Mondays with Jim

Dear NCAA,

I was flipping channels on my low-voltage television set last week when I happened upon a news conference called by one of your public relations managers.  The conference was called, it seemed, to effectively announce that your organization was paving the way to a men’s basketball tournament that will feature 32 more teams, bringing the total to 96.  I would like to add my name to the list of individuals who is in defiant opposition to this idea, for many of the same reasons that have been mentioned by public figures in recent days.  Expanding the tournament would decrease the importance of the regular season, dilute the prestige of its involvement, and risk the ruination of America’s greatest single-elimination event.

But these points have all been made before.  Indeed, I am sure that you have seen and read the vitriol that has been written and said throughout the media recently.  Their reasoning is sound, however I see it fit to add yet another point to the proceeding.  The expansion of the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament will have a profound, detrimental impact to the single greatest crisis that exists in our world today: global warming.  Let me explain.

It is one of the most oft-used industries in the world, and yet very little commentary is given to its product.  Its employees go to specialized school for a significant length of time, yet the common man couldn’t name a single such school.  It is a billion-dollar enterprise, one that has the ability to cause us great sorrow and pain, one that captures the imagination of young females for hours on end, one that has given countless office workers an excuse not to have a serious conversation.  Of course, I am speaking of the hair styling industry.  It’s amazing how often we have to get our hair cut, but so very little is known about the ins and outs of this profession.  Let’s take a closer look at the hair manipulation enterprise, and allow me to provide the male point of view when necessary.

So there we were.  New Orleans, Louisiana, site of the first and second rounds of the 2010 NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament.  It was sixty minutes before tip-off, so very few of the fans had made their way into the arena, but nonetheless the tension was palpable.  The most devoted of the respective teams’ followers were making their way into their seats, carrying banners and posters, preparing for the impending game.  But something was amiss.

Both teams were on the court, the players dressed in their traditional warm-up jerseys and various stretching equipment strewn along the court.  A general passerby would make the correct assumption that each team was in the preparatory stage for the game, and yet one key ingredient was missing.  All of the necessary equipment was available to all of the players, but there was not a basketball in sight.  You can imagine what the scene portrayed, but needless to say the idle behavior of the players was less than appealing to watch, and significantly less than helpful for the players.  The whole scene was reminiscent of outdoor time at a strictly run penitentiary.

This scene continued for a solid five minutes, until, at the precise stroke of fifty-five minutes before tip-off, the basketballs were released to the players.  I stood, perplexed, on the sidelines, wondering why this turn of events had just occurred, until finally I realized the sad conclusion.  It became obvious that somewhere, tucked within the voluminous encyclopedia-esque rulebook of the NCAA, there existed a policy that no basketballs were to be given to players until precisely that moment.  My eyes immediately rolled back faster than that squirrelly Wal-Mart face guy in the commercials.

Today, I’m going to take a slightly different approach to the usual Monday column.  Whereas normally I tend to discuss the, shall we say, flaws that exist in our society (kindly, of course), today I am going to spend my effort in a more educational manner.  In our fair city of Houston, the rodeo is in town.  Since many of you live in areas that may not be so fortunate as to be able to attend this cowboy hat-a-thon, please allow me to clue you in on some of the more intimate details of the common Texas rodeo.  (For you California folks, that’s pronounced with a hard e.)

PRESENTING: THE MONDAYS WITH JIM GUIDE TO PROPER RODEO ATTENDANCE

Section I: Attire
For many, this would seem self-explanatory, but allow me a second to educate those who weren’t allowed to watch “Beverly Hillbillies” as a child.  Men, your task is quite simple.  Rodeo attire begins with a pair of denim blue jeans.  Not those fancy, schmancy tight jeans that Francois wears in the magazines, just a good ole pair of Levi’s.  For a top, find a plaid shirt that most closely resembles your bedroom drapes.  All you need to finish the ensemble is a pair of boots (preferably those that were once a swamp animal), a cowboy hat big enough to serve chili in, and a belt buckle the size of your left foot.

NASHVILLE, TN — Local third grader Billy Thompson, in what is believed to be the first victory of its kind, successfully defeated Patty Jones by a final vote tally of 12-8 to win the George Washington Carver Elementary School Class Presidency.  That he won the election was noteworthy enough, but the true buzz from this campaign came from Thompson’s decision to eschew the traditional campaign procedures and run as a member of the wildly popular “Tea Party.”

Without question, the most controversial and talked-about sport of the Olympic Winter Games is curling. Generally speaking, you either feel that curling is an interesting sport filled with endless strategy and inspiring team play or you think that it ranks just below dog-walking on the list of activities that can be defined as “sport.” Sympathetic as I was to the latter portion of the population, I found myself in the former category, enthralled with the mental aspect of the game and the high level of skill that the athletes possess. However, I’m often under the impression that one cannot decidedly judge something until one has tried it for himself. (A rule that applies to everything except pickled eggs. They’re disgusting and I don’t have to eat one to know it.)

