Sometimes you just never know who you’re going to bump into at work.  It’s another one of the cool things about the coolest job in the world.  I walked into our lunchroom and there was a tall man dressed like the American flag with hair as tall as a small child.  It was Don King, the legendary boxing promoter.  King at one time was bigger than the boxers themselves.

Don King, Legendary Boxing Promoter

King held court around the lunchroom, in the lobby, the newsroom, pretty much everywhere.  He was at Comcast Sportsnet to promote HBO fights taking place at Mohegan Sun.  He shook hands and took picture like a champ.  “You git it?” he asked me after I snapped one with my cell phone. 

 ”Hold on, hold on.” I told him after the first one came out blurry. 

 I took another.  “You git it?” he asked again while flashing a blinding smile.

Well not really, but this is as good as I could do.  My camera phone stinks.

“Mr. King your chariot awaits,” one of his handlers said as his big car pulled up to take him away. 

And just like that he was gone.  After watching him pull out of the parking lot I went to the bathroom, did my business, and as I was washing my hands I noticed hair in the sink.  I’m pretty sure it was Don King’s, based on the color and texture.  He left more than smiles and people talking about his big hair and rhino-studded, red, white and blue groovy shoes.  He left a part of himself, his calling card, right there in the sink!

Courtesy: AP/Chris O'Meara

Okay that sucked the life out of me for about 15 minutes, but I’m over it.  What a game that was between USA and Canada!  Just superior skill and spirit on both sides, a game for the ages.  An American win would have done wonders for this land, but a loss would have killed the collective Canandian spirit for quite some time.  It might have been weeks of mourning in The Great White North where hockey is life.  

 I have some great friends up there, including the Moore family who lives in Victoria, BC, right in the middle of The Olympic craziness that was Vancouver.  Naturally I had a bet with the man of that house, Blaine, who used to play for, and later coached the Fresno Falcons of the ECHL.  Obviously I lost the bet so it’s time to swallow personal and national pride.  The monetary part will come in the form of food.  I owe Blaine dinner.  The other part is less tangible, but no less painful.  I just got an email from him asking, “Where’s my picture?”  Here it is Blaine.  Enjoy it.  Where we going, McDonald’s?

A new low.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  Two days after a killer whale killed a trainer at Orlando’s Sea World, the President and CEO of Sea World, Jim Atchinson, holds a news conference with the podium in front of the glass of a whale tank!  As he’s talking no less than four  are frolicking in the water behind him.  It was distracting, thoughtless and it almost looked as if the whales were trying to nuzzle up behind him.  The only thing that got in the way, inches thick glass.  My pal Jim Braude of The Braude Beat on NECN went nuts about it.  Watch here.

There’s a time and a place for everything.  What was this man thinking?  Jim Atchinson was certainly sorry for what happened to 40-year-old Dawn Brancheau, and he struck the right tone in mourning her loss. 

Courtesy: Orlando Sentinal, Julie Fletcher

But to announce Sea World is reopening its killer whale exhibits three days after the trainer was dragged and drowned underwater, I don’t like the timing.  And I definitely didn’t like the place where the message was delivered.

Tiger's Confession/Courtesy: AP

Tiger is not a gifted talker, never has been.  But I think he did pretty well for himself in his confessional.  He admitted to most everything, and appeared sorry while asking for forgiveness and understanding.  It’s my belief most people will give him the benefit of the doubt.  Americans are a very forgiving people. 

It could have been better though.  Tiger was so scripted and so slow in his delivery.  It gave the appearance that he was almost robotic.  I would have preferred him to be less scripted, or not scripted at all.  Sure he would have stumbled a bit, but it would have humanized him which is precisely the point.  Be real.  What a concept.

Foolishly setting ground rules that he would not take questions from those in attendance only left open questions about what really happened Thanksgiving night, and in the days and weeks before.  He said he and his wife, Elin, never had a single domestic abuse incident among them.  Really?   We’re just supposed to take his word on that, and his claim that he never ever used performance enhancing drugs?

Tiger has obvious problems with the truth based on what he’s admitted to.  A line of questioning would have given us a chance to chew on his answers and read his body language.  But Tiger wouldn’t have it.  The law of inertia says for every action there’s an equal reaction.  Apply it here.   The more you try to control things, the more they spin out of control.

