A Double Shot of Captain

Recap of last 24 hours of my life:
Dec. 1, 12:30 a.m. -- Dust off remaining shreds of my chip stack and dignity.
12:31 a.m. -- Get made fun of like I'm the kid in elementary wearing Jordache jeans and velcro shoes.
1 a.m. -- Order Triple Whataburger value meal, replacing the Coke with a chocolate shake and getting an apple pie on the side. Oh, what the heck, go ahead and give me the large Coke too.
2 a.m. -- Re-organize garage, hang Christmas lights for every house on the block. Might as well write a blog since I'm up.
3 a.m. -- Got tired all of a sudden. Two options: Eat another two pounds of sugar or go to bed. Half a blog is good enough, I'll do the other halffffffzzzzzzzzzzzzz...
11 a.m. -- Alarm goes off. I get to drive to Weatherford to cover an 8-man football game so I can earn 1/30th of what I lost at the casino the night before.
1 p.m. -- Arrive in Weatherford to find the entire press box is taken up by a five-person radio broadcast team from the panhandle. There are five people here to cover a team whose entire roster is literally 14 players. Luckily there's a broken seat in the corner for me, so long as I don't mind listening to three analysts doing what one bad analyst should be doing.
3 p.m. -- The game is delayed because a player got tackled on the sideline, rolled onto the first down stick, and the stick is permanently bent and won't stand up straight. Seriously, that happened. It took 3 guys to lean on it and bend it back.
4 p.m. -- Tipton wins the Class C state championship. I use my field pass to photobomb as many state championship pictures as possible. In 50 years, I want people to say, "Who's that guy next to Bobby Joe with his index finger raised? Betty, you remember this guy?"
5 p.m. -- Write my story and attempt to leave. Luckily, they locked the stadium up. Walk 100 yards to other end of field, hunt down Southwestern Oklahoma State University athletic director, make him walk 100 yards back across field to gate...which has since been re-opened.
5:15 p.m. -- Reward myself for walking 200 yards by getting a 44 oz cherry vanilla Coke at Sonic on way out of town.
5:16 p.m. -- Slam fist into forehead after realizing I just spent 2.56% of my paycheck for the game on a Coke.
11 p.m. -- Might as well go ahead and finish that blog.

I want to introduce you to a guy named Captain. I haven't seen Captain in about two years but I'm going to assume he hasn't changed much. (If any of my poker friends have seen him recently and can offer an update, go for it.)
Captain is an African-American in his early 50s. He exclusively wears Fubu velvet sweatshirts with matching sweatpants. His favorite colors are -- in order -- gold, white, and black. Kangol hats. Sunglasses with no tint. A fair amount of bling. Salt and pepper goattee, always freshly trimmed. He's about 5-foot-8, roughly 275 pounds. Enough muscle to keep you from going nose-to-nose with him but enough fat to know you can win a race to the door if you have to.
And don't worry, he'll give you plenty of chances to fight him. He says lots of inappropriate and offensive things, and he talks a good fight. But mainly he just likes to drink and gamble.
I don't know Captain's real name. He always signed up for the poker games as Captain, and he liked to drink 7 or 8 Captains while he was playing, so it seemed like a good name.
You want to play poker with Captain. The later into the evening the better. And if you write a blog, he is an absolute GOLDMINE.
I have played a lot of poker with Captain. It seemed like he would magically appear wherever I happened to be playing, which was great. He had some ties to Lawton and played there frequently when I lived there, but he also played at Riverwind and Newcastle a lot. If I saw him at one of those places, I didn't leave until he did.
These are my two favorite Captain stories.

Captain's poker winrate hovered right around 5 percent. But when he won, he won BIG. One night at Riverwind (in the old poker room, not the new one), Captain was winning every hand. He was ordering double shots every time he busted someone, which was quite frequently.
As Captain drank more and more, he was being more and more inappropriate with the waitresses, and his distraction with the waitresses was slowing the game to a halt and driving off the players. But I wasn't about to leave. For one thing, Captain had already won a big pot off of me, so I wanted to get my chips back. Besides that, his luck was bound to change, and this was a rare opportunity to win some serious money from a terrible poker player. Usually, Captain would just run $1000 straight into the ground, and one entertaining hour later he would be gone for the night. This time he had over $3k in front of him.
Of course, on this night it was impossible to tell exactly how much money Captain had in front of him, because he was too drunk to stack up his chips. They just lay in a multi-colored mound in an area generally in front of him. He was taking up enough space for two or three players but we were playing short-handed so it didn't matter. When he wanted to bet, he just slammed his forearm on the table and shoved out a random number of chips, usually about $500 worth, whether the pot had $20 or $2000 in it. After winning one pot, he tried to scoop his chips onto his pile, but his pile was too big and some of them went over the rail and onto the floor. One of the poker room managers went over and picked up about $30 worth of chips that had fallen to the ground. For some reason, Captain was convinced there was one more dollar on the ground.
He got so worked up about this single $1 chip that he got on all fours under the table looking for it. That's when I discovered Captain's drunk superpower.
You know how some people have superpowers that only come out when they are absolutely wasted? Well, the guy sitting next to me in the game had gone to the restroom, and he returned to see Captain on the ground looking for this chip. We are on the opposite end of the table from Captain's scavenger hunt. The guy next to me leans over and says, "What is he doing?"
I whispered, "I think he left a drink under there."
Turns out, Captain's drunk superpower is supernatural hearing. He shot up from under the table, stared right at me and said, "You mother******, what did you just say to me?"
I may have crapped my pants a little bit.
I don't remember what I said, but I backtracked and apologized well enough to avoid getting shot.