And so, backed with the courage of my convictions and an unbridled curiosity, I set out to attempt this puzzling sport. As luck would have it, here in my home city of Houston we happen to have an organization tailored to fit my very need. I suppose that a town of three million people must have at least ten that do anything, so it should have come as no surprise that curling made the list. Last Friday evening, the Curling Club of Houston hosted what they advertised as a “Learn to Curl” session, an open invitation to those individuals who, like myself, have become intrigued by the sport but lack any skill whatsoever. As the sumo wrestler once said to the pie-eating committee, sign me up.

VANCOUVER, BC – Tragedy has struck the world of men’s figure skating.  In what can only be described as a catastrophic event for the sport, Russian figure skater Ilya Lottasequinov saw his gold medal stripped away due to what the International Olympic Committee describes as a “performance-enhancing device.”  Sources close to Lottasequinov have informed this news agency that the offending device was, concordant with public speculation, an oversized, overtly flamboyant pink feathered boa.

Last week, in an apparent effort to up the cool factor of macroeconomic theory, the President released his most recent economic report in e-book format, available for free to the masses at popular online destinations such as Amazon.com.  By doing so, the President has opened himself up to a different level of criticism, not that of the economic or political critic, but the literary critic.  After a brief scouring of the internet, I was unable to locate a suitable book review for this masterful work.  Therefore, I have decided to take it upon myself to critique the work that the New York Times gave “two Keynesian thumbs way up.”  Here, in hopefully suitable detail, is my review of “Economic Report of the President.”

My first act as an employee of the company from which I am still drawing a paycheck was to learn the ways of my job.  Seeing as how I was fresh out of graduate school, my employer felt that there were aspects of my assignment that went well beyond anything I drew from a classroom, and thus I was sent to what was affectionately called our company’s “Boot Camp.”  Aside from being the most yawn-inducing, daydream-provoking two weeks of my life, I will always remember my time at Boot Camp for its location.  Most companies, in an attempt to show their employees the great value they place on their work, will send their people to wonderful, tropical locations on the company dime.  My company sent me to Cincinnati, Ohio.  For those of you who may be reading this from out of the country, or for those of you who slept during World Geography, Cincinnati is not a tropical location.  Far from it.  Rather, Cincinnati is to tropical locations what Elm Street is to romantic getaways.  The two could not be further apart.

Cincinnati was on my mind this week because this past Tuesday marked the annual game show-esque tradition known as Groundhog Day.  As the tradition holds, if the grand poobah of all groundhogs, Punxsutawney Phil, is able to see his shadow, the planets are realigned and the gravitational pull of the Earth somehow induces a six-week early extension on the Spring season, or something like that.  Precisely what election King Phil won, or what special powers we all seem to believe he has is beyond my comprehension, yet every February 2nd we glue our eyes to the television set in hopes that a colorblind rodent spots his own shadow.  I suppose congratulations are in order for the town of Punxsutawney, Ohio, for they have turned the fine art of watching paint dry into a national phenomenon.

Last week, forming the conclusion of an epic wave of rumor and conjecture, Apple formerly announced the completion of their newest megaproduct, the iPad.  Similar to the suggestions of the buildup for the product, the iPad is a new form of portable computer, capable of accepting tactile input on a display that is roughly three times the size of an advanced cellular phone.  The genius of the product lies not with the revolutionary interface, but with the strategically-sized girth.  At around ten inches diagonally, the iPad is too large to be comfortably held in one hand, yet too small to attract the careful attention of a larger device, thus assuring that the product will be dropped with wallet-reducing frequency.  My early prediction is that attempting to hold this device will be the electronic equivalent of clenching a wet bar of soap.  A tip to consumers: buy that extra warranty.

The importance of last week’s announcement was important not for the product itself, however, but for the chain of events that it began.  Apple is one of the rare companies, usually technology-based, that holds within its grasp a large set of overly devoted, mindlessly loyal, hopelessly dedicated group of followers known the world over as fanboys.  A fanboy, gender-neutral, is the rare form of consumer for which contemplation and purchasing analysis have long since been thrown out the window.  Fanboys are the capitalistic version of a rock band groupie, a term that they would hold in high regard.  At any rate, whenever a company such as Apple announces the formation of a new product, fanboys immediately commence a pattern of behavior that is instinctively consistent to psychological assertion, though not in the way you would suspect.  Elisabeth Kübler-Ross introduced the five stages of grief to describe how the common man handles the pain of loss.  Here, today, I am proud to present a model of a similar nature, in reverse order, describing how a fanboy handles the pain of gain.