Just Another Thanksgiving Column...

It’s a new Thanksgiving tradition in my family to drive from Jacksonville to Atlanta to stay with my sister Allison and her family. Thanksgivings became sketchy after the death of my mother. One time my father and I went to the downtown Denver condo of his then flame and had it with her family. There was no joy as football was forbidden and it was seen as a great compromise to even watch the Broncos who were playing the Lions that year. Another year, Dad and I bought a pre-made turkey that we had to heat up in the microwave. The last Thanksgiving we spent together, I cooked him ham steaks and his precious orange Jell-o salad. He loved to spread mayonnaise on the salad which is still at the top of the list of the most disgusting things I’ve ever tasted.

But this year I’m more thankful than ever for family and even in my depressed haze I’ve realized that there’s more to be grateful for…

I’m thankful for Chunky Bars. Those that don’t like raisins and chocolate have no soul.

I’m thankful that the fates conspired to have John Lennon, Paul McCartney and George Harrison live in the same neighborhood in Liverpool.

I’m thankful that soccer isn’t the most popular sport in America.

I’m thankful for Walt Simonson being the nicest comic book professional on God’s green earth.

I’m thankful that the Muppets are cool again.

I’m thankful for Coke Zero. This is the one thing that Glenn Beck and I agree on.

I’m thankful for Jon Stewart keeping people honest.

I’m thankful that Mr. and Ms. Marx had five sons, four of which became the Marx Brothers. I’m also thankful that Hal Roach paired Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy.

I’m thankful that Dave Krieger writes for The Denver Post. It’s good to have sanity represented.

I’m thankful for timelessness. Bugs Bunny will never get old.

I’m thankful for Herman Cain. He’s a satirist’s dream.

I’m thankful for Dan Issel. I just wanted the big guy to know that there’s still one fan left.

I’m thankful for Pearls Before Swine, Cul de Sac, and Get Fuzzy. The art of the comic strip isn’t dead.

I’m thankful for Jim Ross, I just wish the right people were.

I’m thankful for indoor plumbing. Ye olde golden years must not have been pretty.

I’m thankful for Sam Calagione and Garrett Oliver. I’m also thankful that Jacksonville has three more breweries than I thought it would. It has three.

I’m thankful for music. There are some genres that I could do without, but music is the sum of all its parts, even Yngwie Malmsteen.

I’m thankful that what I said when I was going to Parker Junior High School came true. I’m nearly forty and still listening to Rush. Stryper on the other hand…

I’m thankful for Champ Bailey because there’s at least one Bronco who isn’t a fad.

I’m thankful for Youtube, not because of cute animals and people falling on their asses, but because it’s a virtual Music on Demand service.

And most of all I’m thankful for my family, friends and the dogs in my life. Life wouldn’t be the same without them.

Tebowmania (Or How I Stopped Worrying and Just Went With It)

I am a lifelong Bronco fan. When you're born and raised in Denver, your first words are often "Go Broncos" instead of "Mama" or "Dada." The passion for the Broncos is not unlike the fervor in the South for college football. People tailgate for days, paint their faces and root for their team win or lose. We even had a guy dress up in a barrel for 30 years. Life as a Bronco fan was always fun. The Broncos had players that were great but were our little secret: Randy Gradishar, Floyd Little, Rich "Tombstone" Jackson, Tom Jackson, Dennis Smith, Steve Atwater, and Karl Mecklenburg just to name a few. There was some guy John Elway who ruled like a king for sixteen years over the region with one of the best careers in NFL history.

There were characters on the field like Lyle Alzado and characters in the stands. The South Stands in the old Mile High was where the most hardcore fans sat and woe upon you if you were there wearing a Raiders jersey. They had coaches like John Ralston, Lou Saban, and Red Miller. It was the first proving ground that Wade Phillips is a great coordinator but not a good head coach. There were two coaches that rose above all in Dan Reeves and Mike Shanahan. Between the two of them they coached the Broncos for twenty-four years combined and got the Broncos to five Super Bowls with Shanahan winning two. In both their eras, the Broncos were good and often great; always being competitive. In the end, Shanahan became stuck in his own ways and wouldn't fire his defensive coordinator. Broncos owner Pat Bowlen, in turn, fired him.

