Money on the Brain

Lately I've fallen into a bit of a troubling habit. I'm nuts about my money.

A good friend of mine once opined, "Why worry about what you don't have?" Truer words are rarely spoken. I got paid somewhere around 12:01am today, and no more than ten hours later I had written four checks, made two online payments, made a transfer to savings (God be praised), and bought a tankful of gas to bring my checking account balance down to 35% of what it had been when the almighty direct deposit took hold.

I'm doing things right. I contribute to my retirement plan. I stow away 10% of my take-home pay. I pay my bills on time, and my credit score shows it. In the past twelve months my score has skyrocketed solidly into the "Good" range, having ascended 11 points in 12 months.

However, it's the fact that I can readily rattle off these financial statistics that's a tad scary.

Want to know how much my retirement plan will return this year? Just over 12%. Not bad, but it was over 17% the day before. I've paid an average of $32.23 for cellular phone coverage over the past twelve months, and don't even get me started on my student loan.

Being "in-touch" with one's money is essential, especially in this world of debit cards and automatic payments. However, being consumed with one's money and updating one spreadsheet, Microsoft Money, and checking the bank's website at least once a day might be excessive. In life I'm the farthest from type-A you can find this side of hippie, yet with money I'm Gordon Gekko.

In the shower, money pops into my head. Driving to work, the same. Luckily I'm not actually worrying about money. My wife and I are quite lucky in that we are able to save money, pay our bills on time, and enjoy a fine lifestyle. I just know that deep in my heart I'm thinking about money too often. I'm not even thinking about exciting things. Rather I'm just going over the things I've already done and working through the same formulas I already enjoy.

Now, I'm faced with new connundrum: I'm thinking about thinking about money. What am I to do?

5'9" + 165 lbs.= All Heart

In the unending cavalcade of gut-wrenching maladies to befall the Purdue University basketball team, they have now lost their fifth of five starters with the dismissal of Korey Spates. Mother of God, what are we to do?

It's not too unlikely that Coach Matt Painter would try and fill the vacated roster spot with a walk-on player. Keady pulled it off last year bringing Charles Davis over from the football squad to offer fans something to cheer for, even if Chuck never put up the big numbers. So I have to do it. I have to pull the old, "Put me in, Coach," idea out of the deep freeze.

True, I've not played competitive basketball (the kind with coaches and fully robed referees) since 1996 when I suited up for my grade school's high school team (technically it's the parish's team, but you can do those things in CYO). I've never been the double-double threat as my rebounds usually dwarf my point totals. But Painter doesn't need the scoring power (well he actually does need it, desperately), but rather from the recent exploits of all Purdue athletes, the Boilers need someone whose been kicked around a bit by life yet managed never to fight back with violence or DUI's. Painter needs the plucky floor general who's also good at getting his homework in on time.

It'll only be a year, Coach. I'll enroll for some graduate work and be the mentor/walk-on that every team desires. I've got a smooth natural shooting motion, know how to bounce-pass (a dying art) and I can hit a conservative 75% of my free throws. Hell, put me on the bench just to shoot technicals. Think of the tens of people that will come out to see me standing shoulder-to-waist with Paul Davis and Marco Killingsworth.

Hack-a-Shaq, freak play, whatever, I'm game for it, Coach. I'll even buy my own shoes.

Blog & Roll (Part 2)

How far is too far?

At what point do we as cosumers of art and music cut the cord and stop supporting certain pieces of art solely because of the artist behind it? It's been debated, most likely, since the first primordial inceptions of art itself. From Salvador Dali rolling around in his own filth to John Lennon espousing that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus, folks have never taken lightly to an artist's own proclivities circumventing his art. Yet, who doesn't love listening to The White Album while pondering Dream of Venus?

Dali's art is still dismissed quite quickly merely for his scatological samplings, and I'm sure some Americans still steamroll any Beatles LP's they can get their evangelical hands upon. Yet, those censures are based on activities that neither harmed nor, in honesty, hurt anyone (other than maybe the artists themselves). However, another case has arisen (sadly multiple times) that really begs how far we are willing to support an individual whose unacceptability is universally accepted.