One night at Newcastle, Captain was in an especially abusive mood. He was mad about losing and was three or four drinks over his average consumption level.
The Asian man on Captain's immediate right was also drinking heavily, so much so that he was almost passed out. This man was probably 45 years old, weighed 110 pounds and could not speak a word of English. He muttered Chinese under his breath and took a long time to make any decision. Captain was not a fan of any of these things.
I'll save all of the racist vitriol Captain spewed that night. Luckily, the other guy couldn't understand a word of it anyway.
I've heard that burping is an accepted thing in some Asian communities. Nevertheless, I was pretty surprised when this middle-aged Asian dude let one rip without the slightest attempt to cover his mouth. He was just sitting there, staring straight ahead, and let it fly. I remember being seriously afraid that Captain was going to hurt this guy. Captain leaned over, looked right at the guy, stared him down for a good 30 seconds, and even lowered his sunglasses to look him dead in the eye. But Captain never said a word, and after an awkward 30 seconds, play resumed as usual. I was utterly shocked that he didn't say anything. Captain doesn't go 30 seconds without saying something under any circumstances.
A good 30 minutes passed, and Captain was on his best behavior. The Asian man's wife was now sitting behind him. I figured maybe Captain was going easy on him because of her.
Then, out of nowhere, breaking the dead silence, Captain attacked.
He turned, got right in the guy's face, and let out a burp three times as big as the first one. He shrugged his shoulders with his palms up, the ultimate "What you gonna do now?" pose. But the Asian guy was so drunk/tired that his wife was literally having to wake him up to look at his cards every hand. He probably didn't care about Captain's burp and definitely had no interest in fighting him, so he just went back to sleep. Captain stared at him for a good minute or two.
I tried to keep it together but I couldn't. As soon as I realized that no physical harm was going to be done, I burst out laughing. Captain turned to me and said, "You think that's funny?"
This made me laugh even louder and I said, "Yeah, actually I think it's really funny." I couldn't stop laughing for at least five minutes. I have no idea how the rest of the table kept from laughing, but I was the only one.
This incident came after the first one, and after I had played with Captain many times. Because he knew I lived in Lawton, he always thought I was in the military. I probably told him 10 times that I had never been in the military, but eventually I realized that my military experience was the only thing he liked about me. This allowed me to get away with an ill-timed bout of the giggles.
"I like you cause you're in the Army," he said, "but I'm still gonna bust your m************ a** on the poker table."

Helpful Comments

All right, jerks. Here's another blog.

Poker has not been good the past month. (If your income is < 0, is it called outcome?) What's worse is that I can't even leave the casino in peace after getting curb-stomped.
There's a portly middle-aged fellow who is a regular player at Riverwind, goes by Blade because he sells knives for a living. His picture is currently atop this blog because I hate myself. Blade is kind, well-meaning, and an absolute pain to play with. He is constantly trying to change seats or decks of cards because he is extremely superstitious. On top of that, he takes forever on every decision and goes to great lengths to avoid putting any money in a pot without the absolute best possible hand.
Blade was not at my table on Tuesday, but he walked past and said hi to me and a few of the other regulars. "Matt, you're too tough for these guys." Evidently, I wasn't too tough for them since they were beating the crap out of me. After I dusted off the rest of my stack, I walked right past the cash-out cage toward the door. "Matt!" Blade hollered as I neared the exit, "Tell 'em where you got it."

You have to know Blade to fully appreciate that story, but I don't even know the name of the fellow who decided to make fun of me on Friday. Again, I wasted eight hours of my life trying to win a single pot of poker, and when that failed I simply wanted to walk to my car, drive to Whataburger and order up the 5,000-calorie pity party.
This time, as I again waltzed past the cash-out cage toward the door, a guy sitting in the waiting area yelled at me. "Bro, it ain't gonna rain in here." I had played with this drooler a couple of times in my life but I don't know his name or why he was talking to me. I gave him a puzzled look.
"Your pants, man. It ain't gonna rain in here, you don't need the high waters. Try some jeans next time bro." Then he bursts out laughing.
I was wearing sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I looked down to see that yes, in fact, my pants were a little short. This was likely a combination of the fact that I had gained 15 pounds over Thanksgiving and that I buy generic sweatpants from Target that aren't really made for tall people. Also, I don't go to the casino trying to impress idiots like the guy who was at that moment laughing in my face.
He clarified that he was "just f***ing with you, bro." I nodded, fake-smiled and decided I deserved an apple pie with my Triple Whataburger.

I got another blog coming soon, a couple of poker-etiquette stories about a character named Captain. Was going to put it all in this one but those three orders of Whataburger fries made me tired.

I Had to Pee Again

I would apologize for the toilet humor you're about to read, but you are knowingly clicking on a story titled, "I Had to Pee Again," so it's pretty much your own fault if you are offended. Also, I see no need to change the picture of the girl doing the throw up thing, which has been up for the last two blogs. Seems to apply to this one as well.

Last weekend I was covering a football game for my old newspaper in Lawton. I've been having some problems with my laptop lately, so I brought along a zip drive in case worse came to worst and I needed to send my story from someone else's computer.
I had put the zip drive in my pocket before I left for the game, and I had forgotten about it since I don't normally bring it and I wasn't expecting to need it. It was just there in case worse came to worst.
(By the way, where did that phrase come from? Aren't there much more accurate and succinct ways to convey the same message? I mean, if worse really does come to worst, wouldn't you like to save the time it takes to say that? Maybe a simple, "Boy, right now I could really use a saw to self-amputate my right leg which was trapped under this boulder after I slipped while hiking. I tried to pull it out and some other big rocks rolled on top of me and I ran out of water two days ago and now I'm about to die" would work. Then again, maybe "Worse came to worst, could you hand me that flask of whiskey and Swiss Army knife bro?" is the best way to say it. Turns out I was wrong. It is a useful phrase.)

I love how I have wasted several paragraphs talking about my semi-functional laptop, a zip drive and an archaic American English phrase and you are still reading this blog. You got sucked in by my sexy title about having to pee and you just won't give up before I get to the peeing part. I heart you.

So I'm covering this football game and -- guess what? -- I had to pee! OMG I had to pee.
Naturally I decide to check Facebook on my phone while I did this. You haven't lived until you've updated your status while urinating. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "streaming content."
Anywhooo, I take my phone out of my pocket and the ole zip drive does a double pike, three-quarter twist into the toilet with minimal splash. (If I were a diving judge, I'd give it a 1. Get it?)
Anywhooo, this is a good news/bad news situation. Except it's basically all bad news. Bad news #1 is that I have some important tax-related documents on this zip drive and I need to retrieve it. Otherwise I'd just flush it. Bad news #2 is that the USB thingy has a protective cover on it, so the drive should work fine when retrieved. Otherwise I'd just flush it. Bad news #3 is that I'm about to stick my hand in a toilet.
The only good news is that I had yet to start my business, so at least I only had to plunge my hand into "clean" toilet water to retrieve the drive.
I got the zip drive -- never needed it of course -- and that's the end of the story. I did check the drive later and all my tax documents are still on it, so there's something.