And then there was the Great Disaster that would plague the Broncos for years to come. The villain that would indeed enable Broncomageddon was hired. And who is this villain? Doctor Doom? Lex Luthor? Who could drag this proud franchise to its knees?

The answer is a 33 year old Patriots offensive coordinator named Josh McDaniels. If someone was paid by another team to destroy the Broncos on purpose they wouldn't have done as good of a job as McDaniels did by accident. During the first year of his reign of terror he traded a Pro Bowl quarterback in Jay Cutler and had a horrific draft of which only three of those ten picks remain on the roster. The first two picks, Knowshon Moreno and Robert Ayers, have been disappointing and the rest were garbage. I'm still not sure of Richard Quinn's existence. I believe that a Richard Quinn is a mythical creature, much like an unicorn or leprechaun.

The team went out to a 6-0 start and people began to believe... then they fell on their faces and finished 8-8 and missed the playoffs. Not content for just mediocrity, McDaniels strove for true ineptitude. He traded more established players away like Tony Scheffler, Peyton Hillis and the mercurial Brandon Marshall. He acquired a young quarterback in Brady Quinn and then quickly threw him to the side and drafted a younger quarterback. While his second draft was much more successful (with six of those picks sticking around), it was much more controversial when they spent a first round pick on former Heisman winner Tim Tebow.

Tebow is a lightning rod to say the least. He seems like a nice, genuine guy. There are some inaccuracies that he has helped foster about his high school and college careers. I'm pretty sure that "they" said that he could be a high school quarterback and I'm sure "they" also said that he could win the Heisman and win a national championship. To many people he is the antithesis of today's rich, spoiled athlete. To his fans he is the opposite of Pacman Jones, Michael Vick and Ben Roethlisberger, a squeaky clean baby-faced champion that says his prayers and takes his vitamins. Never mind that the vast majority of NFL players are good guys and not thugs (I'd like to see him in a pray off with Brian Dawkins for example), he is the answer to all their prayers. I don't have problems with religious athletes and I don't really have a problem with Tebow. It's his wide eyed Moonie like fans that irritate the shit out of me. My other problem is that I'm a Bronco fan in Jacksonville, Florida which only makes it worse.

Tebow's throwing motion is ugly. Like bowling shoe ugly. His passes often sail over his intended targets by yards, not feet. Sometimes his passes looks like a UFO twirling around rather than a tight spiral and then goes to no one in particular. He looked so bad in the preseason that there were talks about him being the fourth string quarterback. Kyle Orton was the clear starter, then stunk up the joint and then was benched for Tebow and sure enough, except for one game in which he was abused by the Lions, he's won.

So what now? I don't believe that some one can just be a winner. I believe that skill and talent win out or an exceptional supporting cast helps you reach your goals. Tebow still has time to grow, but in the future he will not only face fearsome defensive players, but the greatest defensive minds in the country. Men like Bill Belichick and Lovie Smith are the equivalent of Nobel laureates in the way they know football defenses. He will be challenged and he may not succeed.

But for now, and especially after the Josh McDaniels error, I'm just going to enjoy the ride and go with it. Who knows? Maybe I'm wrong.

Replacing Andy Rooney

When Andy Rooney died, a gaping hole in our society emerged: the grumpiest man in America. Rooney's reign as our equivalent of Dana Carvey's Old Man skit on Saturday Night Live was unprecedented. For 33 years he came into our homes and complained about our meals, noting that the kitchen tile didn't match the cabinets and fussed on how indoor plumbing was making America soft. We desperately need another like him and luckily there are plenty of candidates. I'm just going to list eight and show the odds of them replacing Rooney.

JOHN MADDEN: 25 to 1

A bit of a dark horse as he has already retired from broadcasting, Madden's grumpiness could transcend just football as one could imagine him complaining about one too many poppy seeds on his bagel. While he's publicly said that he doesn't mind Frank Caliendo's impression of him, you can see it rankle him. In the end, Madden will end up on a lounge chair on the deck of his massive mansion wistfully lamenting that Brett Favre only played for twenty years instead of thirty.