I suggest Tiger hold one more news conference, a true news conference.  He should do it the day he returns to competition.  I’d advise him to say “Guys ask me what you want and I’ll answer as best I can.  I may not be able to answer everything, but I’ll try to be as honest and cooperative as I can without sharing moments that should never leave the personal bubble of privacy that married couples share.   But this is the last time I’m going to answer questions about what landed me in therapy.”

Everybody would get it out of their system and eventually we’d all move on.  That really ought to be the goal.

Courtesy: Times Online

Fearless on the course, Tiger is a gutless fraud off of it.  He shagged more women than the ballpicker at the range.  Okay maybe not that many, but you get the point.  Now he’s ready to come forward after being silent and practically invisible for two and-a-half months, with an explanation and an apology of sorts for his behavior.  But once again, it’s all about him and controlling the message.

He’s called a news conference for Friday morning at PGA Tour Headquarters.  To call it a news conference is not accurate.  News conferences involve questions and answers with the news media.  Tiger’s ”thing”, we’re told, involves a statement from him, in front of a select group of friends, colleagues and selected media, with a single pool camera.  What exactly are “selected media” anyway?

If he’s truly sorry, and truly intent on winning back the forgiveness of his wife, family, friends and his legions of fans; he ought to be man enough to make himself vulnerable.  He ought to answer the questions any true journalist–not selected patsies, would ask of an icon who let a lot of people down.  Tiger doesn’t have the golf balls to do it.  He’s taking the easy way out.  That’s why he’s a chicken.

It was a good weekend to go back to Philadelphia and Wilmington.  Fueled with coffee and excitement of what awaited, we drove through the night from suburban Boston to the Delaware Valley.  Right around the crack of dawn the children stirred in the backseat and all but demanded we pull over for food.  So I picked a popular South Philadelphia diner.  I won’t name it, because I don’t want to be libelous.

There were several uniformed Philly and Delaware Port Authority Cops having breakfast up front.  In the back there were three goodfella guys who fussed over my girls when Jean took them to the bathroom.  “Youse girls are beautyful,” one of the toughguys said leaning in for a closer look.

“Who were those guys in the back?” Jean asked when she got back to the table,  “do you think they’re off-duty cops?”

“No.  Let’s put it this way, they’re probably the kind of guys the police will have an eye on as soon as they leave the place.”

So my family met the South Philly version of The Sopranos.

“Well if the police know who they are and what they do, why don’t they go back and question them?”

“Because they’re all having breakfast.  Everyone is entitled to an uninterrupted breakfast.  This is a kind of safe territory for everyone–good guys and bad guys.”

After the bite to eat in South Philly we rolled into Delaware where I did two book signings for The Marrow in Me at Barnes and Noble stores, and caught up with dear friends.  I must admit I was surprised at how many follow what I write on my blog–especially the Kennedy Family of North Wilmington.   That’s cool, I’m glad I’m not typing for nothing.  And it’s encouraging to find what I think is cool is shared. 

As promised we crashed with the Simon family in Webster Farm.  They are lovely people, Barb and Gary are.  It was great to see all of our favorite neighbors later that evening.  Thank you for coming out. 

 The snow was worse than we thought.  There’s no place to put it all.  Some of those snow mountains in the parking lots will be there till June.  Driving down Marcella Road in Webster Farm was like driving through a tunnel.  You could hardly see over the snowbanks on the side of the road.   

And just like it was when I first moved away from the Delaware Valley to start college; in addition to catching up with friends during return visits, it was very important to fill up on Philadelphia favorites: pizza, cheesesteaks and hoagies. 

Lee's Hoagie House. For my money the best hoagies in the Philadelphia area.

 We had them all in a 24-hour window.  It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.  Always does.  But when returned to the gym this morning, I felt like I had crude oil coursing through my veins.   Philly food may not be good for the body, but I’ll tell you this, it’s always good for the soul.

Any food you must have when you visit a particular place?   Add a comment to share it with us.