I feel a little bad about wasting lots of space on a story that could have been told in about three sentences, so I'm going to give you another story, free of charge and free of long digressions on archaic American English phrases and pee pee puns.

This is the story of the first football game I ever covered after graduating from college. I got hired by the Lawton Constitution to replace Herb Jacobs, a retiring columnist who had been with the paper forever. I'm 22 and the ink has barely dried on my degree. My first assignment is OU's season-opening football game against Tulsa.
This game was at the University of Tulsa, which isn't used to hosting nationally prominent schools like OU. The press box was extremely crowded, and there were more people than seats. Some members of the media had what amounts to standing room only credentials. They would only get to sit if someone didn't show up, otherwise they had to stand in the back of the press box.
The seats are all assigned. Because newspapers are the oldest form of journalism, they get the best seats at the football games. (Maybe that's not the reason, but I can't think of a better one. I've always thought it was stupid that the Lawton Constitution, with our 25,000-ish circulation, got better seats than any of the Oklahoma City TV or radio stations, who have immensely larger audiences. For several years, whenever Sports Illustrated would send Austin Murphy or Phil Taylor to cover an OU game, they would be seated right next to me -- and I would be the one closer to the 50-yard line.)
So I get to the press box and try to find my seat. Can't find it. Like I said, this press box was quite small, so it didn't take long to scan all of the seats. Each seat has a placard with the name of the organization on it. I saw that papers like Enid and Muskogee, which are smaller than Lawton, had seats, so I knew I had a seat somewhere. I wanted to get to it ASAP so I could set my laptop up, make sure the wireless connection worked fine, etc. I also wanted to eat my free meal there before the game started.
There was a seating assignment list taped to the wall. I go over and see that the Constitution has a seat. It's the first seat on the second row. Easy enough.
I go over there to find that my seat has a briefcase, a notepad, some pens and possibly some hard candy strewn across it. Nobody is in the seat. I walk back over to the assignment list and confirm that this is my seat. I take notice of whichever paper was seated next to me. I go back and confirm that the seat next to the one I think is mine belongs to whichever paper it was supposed to belong to. So I brush aside the pens and notepads to look at the placard noting whose seat it was.
The words "Lawton Constitution" had been marked out by a black Sharpie. Scribbled beneath them, with the same black Sharpie, was "DEAN BLEVINS, KWTV-9. I AM NOT RETIRED."
Dean the Dream.
While I'm trying to process how big of a jerk Dean Blevins is, he walks up with a bunch of food in his mouth. As he starts to sit down, I say, "Dean, my name is Matt Franklin and I'm with the Lawton Constitution. I tried to retire but they said I have to work there longer than three weeks to be eligible." (OK I didn't really say that last line.)
He said, "Oh, I didn't know they had replaced old Herbie." He introduced himself and shook my hand, then picked up his stuff and went straight over to the University of Tulsa people to complain about how he didn't have a seat. I have to admit that it's pretty funny that a rookie reporter from Lawton and some random newspapers from rural Oklahoma got seats in the press box, but not the #1-rated television sports anchor in Oklahoma City. Then again, maybe he was being penalized for trying to play God with the seating assignments.

Two things happened as a result of that encounter.
1) At every OU football game, press conference, or on any occasion I would run into Dean Blevins, he would greet me the same way. An overly enthusiastic, "Hey bud! How you doing?" I was always bud.
2) One of my friends in the sports TV business hated Dean Blevins with an unquenchable passion. He had a couple of similar Dean the Dream stories. I told him my story the night before an OU/Texas game in Dallas. He got so worked up after hearing my story that he texted someone from KWTV and found out which hotel room Dean was in, and ordered a 4 a.m. wake up call. That prank got quite a few laughs, so he continued it every time we were on the road and they had a media hotel (Big 12 championship games and bowl games, mainly).
This guy did a really good Dean impersonation, and this is what the wake-up requests would sound like:
"Hi, this is Dean Blevins, room (whatever the number was). I'm on TV so I'll need to wake up really early to put on my makeup and my suit. Could you give me a wake-up call at 4 a.m.? That's 4 a.m., right on the nose. Please don't be late. Thank you so, so much."
Was waking Dean Blevins up at 4 a.m. three times a year cool or just mean? I'll put up a poll, but I'm not sure I trust the opinions of anyone who just spent 5 minutes reading a blog about me having to pee. :)

I Had to Pee

This is like half a blog. A bl.
I covered a football game for my old newspaper in Lawton tonight. At halftime, I had to pee.
The press box is located about 3 stories up from the field. There's a one-holer in the press box. I try to enter the one-holer, but alas, occupado.
I patiently wait, making a couple of Words With Friends plays and reading a few pages of a book with my phone's Kindle app. After a full 10 minutes, nobody has come out and I'm hearing nothing. I start to question whether I pulled the handle the right way. It's one of the horizontal ones. So I gave it a good tug the other direction. Still locked. Tried the originial downward pull just to be safe. Still locked.
Whatever, I got nothing else to do and it's not an emergency. I'll wait. After another five minutes, I am now worried that this person will not come out before the end of halftime, and I know I can't hold it for the whole second half. I also reckon that if this person does come out soon, I probably don't want to walk in right afterward. There's only five minutes before the second half starts.
There are two levels of the press box. I'm on the lower level. Having taken the elevator up the first three flights to my floor, I decide to take the stairs up to the top level and use their restroom. Luckily, the door to the top level of the press box is locked. I guess nobody takes the stairs anymore. I knock but nobody answers (The top level of the press box is usually used for coaches, and the coaches go down to the locker room to talk to the team at halftime).
So I decide to go back to my floor, check my restroom again, and then take the elevator to the ground level to use the regular restroom if that fails. Luckily, the door to my level of the press box is also locked from the outside. My fury vaults my feet down the three flights of stairs in about 5 seconds, and I am not a happy customer as I exit the press box and look for the restroom.
Of course, the press box is in the middle of the field. I don't see any restrooms nearby, but there are a lot of people around a building in the North end zone, so I rush over there. Only three minutes until the second half. Luckily, that was the concession stand. I now see that the restrooms are by the South end zone, 100 yards away.
By far the fastest person in the stadium, I get over there in 8.5 seconds, TCOB and get back into the press box 45 seconds before they kick off. That's what we journalists call working on deadline.