JAMES CARVILLE: 20 to 1

Carville gets positive points for his ability to go from docile to enraged in 6.6 seconds, but the Democratic strategist gets negative marks for both looking like Tippy the Turtle and being utterly incomprehensible when he starts talking fast. He sounds like a dolphin with a southern twang when he gets going.

BOB RYAN: 75 to 1

Ryan gets on this list because of his uncanny resemblance to Rooney and his wonderful grunts and hand gestures when he dismisses a point or disagrees with someone. Sadly, Ryan's grumpiness is held only to sports and we wouldn't get rants about different kinds of breakfast cereals and how different fruit judge each other. All we would get would be dissertations on the Red Sawx and how wonderful Bill Belichick is.

JACK CAFFERTY: 5 to 1

One of the favorites to succeed Rooney, Cafferty's glumness is a positive to his campaign to be the most grumpy man in the world. His negatives? He's just too serious. You could tell him a joke and he'd wonder how it would effect the upcoming election. His starch bill at the dry cleaners is more than the GDP of most third world countries.

DON RICKLES: 10 to 1

America's favorite insult comedian and the master of laughing at you instead of laughing with you, Don Rickles has been a headliner in Las Vegas since the Mesolithic age. Gracefully blessed with the ability to insult anyone with a pulse, Rickles' grumpiness is legendary but sadly dated like expired ham. Don? They haven't been called Negroes in half a century. You might want to update your act, but why bother since you're one good scare away...

LEWIS BLACK: 99 to 1

At a spry 63 years old, Lewis Black is the youngest of our candidates. He's hysterically funny and angry at the same time and that's an art form unto itself. But there's one glaring problem with his hat being in the race; he's not going to make it to 70 because his head will explode before then. Glenn Beck will say something stupid like Rick Santorum being the next George Washington and Black's head will explode like the guy from Scanners.

TOM BROKAW: 75 to 1

An odd choice to be sure, Tom Brokaw has been level headed and nearly austere for as long as I can remember. He has grace and style. So why is he on this list? Because since he's retired from being NBC Nightly News anchor he's been primarily obsessed with one thing... the generation that fought World War II. That can only warp someone's sensibilities because speaking for all the generations that followed the greatest generation.. we kinda suck. Could you imagine the pandemonium that would ensue if the government rationed sugar? Gasoline? I've seen people freak out in snowstorms over eggs. This can only lead to being a crotchety old man when you do research on people who gave up so much and then look around and watch people complain that their Starbucks latte is too cold? It probably takes the patience of Job for him to not dopeslap someone who cries about shitty cell phone service.

LOU DOBBS: 2 to 1

Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winnah! Lou Dobbs is consistently grumpy about everything. He's so bitter, baker's chocolate is sweet in comparison. I don't know if he has a food labels rant in him, but he's so easily outraged about anything. He's built to run smoochers off of his property. His ire may be too focused on illegal immigrants, but he's feisty and defiant at the same time. A wonderful match in the quest for the newest angry old man.

Five Signs that I'm Getting Older

I recently attended a college football game with my nephew and one of his friends. We parked the car and walked to his friends' fraternity house where there was a pre-game party. I'm about as anti-Fraternity as you can get. GDI (God Damn Independent) should be GDPTCTFT (God Dam Person That Can Think For Themselves) in my estimation. But the thing that I learned the most from the party?

I'm getting old.

No longer a hipster, I'm a poser. I'm now the thing I fear most. I'm becoming my father.

1. Turn Down That Music!

This is where I've been clinging on for dear life. I used to get the music magazines, look bands up online, and even bought CDs that were marginal because I thought I was going to hold on and not be that guy who says "That's not music, that's just noise!"

Then I heard Drake's "Over" for the first time and I had the sudden urge to tell kids to get off my lawn. I didn't get it. It was awful. I wasn't receiving what those darn kids were transmitting. I was crushed.

