artists. The common thread is an outsider mentality. A self-flattering analysis, I know, but such is my privilege as author of this article.

Some people hated camp so much that they made their parents bring them home. These people should not be confused with the outlaws described above. There is nothing outré about not being able to endure summer camp. The come-and-get-me set grow up to be neurotic and needy. These are people who can often be heard on C-SPAN’s early-morning call-in program Washington Journal, filibustering from a time zone still blanketed in predawn darkness, until the host says, “Please state your question.”

In my case, as a camper I was klutz/nerd, so I think he’s right. I won the award for neatest camper — as in best at making my bed. I still have the award, too, as if you needed reassurance on that part.

Even now, 55 years later, I feel humiliated remembering my trial before camp-wide kangaroo court for stealing sand from the beach. It wasn’t my fault — the beach set me up.

An even better and funnier than usual post from dooce® today.

From one year ago today.

Stupid is as stupid does

I had my ID checked at the ball game the other night to buy a watered-down beer. OK, I’m used to this stupidity by now, checking the ID of obvious AARP members.

But this a-hole vendor insisted I take my license out of the plastic. He gave it a once over, made sure the hologram was there, and so on. Like I was getting on a f***ing airplane bound for Syria. (I will remind you that it became legal for me to buy alcoholic beverages 43 years ago.)

So I took the beer and gave it to a teenager in the crowd.

Today is Rembrandt’s birthday and that got me thinking about famous people who are known to us by one name. Rembrandt Harmenszoon van Rijn is one. Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni is another.

Edison Arantes do Nascimento is another variation, known best by his nickname Pelé.

Madonna Louise Ciccone of course.

Jesus certainly, though many keep trying to give him two names — Christ is the English version of the Greek Χριστός which is a translation of the Hebrew מָשִׁיחַ (pronounced messiah) or annointed one; it isn’t part of his name.

Royalty and popes don’t really count, but there’s Homer (the Greek, not Simpson) and Virgil, and Ringo and Sting. And Prince if we count affectations. And, of course, NewMexiKen.

Any others?

Amylynn’s adventure with the blood drive — Phlebotomist is Greek for Vampire. An excerpt:

Now I was alone – to think. For goodness sake, I scolded myself, you’ve had lasik eye surgery. You’ve bunjee jumped from a 17 story building! You’ve driven around race tracks at upwards of 200 mph. You’ve cleaned your son’s room. All of these things are much scarier than giving blood! QUIT BEING A BABY!

The wonderful Roger Angell on the wonderful Bob Sheppard. Angell concludes his tribute with this:

Down they go and out at street level, still at a careful run. Herb’s car, a beige 1995 Maxima, is in its regular slot in the team parking lot, just across the alley—the second car on the right. They’re in, they’re out, a left turn up the street, where they grab a right, jumping onto the Deegan, heading home. The cops there have the eastbound traffic stopped dead, waiting for Bob Sheppard: no one else in New York is allowed to make this turn. Two minutes, maybe two-twenty, after the game has ended and they’re gone, home free, the first of fifty thousand out of the building, every night.

First posted here five years ago today. If you read this story we will have to kill you.

A CIA manager once told me about life under cover. He went by his regular name, lived in a regular neighborhood, etc., but as far as anyone knew he worked for the Navy. In fact, he told me, one time his car broke down and his neighbor insisted on giving him a ride to work at the Washington Navy Yard (in southeast Washington, D.C.). The neighbor kept insisting and he finally had to accept.

After being left off at the Navy Yard the CIA employee had to figure how to get back across the Potomac to Virginia to his “real” office. He was further away than when he started.

In other instances we were often amused when we held a meeting that included CIA or other “under cover” agency personnel. The sign-in sheet consisted of names like Cindy D., Bob L., Frank C., etc.