Working that Franklin charm

I took Addison to the Great State Fair of Oklahoma, where our state's best (products) and worst (people) are on display for two straight weeks.
We were in one of the buildings when Ads suddenly took a right turn down a random aisle while I was trying to navigate us out of the building.
"Come here baby," I said.
Suddenly a tall, fairly attractive woman turned from the booth directly in front of me and said, "Hey, how you doing?" and walked toward me.
I'm not going to act like this was the hottest woman on the planet, but she warranted a 6.5 or a 7, which makes her a 9.8 at the Great State Fair of Oklahoma.
She quickly became embarrassed and turned around when she realized I was talking to my daughter. I just pretended I didn't hear her and walked past her, but on the inside it was nice to know I still got it. Evidently, all I need is the lamest pick up line in the world. Never in a million years when I was actually single would I walk up to someone and say, "Come here baby." Guess I missed out.
Anyway, my mind wandered to the fact that I haven't tried to "pick anyone up" in 7 years. Then I started thinking about some of my funniest dating experiences.

By far my most embarrassing dating incident occurred during my senior year of high school. I was kissing my girlfriend and my nose starting bleeding. And not just a little. Blood was all over both of our faces. That'll put a quick end to the festivities.
After college, I was probably one of the pickiest daters in the world. (I had some funny ideas about dating, I realize now.) I dismissed candidates for the following reasons:

• Too much hair on her arms
• Too much eyebrow hair (different woman)
• Too short (The post-date hug was incredibly awkward)
• Said she didn't like to play board or card games
• Said she did like playing board and card games. Then we played a card game, and she was terrible.
• Being too politically liberal
• Having a messy car
• Having a roommate who smoked
• Ordering wine on our first date (she knew I worked at the newspaper, for goodness sakes. I'm on a budget!)
• Being a bad cook
• Being a bad kisser
• Having an awkward hand-holding (our hands didn't seem like they fit...she kind of had "man-hands")
• Backing out on our first date without a good reason. (I put the shoe on the other foot when she tried to get a rain check).

My car got keyed after I blew off one chick I went on one date with. She was a psycho, which is why I didn't want to see her again. That's also why I assumed she's the one who keyed my car even though I couldn't prove it.
My two best dating stories only involve a total of one date.
My sister set me up on a blind date. My sister said this woman was pretty and was a really strong Christian woman. Which is what I was looking for. And my sister wasn't lying.
About five minutes into dinner, I make a Seinfeld reference. She said she didn't watch Seinfeld. I didn't expect my dates to be Seinfeld fans, it just earned them a lot of bonus points with me.
So I explained the episode and the joke. She's sitting there stone-faced and says, "I don't think that's a good show to watch."
I tell her it's my favorite show. She says, "I don't think you can be a Christian and watch that show."
I press my tongue against the edge of my mouth and say to myself, "Well, I think we're done here."
I decide to have a civil dinner and then part ways. But evidently she's willing to allow me to repent of this sin. And she's thinking pretty far into the future.
She starts grilling me on a variety of topics -- politics, doctrinal Christian issues, my ten-year career plan, etc. She asks about where I went to school and I tell her Westmoore -- the best Moore, of course. This is her response.
"Our kids WILL NOT be in public school. They will be home schooled, like I was."
Okay then. I guess her evaluation of the date's first 20 minutes was wildly different than mine. I decided to go the classy route and tell her that my kids would DEFINITELY be in public schools. That made her mad enough to tell me that she didn't think this was going to work out. I said, "I guess not. It was nice meeting you. Bye."

My other story involves someone I never dated at all. I apologize in advance for the foul language, even though I will censor it.
Back in the Lawton days, my cell phone plan was extremely limited, so I had a home phone. My number was listed in the phone book (remember those?). I didn't have caller ID. I worked from 4 p.m. to midnight at the paper, so it wasn't uncommon for me to get a phone call at 1 a.m.
One night I got one. I answered and a gruff-sounding country boy was on the other end.
"Are you Matt Franklin, the one that works at the paper?"
"Yeah."
"Are you f***ing my wife?"
I laughed out loud, assuming this was one of my friends playing a joke on me. There was silence on the other end.
I said, "Are you serious?"
"Are you f***ing my wife?"
I wasn't sleeping with anyone, so my conscience was clear. "I don't know who your wife is, but I can assure you I'm not sleeping with her."
He says her name. It doesn't ring a bell. "She's about 5-foot-10. Dark hair. Big boobs. Really big J-Lo-type a**. Are you sleeping with her?"
"No, I promise you I am not sleeping with your wife."
At this point I'm getting pretty nervous. I look out the window of my apartment. It doesn't matter if I'm sleeping with this lady or not. If her husband thinks I am, he sounds like the kind of guy who might put a bullet in my head before giving me a fair judicial process.
I reiterate. "Sir, I don't think I've ever met your wife and I absolutely promise you I am not seeing her or sleeping with her."
There's a 15-second pause.
"Well, that figures. She's a lying b****."
Then another pause.
"I don't really care if you are sleeping with her. I'm kicking her out of the house and I just wanted to see if you wanted to come get her stuff. You can have her."
"No, I'm good. Thanks for the offer."
"We were in a fight the other day and she pointed to your picture in the sports page and told me she was sleeping with you. If you are, that's fine. If you want to come get her stuff just let me know and I'll drop it off or you can come get it. I'm through with her."
"Sir, I really don't know her and I'm definitely not sleeping with her."
"Well, like I said, she's a lying b**** so that makes sense."
"I'm sorry for your trouble, but I don't think I can't help you. I have to go now."
"So, you really don't want to come get her stuff?"
"No."
"OK, take it easy bud. I'm a really big fan of yours. You're about the only guy in that s***ty sports department that knows what he's talking about."
"Thanks. Bye."
I was pretty nervous that this guy would call again or come knocking on my door, but luckily I never heard from him (or his wife) again.

I Cheated And Won (Sort of)

Saw a post on Facebook the other day from my high school journalism teacher, who was officially known as Mrs. Burr but everyone called her Aunt Sally.
Aunt Sally deserves a lot of credit for the shred of a journalism career I have left. She demanded a lot out of us, which forced us to put out a good product, which put us ahead of the curve when we got to college. A very high percentage of our high school newspaper staff has gone on to work professionally in one aspect of journalism or another.
When I saw her Facebook post, I got to thinking about some of my favorite memories from those days at Westmoore High School's "Jag Wire." (Care to guess what our school mascot was?) Several are blog-worthy, but this is the one I'm writing about today.

