How Superman Should Have Ended

This clip perpetuates the age-old question: Who's better, Superman or Batman?

What, This Old Thing?

The other day I was looking for batteries and found the Nintendo Game Boy I got for Christmas...oh...about 17 years ago. Donna and I have been playing it pretty much non-stop all week. It's been a good distraction during the wettest summer on record.

I am happy to report that my Tetris skills are still sharp after all these years. Donna is still working on her game, but we are confident that through hours of practice, she'll get to where she needs to be.

Harry Potter - Maybe You've Heard of It?

I work in an office full of people eagerly devouring their freshly printed copies of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. These are perfectly reasonable adults, for the most part, and they've gone completley bonkers. I can't remember the last time something had so many people so excited.

At the same time I am witnessing Potter-mania rage through the adult ranks, I keep seeing articles about the spiritual merits of the series and the implications on children. What's really interesting, and I think very telling, is that some of these articles slam the Potter series for being overtly satanic and dangerous while others actually compare J.K. Rowling to C.S. Lewis.

I have not read any of the books or seen any of the movies, so I can't really comment on the validity of relating the stories to Christianity. But I thought you guys might have some insight.

You all have kids or work with kids and I wanted to know if you've read the books and/or would you let your own kids read them?

Use the comments to respond.

Who Can Throw Away a Career in One Easy Step?

One sure fire way to lose friends, particularly in the South, is to be mean to a dog. Here are just a few examples of the reverence we have for our four-legged friends:

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Southern dogs in movies:

- Old Yeller

- Skip

- Hubert

Southern dogs in music:

- Big Dog

Southern dogs in literature:

- Old Dan and Little Ann

- Marley

- Hank

Vick is being vilified more than had he done something to an actual person. Even if he's cleared, this will leave more of a stigma than most of the nefarious activities of his contemporaries. People will forgive drug abuse. Steroids? No problem. Even worse, when a superstar beats up the wife it's usually forgotten with a public apology and a little counseling.

But drowning and electrocuting dogs? It's hard to imagine what goes on inside the diseased mind of someone who justifies this. And Vick is not alone. Unfortunately, the next time a public figure does this it will be less shocking. And before long it will barely get our attention. Gun charges and stints in rehab barely make headlines anymore, and I can't even estimate the number of times over the past five years when the words "NFL" and "strip club" have been spoken in the same sentence.

Somewhere Troy Aikman is helping an old lady to cross the street on his way to the grand opening of the Troy Aikman Super Fantastic Center for Disadvantaged Puppies.

The Exception to the 5-Second Rule

My friend Jeremy is the type of guy who can accomplish anything he wants by simply willing himself to do it. He’s run a marathon, written some cool songs and became a pretty good photographer, all basically because he felt like it.

One semester he decided he wanted to score a 4.0 GPA. Jeremy’s a smart guy, but like most liberal arts majors at SFA, not what you would call a stand-out student. But for some reason he decided to ace every class, a couple of which we were taking together. He disappeared that semester and resurfaced with a perfect 4.0.

Another time we were walking in the woods (something we spent a lot of time doing) and we came across a tree that was about 30ft. tall, straight up and down, no limbs or anything. I made a bet with him that he couldn’t climb it. About 45 seconds later he was standing on top of it. Jeremy made driving his car (or Wyatt’s delivery trucks) look like rocket science, but could take some of the most absurdly challenging tasks and just make them happen. That’s just the kind of guy he is.

But his most impressive feat took place in my living room at Lakewood Village, apartment #129. Jeremy lived way outside of town so he’d spend a lot of time at 129 between classes and in the evenings to avoid making the trip back and forth between Nacogdoches and whatever that Podunk town was called. Anyway, he was over one night and we were hanging out like we always did.

Because I lived with chick-magnet Jonathan, our kitchen was always full of goodies. Homemade cookies and other treats had a way of finding their way to our apartment. On this particular night, we were finishing off a plate of Rice Crispy treats. When Jerms showed up there was only one left. Sometimes a guy gets that look in his eyes when he’s so focused on something everything else kind of fades away. That’s how Jeremy was looking at this Rice Crispy treat. This Rice Crispy treat was about to make his day.