2. Waddya Mean Adult Contemporary?

I've always liked some of the Classic Rock acts, but my usual focus was on the here and now. This trend ended when I bought a James Taylor album and wasn't being ironic or planning on using it as a coaster. I turned 35 and I felt like drinking prune juice and eating at 4.

3. Mystery Pains.

I creak and pop like a stairwell in an haunted mansion. One day my back will ache and another day my knees will hurt... FOR NO REASON. I can identify where/when the pain comes from (lifting a box or shin splints) but some of it is just puzzling.

4. Loss of Icons

I remember growing up with Johnny Carson. He was bigger than life, but stop a twenty something on the street and ask them who he was and they'll have blank stares on their faces. You can apply this to hundreds of stars and icons. Groucho Marx? Forgotten. Laurel and Hardy? Decidedly un-hip. The stars that we grew up on are fading ciphers. I hate using "back in my day" but somehow it's apropos. Nostalgia is a bowl of raisin bran watching Saturday morning cartoons. How nostalgic will we be for these times? Other than the shitstorm of news stories (Katrina, 9/11, Iraq, Afghanistan, Penn State) there's nothing to retain. Society has become disposable. We spend more time on the frivolous and less on the permanent. In past eras, Kim Kardashian would be a whisper that would occasionally show up in magazines, today she's inescapable... for no reason.

5. Memories Fade Away

It's not just short term memory where you lose your key or wander into a room and forget why you went in there in the first place (I've done that more times than I can count). It's losing moments that were near and precious to you. More stuff goes in, more stuff goes out and hopefully you don't lose the wrong memories.

The Need for Heroes

Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy - F. Scott Fitzgerald

There was a moment in my life that I will never forget. I was fifteen years old and I was taken by my father to get a winter jacket and in a rare moment of splurging, my dad agreed to buy me a sports themed jacket. We went to a sporting goods store and shown to the jacket rack... and there it was as clear as day was a Penn State jacket. My eyes lit up like a firecracker; it was like that moment in a Christmas Story when Ralphie gets the Red Rider B.B. Gun. It was Penn State. It was Joe Paterno. I wasn't clear on just who Joe Paterno was, but I knew what Penn State represented; they wore the white hats.

Fast forward to 2011, Joe Paterno finds himself in a middle of a firestorm where he's either guilty of not doing enough when he was told about an incident where a former assistant coach sexually molested a young boy in the Penn State locker room, or being involved in a massive cover-up of the same incident. Either way, he has let down the millions of people to which he has been a moral flag bearer for their entire lives.

What does that say about hero worship in this society? In this world of TMZ and the 24 hour new cycle, heroes aren't allowed. Lance Armstrong beat cancer and won 7 consecutive Tour de France bicycle races, but is also known as a philanderer and accusations of performance enhancing drugs follow him like a disturbed stalker. Pope John Paul II was one of the most influential pontificate in history, yet his legacy is forever soiled by the child molestation scandals in the Catholic Church. Even look at Herman Cain (a man whose political views I personally disagree with), once he became the front runner in the Republican field he saw his integrity soiled as sexual harassment charges came out of the woodwork like termites. The truth is plain in these days, more plain than it ever has been before. Even historical figures are not immune as the upcoming movie Anonymous is about the theory that William Shakespeare didn't write his plays and football legend Walter Payton had a biography released where he is alleged to have abused painkillers and had multiple affairs.

Feet of clay indeed.

Perhaps that is why people are drawn to Super Heroes, but even then some of them are fatally flawed. Spider-Man's whole concept is based on the fact that he has real problems: he's under employed, is believed to be an outlaw, his love life is messed up, has a sick aunt at home and has tragic events unfold around him so often that even a bluesman hasn't seen as much suffering. The Punisher is a serial killer posing as a "hero" and don't get me started on Wolverine.