Every spring we got to go to OU for a journalism contest and workshop. My junior year, I was the assistant editor of the Jag Wire, and my friend Lisa Salter was the editor. Then as now, all I really cared about was sports, so I did mostly sports stories. Lisa, being smart and mature, actually wrote about things that mattered.
Aunt Sally wanted us to broaden our horizons. She entered me in the news competition, and Lisa in the sports. I was not happy. I jokingly said to Lisa, "We should just write each other's stories." She said, "Fine with me, I'm about to graduate anyway."
Since the organizers of the workshop probably assumed that nobody would bother cheating in a high school journalism contest, they made it incredibly easy to cheat.
No matter which contest you were entered in, they had all of us in the same giant room with lots of computers. They handed you a few sheets of paper with facts and quotes and you would have 30 minutes to write your story. Once you typed your story and printed it off, you just signed a cover sheet with your name on it and turned it in.
So Lisa and I pick up our packets, switch them, sit next to each other, print off our stories at the same time, switch them back, sign the cover sheet and turn them in.
As we met over at the printer, I said, "Lisa, you better have written me a really good story because I nailed this thing. You're going to win."
We spent the rest of the afternoon going to our workshops before everybody met up for the awards ceremony. I told Lisa, "You better be ready to walk up there and accept your award. Am I going to be a state champion news writer?"
"No," she said. "You think I actually tried? I'm about to graduate."
Sports was one of the first categories awarded. I sat with a smug grin as they gave out third place and second place to a couple of yahoos who never stood a chance, and I laughed out loud when Lisa Salter of Westmoore High School, who had STILL never written a sports story in her entire life, was named the state champion sports writer.
The next morning, I was in my first class of the day -- science or something -- when Aunt Sally came over the intercom to speak to all 2,000 students at Westmoore High School.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a state champion sports writer in our midst!" As she started to do a fake drum roll, everyone in my class looked at me, because I covered the football team for the paper. I had to just sit there as she gushed about how Lisa was such an amazing writer. I think someone even pointed at me and said, "You lost to a girl???"
Of course, neither of us said anything to anyone. I certainly couldn't risk doing any further damage to my journalistic reputation, since my public-address mishap was only a few months old.
At the end of her proud report, Aunt Sally threw in a line about how Matt Franklin got honorable mention in news reporting. Honorable mention? What a joke. I think the Chick-Fil-A cows get honorable mention at these things.
In journalism class that day, I was about to punch a hole in the wall when Aunt Sally spent 30 minutes talking about how important it was to adapt to different kinds of writing. That's why she had entered us all in different categories than we were used to writing. Lisa Salter was really a shining example of someone who could cover any kind of story and do it well. Some of the rest of us needed to learn a lesson from that, including the guy who was going to be editor the next year.
The next year, when I was a senior and the editor of the paper, Aunt Sally entered me in the sports competition. She said, "I have high expectations for you. Lisa never even wrote sports and she won this award last year."
So I get to OU and pick up the packet and -- lo and behold! -- the fact sheet is the exact same one from the year before. It was about a baseball game that the home team won in the bottom of the ninth. (Not sure why I remember that).
I didn't want to write the exact same story as I had the year before, for fear that I would get busted. I tried to write a good story, but one that was noticeably different from Lisa's winner the year before. (In hindsight, I'm sure I could have printed off the exact same story and nobody would have known). As I turned it in, I remember thinking, "That story sucked."
At the awards ceremony, some yahoo who shouldn't have had a chance got first place.
I got honorable mention.

A slippery slope greased by polynesian sauce

After years of getting away with an incredibly shady business practice, Chick-Fil-A is finally getting called out onto the carpet.
That's right, I'm talking about how those stupid cows still don't know how to spell. They've been writing for years, but their spelling and grammar is disgraceful. "Eat more chicken" is a simple phrase. Learn it properly or don't try to sell me chicken.

Seriously, this week's Chick-Fil-A fiasco has gotten me a bit riled up. It's 13 percent ridiculous that this is a news story in any way, shape or form, and 113 percent scary that politicians are trying to take measures to shut Chick-Fil-A out of their cities.
It really shouldn't be a surprise that the CEO of a company known to be Christian would be against gay marriage. This is a restaurant that forgoes millions of dollars of profit to be closed on Sundays. That's extreme even by hard-core Christian standards.
I'm sure there are lots of different polls one could point to on the subject of gay marriage, but the ones that I looked at (by NBC, ABC, The Wall Street Journal and The Washington Post) showed that between 53 and 54 percent of Americans support gay marriage. Well, I can guarantee that the percentage of Christians who like to make a profit 7 days a week instead of 6 is higher than that, so the gay marriage thing should have been a forgone conclusion.
I could see a controversy brewing if the dude said he didn't want to serve gays, or that there would henceforth be a separate line for them, or that they would not be hired by the restaurant. (I have heard a lot of Chick-fil-haters push that last point as if it were a fact, but they've been unable to provide one shred of evidence to support it).
All he did is express his personal belief on an issue that about half the country agrees with him on anyway. But that doesn't even matter. He could say that he firmly believes the earth is flat and get less backlash than this.
OK, so half the country lives under a rock and thought Chick-fil-A was closed on Sundays because all the employees go three sheets to the wind every Saturday night and need Sunday to sleep it off. Now you're outraged to find out they're Christians who believe in something. I get it. Fine.
Solution: Don't eat at Chick-Fil-A. Tell your friends not to eat at Chick-Fil-A. Organize a national boycott of Chick-Fil-A. This is how America is supposed to work. Their bottom line will take a hit, and if enough people don't eat there, it will go out of business. That'll show 'em.
That should be the end of the story, but it isn't. Politicians are actually trying to shut down Chick-Fil-A restaurants, and if they succeed, I shudder to think about what the future holds for our fine country. It's like going down the cookie aisle and seeing the Double-Stuf Oreos. You know you don't need them, but you think you've earned it and you'll only have a couple. Two hours after checking out at the grocery store, the whole pack is in your stomach. And you're out of milk.
I heard the dude from Chicago who is trying to lock Chick-Fil-A out say he felt he needed to take a stand because in his heart, he knew Chick-Fil-A was bigoted. That's a direct quote, not a paraphrase. He also said the people of Chicago don't agree with his views, so that's another reason to shut them down.
Since when is a politician's gut feeling enough "evidence" to shut down a restaurant? (Even if it was "from the heart," which is far more conclusive than just a random gut feeling...) The dude in Massachusetts shutting Chick-Fil-A out of Boston had the same rock-solid evidence of discrimination, by which he meant absolutely no evidence whatsoever.
Although nothing should surprise me when it comes to my uber-liberal friends, I have to admit to being a little taken aback by their desire to see Chick-Fil-A shut down. I thought that was the kind of thing they accuse the conservatives of doing to people that disagree with them. In one thrilling Facebook debate (in which he was utterly destroyed), one buddy said that despite any actual evidence of discrimination, the fact that the company and its CEO give money to Christian organizations supporting traditional marriage justifies any and all legal measures to shut them down. He also equated Chick-Fil-A to the KKK trying to open up shop in Oklahoma City. (Who wants some Ku Klux Khicken? Just like the customers, the meat's all white!!!)
It takes zero creativity whatsoever to come up with a scenario in which all of the people who want to shut down Chick-Fil-A would be proven to be absolute hypocrites. You don't even have to change the subject, you just have to change the location.
I'm confident in saying that the majority of the people in the state of Mississippi are against gay marriage, and gay marriage is not legal there. Using the exact same logic, anyone that supported gay marriage and/or donated any money to that cause could have their private, for-profit business that is absolutely unrelated to gay or straight marriage shut down. You think these Birkenstock-wearers would like that? It appears the sandal is on the other foot now...

