It’s a crushing blow when you learn that an institution you hold sacred is nothing but a sham. For some, it was the tooth fairy. For others, it was the wizard of Oz or a balanced federal budget or chiropractors. For me, it was between-innings sumo wrestling.
You know the kids are home on summer break when you start running out of the food you bought yesterday.
Last week, I went to the cupboard in search of a sweet treat for dessert, and found Thing 1 and Thing 2, who had been out of school less than 36 hours, already had devoured the entire box of snack cakes I had purchased the day before.
Researchers studying chaos theory should leave the lab and try coaching fourth-grade basketball.
If you want a good look at how random elements affect dynamic situations, look no farther than a basketball tournament for 10-year-old boys. Check out a game sometime: You’ll find 10 beginners attempting to play basketball, but succeeding primarily in developing a hybrid of rugby and amoeba soccer, where everyone keeps stealing the ball from one another and at any given time half the players are laying on the court crying. You’ll also find two sets of coaches popping Advil like Skittles.
Who knew awarding the winter Olympics to a summer resort town would result in problems?
So thought the International Olympic Committee, apparently, when it awarded this year’s Games to Russia eight years ago. I’m sure no rubles exchanged hands over this deal, which resulted in Sochi getting picked over Salzburg, Austria. You know, a place that actually has winter.
They say there’s a lot of typecasting in community theater, but I don’t buy it.
That’s why I wasn’t offended when the director of the fall musical asked me to play a short, psychotic and flamboyant villain. I figured she was presenting me with the acting challenge of a lifetime.
It’s at this time of year, when summer’s last hot blast gives way to autumn’s pleasant evenings, that the dirty laundry gets aired in my neighborhood. And I’m not talking about unmentionables hanging on the line.
I may have made it just under the wire.
I wanted desperately to perform alongside my daughter before the “dad is still cool” window of opportunity closed. She’s 12, you see, and in her eyes I’m getting a little dumber and dorkier every day. OK, perhaps in EVERYONE’s eyes I’m getting a little dumber and dorkier every day.