There’s nothing like going home.  This weekend we’ll be back in familiar territory for two book signings.  I’ll be greeting readers and signing copies of  The Marrow in Me at suburban Philadelphia area Barnes and Noble Stores.  Both signings are on Saturday February 13.  The first is at The Concord Mall Barnes & Noble Store, Concord Pike, Wilmington, DE from 1-3pm.  The second is at the Barnes and Noble Store in Exton, PA from 4-6pm. 

After the signings we will rendezvous with the usual suspects from Webster Farm and beyond, for pizza and beer at Romeo’s in Branmar Plaza.  Crash our party, you wouldn’t be the first.    I don’t know if we can duplicate one of our famous driveway parties that featured karaoke and good grub, but we can try.

The girls will be staying at the Burrus household.   Jean and I will be staying with the Simons, who’ve graciously taken us in–including Beverly, our German Shepherd.  We will drink Gary’s beer, but will otherwise be good guests at Hotel Simon.  Cheers!

Gary and Barb Simon, legendary karaoke artists and Hotel Simon proprietors

I’m in the middle of a good read, Soul of a Dog, by Jon Katz.  It raises an interesting question, do dogs and other animals have souls?  I don’t know if I’m going to get to the bottom of it, because I haven’t finished the book.  That’s not the point though, at least not yet.  The point, I think, is what do pets do for us–while doing for themselves?  Katz is working through that narrative in describing Rose, seen below; and Izzy, the barn cat.  Rose is a wonderful companion and an even better herder of sheep.  Izzy is a decent companion, and the mother of all exterminators when it comes to rodents.

I think it’s only natural that we think of our own relationships with animals when we read about someone else’s relationships with theirs. 

I have a few good dog stories to share with you that I’ve lived, or someone I’ve lived with has been witness to.  My dad tells some good ones.  As a boy he had a dog that was sprayed by a skunk.  They tried to bring it in the house to give it a bath.  The dog wouldn’t go inside.  They realized the dog was embarrassed by its own smell.  They bathed the dog in a washtub on the porch.  Once the dog knew she smelled better, in the house she went.

I brought my Golden Retriever Susie to college with me at Purdue.  She lived in the fraternity house and developed a liking for beer and wandering around campus.  One day I came home and Susie was nowhere to be found.  I walked a couple of blocks and saw Susie in the company of three pretty coeds and a guy who leashed her and was probably using her as date bait.  Susie, of course, was loving the attention.  So I asked for my dog back and the guy’s name.  He goes “Kevin Walsh,” while extending a hand.  I went to school with almost 40,000 people and my lost dog finds another Kevin Walsh.  I still can’t believe it, but it’s true.

The family dog is now Beverly, a German Shepherd who’s little more than a year old.   A couple of months before we got Beverly, I returned home with my kids to find my other German Shepherd, Tiffany, dead on the floor.  She gave us 13 good years.  But believe me when I tell you, that’s a day that still haunts me.

Beverly has served us and loved us well.  She loves joining in on family reading.  I got her by raffle, which sort of requires an explanation.  It was a few months before I lost my job with the old CN8 Network.  The economy was turning and it was clear all of our jobs were in jeopardy.  When we lost Tiffany my first reaction was to get another dog fast.  What I didn’t realize was how expensive dogs had become.  German Shepherds cost $1000+, and I wasn’t sure I should be shelling out that kind of dough at the time.  But as fate would have it, the money found me.  I entered a Patriots Day 50/50 raffle at Brandywine Country Club.  Wouldn’t you know it, I won.  So we supported the troops, and got a new dog in the process.

Does Beverly have a soul?  I think so, but how can I know for sure?  I know this though, she means as much to my family as Rose did to Jon Katz on his farm.

I’m sure you have a good dog story, or two to share.  Post it here.

Graffiti on Harvard Bookstore Bathroom Door

You just never know where you’re going to find good material.  Who among us hasn’t discovered profound wisdom on the can?  This is the bathroom door of the second floor of The Harvard Coop, a bookstore in Cambridge.  It’s hard to read so let me summarize the clever writing.  Someone was talking about what a badass they were.  Someone wrote back on the door and called the badass out.

“Dude you’re writing on the bathroom wall of the Harvard Coop, so any pretense of badassery is laughable.” 

He had a point.  Good thing I read it after I relieved myself of four cups of coffee.   I’m not sure the bladder would have held.