Can we please just go back to being Americans and let capitalism and freedom of speech work like they are supposed to? Let the CEO of Chick-Fil-A have an opinion, and if that opinion offends you, then don't eat his chicken sandwiches. He will make less money. Because this is America and we are a free country, you can even express your displeasure over his opinion and try to get other people to not eat his chicken sandwiches. But you don't get to stop the production of chicken sandwiches over a difference of opinion.
(Steps off soapbox).
I'd really prefer to go back to not caring about politics, and to go back to writing blogs about poker, sports and bad restaurant experiences now.
I'll close with a unifying statement that all sides can agree on. That polynesian sauce is freaking amazing. And those cows need to learn some gramer. I mean grammar.

Papa John

I got a text from my friend Spike in Lawton the other day that literally had me laughing out loud for several minutes.
He said he was playing poker at the casino there in L-Town and saw a guy we affectionately call Papa John. He knew I would be interested in this discovery and decided to sneak a picture with his cell phone. Unfortunately, he forgot to turn his flash off so the guy knew that Spike had taken a picture of him. They sat across each other for a couple more hours playing cards, all the while Papa J knew Spike had taken this picture. According to my source at the table (Spike), it was very awkward for at least one of them (Spike). The best part is that the picture ended up a great portrait of Spike's thumb.

Flash back to about 2006, when Spike and I were both dashing young bachelors without a care in the world. Poker was pretty new to us, and we had nothing but time. We played a lot of poker.
I was working on the sports desk at the Lawton Constitution back then. My hours were 4 p.m. to midnight. Since the newspaper was conveniently located about one mile from the casino, I often went after work. Spike would do landscaping work all day, sleep for a little while, and usually end up at the casino at about the same time I did.
There was another fellow who would show up at the same time as us. He was at roughly the same age and poker skill level that we were. He was a Papa John's delivery driver, and he would come to the casino as soon as he was done with his shift. He always wore the Papa John's polo shirt and hat, but he rarely ever said a word.
He pretty much kept to himself and usually won, and that was all I knew about him. Well, I also knew that he drove a brand new white PT Cruiser, which looked pretty funny with the Papa John's car-topper on it. It also seemed funny that a young kid with a heavy country accent would be driving a brand new white PT Cruiser.
After a couple of months, he started occasionally jumping into the sports conversations that frequently begin at the poker table. He was a smart dude who read the sports page. Sometimes he would reference something in one of my columns and then add his two cents, either agreeing or disagreeing in a very well-thought and to-the-point manner. The way in which he would jump into a conversation from out of nowhere and make a very forceful opinion usually ended the discussion. Then we'd all go back to playing cards and wonder why the Papa John's guy thought he got be God and make the deciding point in every argument.
After entering a few sports discussions, Papa John started doing the same thing when there was an interesting poker hand that merited discussion at the table. People would be going back and forth and he would just fly in from left field and say, "The flush hit and John bet $150 after calling the flop and the turn. He's not going to bet into five people without the flush so it was a terrible call by Mark."
Then he would just go back to saying nothing.
With this kind of guy, it's easy to see how one could overlook a key detail -- his name. I had played with him for almost a year and had no freaking clue what his name was.
Over that time, Papa John seemed to take a liking to Spike and I. He tended to agree with most of what what we said about sports and poker, but we still never talked about anything personal. I definitely respected his knowledge and poker skill and just assumed he was a home-schooled introvert without a lot of social skills. I had nothing against him.
As Papa John starting feeling comfortable popping into conversations between Spike and myself, it became increasingly awkward that neither of us knew what his name was. Keep in mind that this was a small poker room without an electronic waiting list like most rooms have. You just gave your name to someone at the front desk and they let you know when your seat was open.
For a couple of weeks we had been trying to figure out what his name was without asking him, since he was obviously quite familiar with our names and we had known him for too long to just ask him what his name was. Unfortunately, since he didn't talk to anyone else and only rarely spoke to us, this seemed to be an impossible task. I remember us putting a $20 bounty on finding out his name. We couldn't do it.
Back then, the Lawton poker room closed at 2 a.m. (maybe it was 3 a.m., I don't remember for sure). Like I said, Spike and I would usually get there about midnight, and sometimes two hours of poker wasn't enough. We would occasionally drive to Norman to play at Riverwind until dawn.
One night just after the Lawton poker room had closed, Spike and I were standing off to the side and decided to make a run to Riverwind. Out of nowhere Papa John's sidles up and says, "I'd like to go with you."
Since this guy didn't seem like a serial killer and it also didn't seem like a good time to say, "What's your name, Bro?" we just piled into my Honda and took an awkward trip up the turnpike.
Since Riverwind had the electronic waiting lists, our plan was to let Papa John walk up to the counter first. Then he would give his name and we would either hear it or see it up on the board. That plan was thwarted when Papa John looked up at the board and said, "Open seating for the $2-5 no limit game? I'll take it." Spike and I rolled our eyes at each other.
We played til dawn and then went to IHOP for some breakfast. By this time Spike and I have exchanged 25 texts trying to guess his name or come up with any clue whatsoever.
We get done eating and as we get up, Papa John's says he's gonna go take a leak, and we tell him to meet us at the car.
As we're walking to the car, I say to Spike, "So we still have no idea what this guy's name is?" Spike laughs and says, "No clue. It would be a lot easier if he just wore the Papa John's name tag."
That's when we notice that Papa John is standing right there.
Either this guy took the fastest leak in the history of the world or he was afraid that we were going to leave him. Regardless, there's a 100 percent chance he heard Spike's comment.
I changed the subject real fast but the damage was done. The worst part is that this dude STILL didn't tell us what his name was. I felt horrible so I started asking him personal questions all the way home, to try to get to know him better. This resulted in him complaining about his wife for an hour and not telling us his name.
After that incident, Papa John starting coming around less and less. He was much more temperamental, berating opponents who beat him in a hand and sometimes playing terrible poker and losing significant amounts of money. Judging from the car talk and some random grumblings under his breath, I think he was having marital problems. Anyway, he pretty much quit coming.
Yes, at some point before he disappeared we figured out what his name was, but he'll always be Papa John to me.