Lastly, my particular favorite under cover story. After visiting a “secret” location for business and being well treated, I composed a short thank you note to the man in charge. I addressed it to him by name. I ran the draft past my staff member who was liaison with that agency. The staff member came back, saying the note was great except that the man’s name was classified because he worked undercover. So we sent the thank you without the name.

His actual name was John Smith.

Another fine essay from Timothy Egan. He begins:

I used to be a connoisseur of stories about young, doomed geniuses: the F. Scott Fitzgeralds or Vincent van Goghs who died early, broke and crushed, going to their graves before anyone appreciated them. Doomed alcoholic youth were even better, an added edge to their stunted nobility.
. . .

But those stories, like the doomed youth parables, no longer hold any inspiration for me. I now look to the late bloomer, somebody who kicks around in frustration and misdirection for decades before going on a brilliant late-innings streak.

Roger Ebert attends his 50th high school reunion and has some interesting observations and insights, including this:

One of the most noble undertakings in the history of the cinema is Michael Apt’s “Up” series of documentaries, which begins with a group of British 7-year-olds, and revisits them every 7 years, most recently in 2005 when they were 49. These films are the proof of Wordsworth’s belief that “the child is father of the man.” Looking at my classmates, I wondered if perhaps the person we are at 18 is the person we will always be, despite everything else that comes our way. All that happens is that slowly we become more aware of what matters in life.

Do you agree?

Engel had suffered a stroke. It had damaged the part of his brain we use when we read, so he couldn’t make sense of letters or words. He was suffering from what the French neuroscientist Stanislas Dehaene calls “word blindness.” His eyes worked. He could see shapes on a page, but they made no sense to him. And because Engel writes detective stories for a living (he authored the Benny Cooperman mystery series, tales of a mild-mannered Toronto private eye), this was an extra-terrible blow. “I thought, well I’m done as a writer. I’m finished.”

Learn how The Writer Who Couldn’t Read learned to read and write again.

Link via Andrew Sullivan

Last evening my friend Donna got back from Washington and we decided to meet for some pie at a Flying Star, one of the local coffee shop chain. It was nearing 9.

I had to make a left turn on the way and it required a wait for traffic to clear. Opposite me turning left from the oncoming traffic was a vehicle with its bright lights on. I tried to avoid looking at the lights, of course, but couldn’t help it somewhat as I watched the oncoming traffic in the adjacent lanes. Finally I was able to turn left, then I took the first right.

It was an unlit street and the glare from the bright lights was still bouncing around my retinas. At first I thought I was seeing things. And then I did see it.

It was an elderly man in a wheel chair crossing the street. No lights, no reflecting tape, only my headlights barely illuminating him. I slowed and went around; by the time I passed he was nearly on the dirt next to the street along a large undeveloped field. He was moving slowly, Fred Flintstone style.

I continued the quarter mile or so to the parking lot of the Flying Star, recovering from being startled and wondering what to do. There were two long-term care facilities back where the man was. One was assisted care apartments; the other what used to be called a nursing home. It might be he was fine; it might be he was not. Was it my business?

Donna arrived and I told her about it. We decided to go back and see if he was still there.

He was, just about where he’d been a few minutes earlier. We drove past and went to the nursing care facility.

I wandered in. No locks, no receptionist. But it was clean and it was nice and it was as scary as hell. (Perhaps it is hell.)

I continued back, finally seeing a nurse or orderly down the hall. I called to him, eventually got his attention and told him about the man. We ran out a back door and I showed him my apparition in the dark on the other side of the street about 100 yards away.

The attendant went and got John and wheeled him back across the street. John did not want to come this way; it was “goddam this and goddammit that”. His arms were heavily bruised and bandaged. I helped lift John, a big man, and his wheelchair over a curb. The attendant thanked me for saving the man’s life. I told him there was no need to get dramatic, but I was glad I saw him and could help. I left them there, outside the door we’d come out. The attendant called someone to unlock the door. It was raining lightly.

We had coconut cream pie.