Gary Glitter was a 1970's glam rock face most remembered (somewhat) for "Rock & Roll (Part 2)," the "hey" song most often heard at any sporting event. Without seeing Herr Glitter's checkbook, it's safe to assume that this wag has been able to subsist post 1976 sherely on the royalties that the NFL, NBA, etc. have laid in his lap, but it's Gary's other lap exploits that prompt this entry.

Gare-bear has been in trouble numerous times for incidences of child pornography and committing obscene acts with underage females in Southeast Asia. Fleeing the UK after serving time for the pornography charges, Gary set up shop in Vietnam and Thailand. Thank goodness he was able to steer free of any location known as the Graceland for pedophiles.

Without having met his Glitterness, I still feel no shame in asserting that Gary is not healthy for society at large. At the very least, he's a ridiculous scar on human hairlines. I also feel a strong faith in the Vietnamese judicial system in its ability to bring Glitter once more to justice. (No truth to the rumor that the Vietnamese Department of Justice's motto is Latin for "Hey, we're no Laos.") Either way, it's a matter of time before Gary ends up in whatever replaced the Hanoi Hilton.

Yet, I would venture a guess that if I were to head toward any NBA, NFL, or NHL outlet I might still hear the public performance of "Rock & Roll (Part 2)." Why is this? We continue to support this scab so that the Brewers and the Lakers can treat fans to a rhythmic choral escapade. Can't we pull the plug on just one piece of hackneyed schlock rock to appease the multitudes of exploited children in the world.

I don't know why this has gotten me so. The song is catchy; try to get anyone to deny that. The world, however, deserves better than cutting royalty checks to this guy.

I just hope that I might be at an NFL game next season cheering to some worthy pariah. What's that outcast, Pat Boone, up to?

Happy New Year: Your World is Changing

I've been thinking about a quote I recently read in a news article about the now defunct James Dean Gallery in Gas City, Indiana. David Loehr, the owner of the museum devoted to the actor (also housing the largest private collection of James Dean artifacts), made a very telling point when he said, "Maybe it's just time to give up. And Jimmy is saying 'Enough is enough.'"

This fact hit me quite hard. I'm a devoted fan of the dead actor. Sure it began as adolescent hero worship, but I genuinely enjoy James Dean and everything about his James-Deanness. I've also relished my silent participation in a worldwide phenomenon. So to see the largest collector of James Dean artifacts (and I do mean artifacts such as actual movie costumes and hand-written postcards not just mugs, dolls, and clocks) fold up shop is a bit disheartening.

This closing came on the heels of the pitiful exhibition of Dean's three feature films' DVD release and the fiftieth anniversary of his death. When the news reports of low attendance, fortunes lost, lawsuits and every other depressing aspect hit the wires, Tom Griswold of the Bob and Tom show noted something to the effect of, "It's amazing. Every year he just keeps getting deader." That one really killed me.

Has it happened? Has James Dean lost his lock on the archetypical teenager? Is the epitome of post WWII cool actually passing away some fifty years after his first death? Moreover, would Dean even give a rip about any of this?

Dean's hometown of Fairmount, Indiana still trots out its Museum Days festival each September, but I haven't been since 1995. In fact, I only make a yearly pilgrimage each September 30 and when confronted by anthropologist/sociologist at Dean's gravesite in 2004 I strongly had to consider if I was merely phoning it in. The interesting conversation (we never exchanged names) brought me to very adult realizations about what the idea of James Dean means, and shockingly it had little to do with the guy six feet underneath me.

Perhaps Loehr is right and "Enough is enough." Time will tell whether or not teenage girls will fawn over Dean's looks and teenage boys will adopt his moody mantra, "Dream like you'll live forever. Live like you'll die tomorrow." Yet, if James Dean is to pass away from ethos to ether, who will take his spot? Are we seeing the dawning of an era where high schools will be full of River Phoenix tee-shirts? I don't get it.

Happy New Year.