Two things cracked me up about Spike's failed picture attempt the other day. First, it's obviously funny that the same guy who got busted making a rude joke about not knowing Papa John's name also got busted trying to snap a cell phone picture at a poker table. Awkward silence, Part 2.
But what's also funny is what would have been in that picture had Spike not instead taken a picture of his own thumb.
Six years after the original incident, Papa John is still in the pizza business. But he's not working for the Big Daddy anymore! Spike reports that Papa is now wearing the polo shirt and hat of Marco's Pizza these days. I guess he was a free agent and Marco's swooped in with the highest offer. There's no loyalty with these guys anymore, they just take the money every time.

Vegas 2012

Last year about this time, I got to write a pleasant blog about our family's month-long trip to Vegas, the highlight of which was a $35,000 second-place showing in a 900-person field in a poker tournament at the Venetian.
Last year was the second straight year I loaded up Missy and Addie and we made the 17-hour drive. Both times we rented a house away from the strip and really enjoyed the adventure of it all. Two years ago, I didn't win $35k but it was one of the better months of the year for me at the tables.
This year, Missy re-started her career as a nurse, getting a job at OU Medical. With her new obligations we weren't able to do the month-long family trip, but thanks to a wasted two hours of my life, I did get a free room for three days this year.
Last year we decided to hear a two-hour sales pitch for a timeshare deal. They tried to say it wasn't a timeshare (it's so much MORE than a timeshare! And BETTER!!). It was a timeshare.
We were offered a $100 gift certificate to a fancy restaurant on the strip, as well as two tickets to a show and two free nights at a hotel in Vegas. The only catch was that the hotel room was only to be used in the year 2012.
If at any point during the two hour sales pitch, if they determined that we were not seriously interested in the timeshare, they could kick us out and we would not get our gifts. In fact, the couple at the table next to us admitted they didn't have the money for a timeshare and got kicked out.
They started out offering us a $40,000 timeshare package. It was hard for me to sit there and act as if I actually had $40k of disposable income burning a hole in my pocket, but I did it. I said I simply chose not to spend my 40k on THAT.
Then they went down to the $25,000 package. I just couldn't quite squeeze the trigger on that one either.
Then they did the $15k package and finally a $5k package. I stood my ground. The lady said, "What? Are you not going to go on vacations at all???"
Finally I pointed out that we had signed a contract saying we would listen to the pitch for two hours, and that two hours was up. I wanted our free crap.
The lady tried to act like she was going to get fired if we didn't buy anything and mentioned her two small children. Tough beans, honey.
Then they thought they could get us to buy a week in Hawaii for $1000 or something like that. Missy was starting to break, but I stood firm. Gifts, please.
Of course, Missy's best friend flew into town the next day and they used the restaurant voucher on a fancy meal. I got pictures of the food sent to my cell phone.

Since she got the meal, I claimed the free room for a poker trip with my buddy James. I decided to play another Venetian tournament, assuming they would hand me another $35k.
That's not how it worked out. James, of all people, busted me out of the Venetian tournament, and I lost a little more at the cash games. Oh well. Who among us hasn't dropped a couple thousand in Vegas in a weekend?
The free room we got provided an interesting experience. It was at the Polo Towers, which has a nice pool on the roof that I took advantage of. And the room itself was nice -- with the exception of one quirk.
The first time I tried to take a shower, the water was scalding hot. I turned it all the way to cold, and it was still scalding hot. Figuring I had turned the knob the wrong way, I put it on hot, and it was still scalding hot. Finally I put it right in the middle. Still scalding hot.
After about 10 minutes of just standing in the back of the shower, it finally cooled off enough to get the job done. But that wasn't the end of the hot water business. When I brushed my teeth, the water was scalding hot, and when I tried to get a drink of cold water from the sink in our kitchen, it was scalding hot. Luckily the drinking water wasn't the first thing I tried in the place, else I probably would have burned my throat. I just didn't drink the water.
James had the most humorous water issue, however. He said the water burned his toosh during a courtesy flush. I thought that would be the most hilarious lawsuit ever, and it's a guaranteed winner. How are you going to rule against a guy doing a courtesy flush?? Answer: You're not. Give him the money.

