"Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now."
My Boog Pages
Thursday, September 29
Crackback
So last week the family was getting ready to go to church. I was already dressed - it takes me the longest so I usually get ready first - and I bent over to pick up the baby when WHAM! Somebody nailed me in the back with a baseball belt.
Or so it felt. Pain. Pain, pain. Pain pain pain. (The lesson here, kids: don't go to church.) I managed to tough it out, although all the kneeling didn't help, and I spent the rest of the day supine on the couch, watching football. Which I probably would have done anyway, but at least I had a good excuse reason.
On Monday I could barely get out of bed. My back was so stiff that even rolling over was a chore, and sitting on the toilet was a five minute ordeal. It finally loosened up a little, and by the end of the day I felt pretty good.
Tuesday was just as bad, maybe worse. And Monday and Tuesday were the two days all frickin' year that I absolutely, positively had to make it in to the office, because those were the days I had to finish up our Disaster Recovery manual, for the exercise later that week. I put in 26 hours over two days, and spent most of Wednesday frantically copying CDs and adding them to the DR kit.
Then, at 4pm, I got the word: the exercise was cancelled. Apparently the higher-ups were concerned that Hurricane Rita (from which we got NOT ONE DAMN DROP OF RAIN, by the way) could cause severe network problems, and they wouldn't chance having half our network staff out of the office.
So the weekend that I'd been working towards for 2 months was called off at the last minute. After I'd suffered for the project, given my tears and blood! I should win the Purple Vertebra or something, man.
What do you call... Speaking of football, what do you call a team that can't run the ball or stop the run? That not only gives up long bombs but even throws touchdowns to the other team? If you live in Dallas, you call them the WINNERS!
The Cowboys made just about every mistake you can make last weekend, and still held off the 49ers. Dallas probably should have lost both games they won, and should have won the one they lost. I can't see them having much of a season, really. They're too inconsistent, even Bledsoe, who has played well in stretches but also tends to spray the ball late in the game. I swear Keyshawn Johnson has to dig out more one-hoppers than Derek Jeter.
Speaking of Keyshawn, I thought he was just another loudmouth when he came into the league, but he's become one of my favorite players, and I remember the game it happened. It was the Jets' opener a few years ago, when Vinny "the living dead" Testaverde tore his Achilles tendon. At the press conference after the game, Keyshawn was so frustrated that he banged his hands on the table and stormed out. Since then he's pretty much kept his mouth shut and played the game, his differences with John "I was a teenage coach" Gruden notwithstanding.
Let us now prais... Last week Tibor "Ted" Rubin was awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. Rubin was a Hungarian jew sent to Hitler's death camps who was rescued by the American army near the end of the war. He promised himself he'd join that army some day, and he did, in 1949.
In 1950 his unit went to Korea, where Rubin was routinely "volunteered" for the most dangerous missions by a virulently anti-Semitic seargent. He fought very bravely, though, and was recommended four times for the Medal of Honor, plus twice each for the Distinguished Service Cross and the Silver Star, none of which he ever received.
He was captured in the withdrawl from the Chinese border, after manning a machine gun to cover his unit's retreat, and in a Chinese prison camp he is credited with saving 40 lives. His experience in a Nazi camp had prepared him well, and he would sneak out every night, stealing food and medicine from the enemy, later passing it on to the other captives.
As a winner of America's highest honor, all ranks right up through the generals must salute him and call him "Sir", and even the President must stand when he enters the room. Not bad for a Hungarian farm boy.