What do we do? Do we go back to the way things used to be where there was blessed ignorance? Where Babe Ruth was just a grand ballplayer, but not a drunken carouser that may or may not have lost most of the 1925 season to syphilis? Can you imagine THAT playing out in today's press? How about FDR? John F. Kennedy? Abraham Lincoln is alleged to be gay in a recent book release. TMZ would be stalking him day and night with that relevation. (But on the positive side, perhaps the paparazzi would be hindered by the giant cameras of the 1860's)

We need heroes. We need the truth. How do we balance that? It seems like every year goes by and there's an event that we will live in the post-event world. Post Oklahoma City, Post Waco, Post Columbine, Post Benoit, Post Virginia Tech and especially Post 9/11. We need the counterbalance. That is why some one like Captain Sully Sullenberger gets traction. He provided a heroic act with no strings attached. He was a real life Superman and was lauded for it. We need to believe in the best, because we too often believe in the worst.

We need to believe in fair play more than life isn't fair.

Remember the 80's? Or wish you didn't?

When I heard that Beavis and Butt-Head were returning to MTV, my first reaction was "huh?" and my second reaction was what were they going to lampoon now that MTV no longer relied on videos? The answer was obvious: bad reality shows. The return reminded me on how bad videos were in the 80's. Videos were a relatively new art form and it showed. Logic was thrown out the window and ridiculous imagery was used.

RONNIE MILSAP: ANY DAY NOW

This is a classic case of symbolism gone wrong. Very, very wrong. It starts with a giant moon glowing in a woman's window... that has Ronnie Milsap in it. I've seen many moons in my day, but they never included blind country singers in them. It actually looks more like an alien abduction than a moon. I don't know if she can see him, but he can't see her (I know, I know). She goes away from the window to sit at her dressing vanity only to have her creepy husband (who's either Magnum P.I. or Daniel Day-Lewis in Gangs of New York) leer over her while she thinks about her lost moon... or love... or alien. And who dresses up their hired help like that? She smells a rose which leads to the maid circling around Ronnie Milsap and delivering roses to her. Twice. For no reason. The woman strips down in front of the maid and leads to what I can only assume becomes a lesbian love scene that turns into a Prell commercial as she waves her feathered hair around and stares at the screen for what seems an eternity before she sits back down while roses fall all over the place. She gets dressed and her creepy child molester husband looks over her. Then she thinks of Ronnie Milsap and goes to the balcony to get abducted into the moon because we all know that middle-aged pudgy blind country stars are soooooooo hot.

PATTY SMYTH AND SCANDAL: THE WARRIOR

This is an example of how dreadful an artistic vision can be corrupted. I'm sure whatever auteur sold Ms. Smyth on this being like Mad Max or featuring really scary creatures, none of which has anything to do with this pile of crap. It features bad hair and makeup, bad interpretive dance and makes no sense whatsoever. It starts with Patty Smyth getting scratched so bad by the least threatening monster ever that she bursts out into song. I've gotten scratched up before, but I've never thought about singing. It features random little people, flower people, fish people and creatures that look like Scatman Crothers. The video has the least effective gang ever showing them circle the main "monster" and threaten him mightily with their rhythmic net sashaying. After escaping that almost attack, the monster hooks up with a pale blond woman who gives him a lap dance and then dies. Dies! While all this is going on, Patty Smyth is wandering around aimlessly while using annoying shooting motions while getting random bad haircuts and atrocious make up jobs. The video climaxes with the big showdown between Patty and the monster. This is approved by a creature that can only be described as the love child of Marcel Marceau and Jay Leno. The interpretive dance... or fight is being scored, or isn't by the creepy mime. The fight is ended when Patty Smyth blows off the monster to sing at the camera. The monster then looks around with a "what do I do now?" look while Patty goes bang bang to the camera.

BILLY SQUIER: ROCK ME TONIGHT

So many questions here... why the satin sheets? Why did he put on that ripped wifebeater? What's with the West Side Story style dancing? Why does the elevator open with no one there? Why does he make sure to turn around and look in the camera? Why does he start crawling on the floor like Kim Basinger in 9 1/2 Weeks? And then, why the seizure? Why use the hand as a microphone? Why rip your shirt and then put a more feminine one on? Why the constant finger snapping? What causes him to become all introspective in the bridge of the song? Why does a Billy Squier video wait until 3:17 for him to pick up the guitar? And why drag your band into this, especially the drummer with no rhythm and a bad hat? Why embarrass yourself like this?