Unfortunately, before he could take a seat on one of our four couches, he fumbled his goody and it landed on the floor. Now, let me remind you that this was the carpet of an apartment that three guys shared, none of whom were passionate about cleanliness. The combination of our heavily trafficked carpet and the stickiness of the Rice Crispy treat was a recipe for disaster. This didn’t bother Jeremy. He picked it up for a closer look and we all knew what was on his mind.

Had it been my Rice Crispy treat that fell on the floor, I would have probably donated it to science. Not Jeremy, his cup was half-full. For the next 10 minutes or so, Jerms painstakingly picked every piece of floor matter off the Rice Crispy treat; carpet fibers, crumbs from other dropped foodstuffs and, of course, enough pubic hair to knit a sweater. When the Rice Crispy treat was picked bald, Jeremy enjoyed it without a trace of dimmed enthusiasm.

We all learned a little something about desire that night.

Word Association

It’s weird that when I hear a Don Williams song, any Don Williams song, I think not about my wife, but my friend Jonathan. Don Williams, for those of you unfortunate enough to not know who I’m talking about, sings some of the best love songs ever recorded. They’re sappy and sincere, which makes it a little weird that when one of these songs plays my mind wanders to Jonathan.

But let me tell you why.

Jonathan and I were college roommates for two almost-consecutive years. We shared apartment 129 at Lakewood Village with our other friend, Jason. Now, Jonathan was not only good looking, but just about the nicest guy I knew, so he tended to draw a predominately female crowd. On any given night there were usually 2-3 co-eds loitering around # 129, just hanging around.

Despite the attention, or maybe because of it, Jonathan didn’t date much and coasted through most of his school days pretty much unattached. But one semester he decided to develop a crush on one of our neighbors. I think they might have gone out once or twice, but nothing much happened. As guys are prone to do, the more disinterested the neighbor was in Jonathan, the more interested he became in her.

Now, it’s important to know that said neighbor was really only marginally attractive, slightly above average. I would say that among the throngs of girls who found their way in and out of Jonathan’s orbit, she probably ranked somewhere in the middle of the pack in the looks department.

The neighbor's name happens to be the same as one of Don’s best songs. So, naturally, Jonathan would play the song on repeat for hours at a time, over and over. It’s hard to get tired of Don, but Jonathan was pushing the envelope. This lasted a few days until one sunny afternoon he snapped out of it, ready to move on, forget about the unattainable neighbor and, at last, put in another CD. We all breathed a sigh of relief.

Then someone knocked on the door.

I opened it up and standing before me was one of the most confounding images I’ve ever served witness to. Our so-so looking neighbor was standing in our doorway, only now she was an absolute vision. I don’t know if it was how the sunlight was silhouetting her figure or the way her blue dress made her eyes dance, but in that instant Jason and I realized what our roommate had seen in her. We sat for a few seconds with our mouths open before she asked to use our vacuum cleaner or something. By the time she left, Jonathan was in the throws of a full-fledged relapse and Jason and I were following right behind him.

We reset the CD player. Disc 1, track 2, repeat.

Only Somebody From Texas

A couple of years ago I was on a flight from Atlanta to Dallas and struck up a conversation with the guy sitting next to me. He was young, 19, and on his way home from Iraq. He was an air traffic controller in the Air Force and was heading home to California to get married. We talked for a while about the war and hometowns and what he had missed while he was gone.

He had a cast on his wrist and, hoping for a good story, I asked about it. He seemed a little hesitant to tell me about how it happened, which to me suggested maybe it was the result of some traumatic war-related activity. I pushed, and finally he told me he had broken his wrist playing volleyball in the Iraqi desert.

After a little more conversation, he made a comment about the book I was reading. It was a collection of essays written by important Texans. He said he could tell I was from Texas because “only somebody from Texas would read about other Texans.”

I told him only somebody from California would go all the way to Iraq and break their wrist playing beach volleyball.