Boxing and Horse Racing Are Dumb

Two of America's dumbest sports had major setbacks this weekend, hopefully pushing them out of relevancy in our fine country forever. Boxing and horse racing have both seen rapid declines in their status for decades, but I've never understood why either one was popular in the first place.
Are we really at a point where the best thing we can do on Saturday night is pay $60 to watch humans punch each other in the face? And I don't want to hear the crap about how it's an "art" or a "science." Ultimately, we are hoping that at least one of the two contestants is beaten beyond recognition and cannot open his eyes at the end of the fight. If it's a truly great fight both men will be in this condition.
I've never seen a bout where at the end, the guys wipe a little sweat off their brow, put their arm around Doris Burke and conduct a post-fight interview looking exactly like they did three hours earlier. (LeBron James: "The referee said, "Not one, not two, not three...not ten. And all of a sudden I lost!!!)
The greatest fighter ever -- Muhammad Ali -- is a living, breathing example of what boxing can do to a person long-term. But while we all show sympathy for Ali as an individual, nobody has ever stepped up and said, "Hey, you know, maybe this sport where people punch people in the head isn't good for people's heads. Maybe we should get rid of it." We all know Mike Tyson is an idiot, but surely at least a little bit of his ignorance is a direct result of boxing.
The concept behind the sport -- hitting people in the face -- is so stupid that they try to surround the audience with 25 things that are even more stupid so that you don't realize how stupid the sport is that you're watching. Why are these guys coming out in fancy robes? Might as well give them cigars, wine and a recliner in each corner while we're at it. They can both be propped back in their chairs reading National Geographic. When the bell rings, one of them says, "Hey old chap, what say we punch each other in the face for exactly three minutes." Then they do it, and return to their recliners for exactly one minute.
And do we really need the slutty girls carrying the signs that tell you what round we're in? Boxing tries to distract you from a sport that should have been retired 1,000 years ago by showing you sexism that was supposed to be retired 50 years ago. "Oh man, these girls are hot. Yeah, I'd love to pay $60 to see them for 5 seconds on TV. That's way better than paying $5 to see the same thing in Maxim."
Nothing gets me more pumped for a fight than a good ring announcer. Oh wait, I don't care about the ring announcers, and neither does anyone else. Yet they pay Michael Buffer $5 million per fight for the whole "Let's get ready to rumble" schtick that got old in the late '90s.
It's no surprise, then, that a sport so stupid is run by stupid people. Last weekend, Manny Pacquiao punched Timothy Bradley 190 times and got punched 108 times. This isn't a sport where there are RBIs or assists. Punching is literally the only thing you are doing. So Pacman wins 190-108...yet two judges out of three give the fight to Bradley and he wins.
Obviously none of these 108 punches was strong enough to put Manny on the ground or knock him out, so what could possibly be the basis for this decision? I know! The fight was rigged! One cookie for me!
People have been yammering for decades about how corrupt boxing is, and that's been a major reason the sport's popularity has declined. If a fight is even somewhat close, the judges can give it to whoever they want and people will say it's "controversial" but nothing will really happen and everyone moves on. But when a fight is as lopsided as Pacquiao-Bradley (both the ESPN and HBO analysts had it scored 11 rounds to 1 in favor of Pacman), logic would dictate that you just give the fight to Manny even if you were supposed to swing it the other way.
But these guys are so arrogant that they think they can do whatever they want and the dumb public will still keep crawling back for more. After all, that announcer is really cool and those hot chicks are on the screen for 5 seconds every three minutes.
They didn't lose a customer at the Franklin house, because I've never liked boxing. But hopefully they lost a few in the rest of the world.
Going toe-to-toe with boxing for Dumbest Sport on the Planet is horse racing.
I'm not into track and field, but it seems like the people who are into horse racing should be into track and field instead. I can see the simple pleasure in lining up 10 people, having them sprint to a line 100 meters away, and seeing who's the fastest. But track is way less popular than horse racing, and I don't understand why.
Me: "Why do you prefer horse racing to track?"
Horse racing guy: "Because I like to bet on the horses."
Me: "Wouldn't it be smarter to bet on the humans, who are probably more consistent than horses and, if they are in a bad mood or didn't like their oats that day, could actually communicate that to someone so that you could maybe bet on a different runner?"
HRG: "I prefer to bet on a mammal ridden by midget with a whip. I do a lot of research. I'm not just making my bets willy-nilly. Of course, there's always a chance the horse could jump over a rail for no reason or have to be shot 30 minutes after the race. That's the thrill. Besides, all the track stars are on steroids."
Me: "Evidently the horses are on steroids too. The trainer of I'll Have Another, Doug O'Neill, has been busted like 15 times for doping the horses."
HRG: "But he hasn't been busted for doing anything to that particular horse."
Me: "Which is exactly why he pulled him out of the Belmont on Saturday when the horse had a chance at the Triple Crown. Didn't want to get busted."
HRG: "You just made that up."
Me: "Yes I did. But you have to admit it's kind of shady."
HRG: "You know what else is cool about horse racing? They pay the good horses millions of dollars to have sex with other horses."
Me: "Actually, that's really stupid."
HRG: "I know. It's awesome, right? You know what else is awesome? Everyone drinks mint juleps at the Kentucky Derby!
Me: "I don't know what a mint julep is, but I'm sure it represents the social elite of a backwards state very well."
HRG: "I know! It's awesome, right? Ima go bet on another horse now. See you later."

Dear boxing and horse racing,
Don't let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya.
Signed,
Me

Lucky Life, Unlucky Fall

A couple of weeks ago I was playing tennis with Chad. I was up at the net, and he hit one over my head. I backpedaled to get it, and as I was hitting it back I tripped over my own feet. Instinctually, I threw my left arm back to brace my fall. The concrete was less than forgiving, resulting in the nasty bruise on my arm and a matching one on my left hip. I wish there was video of it, because I'm sure it looked pretty funny.
I thought I had broken something, but the X-rays came back negative. Nevertheless, for the first 48 hours after the injury I couldn't move my left arm at all without extreme pain. Now, almost two full weeks later, it's definitely better but still a long ways from normal. Some very simple movements cause very sharp pain, I still can't lift more than a couple of pounds with my left arm, and I can't sleep on my left side because of the pain in my hip and arm.
Before the fall, I was doing some form of cardio 4-5 times per week. Tennis one to twice a week, basketball once or twice a week, and running a couple of miles on the other days. For the first week after the fall, I wasn't able to do anything, and since then I've only been able to run on the elliptical, with my left arm pinned to my body. Tennis, basketball, or real running are out of the question. Even writing this blog isn't a pain-free experience.
The point of this isn't for you to feel sorry for me. I have been blessed beyond measure in every aspect of my life. But this injury has given me a much better perspective on life.
It's amazing how much stuff I took for granted. Simple tasks like shaving, shampooing and driving a car became very difficult and painful in the blink of an eye. I still can't do turning motions with my left wrist, so when I drive I have to turn the wheel with only my right arm. I can't push or turn the lawn mower, so my wife has to do our lawnwork until I get better.
I've twisted my ankles several times, but this is the first time in my life I've had an arm injury like this (the ankle stuff isn't fun, but after hobbling around for a couple days they heal pretty fast). What did I do to deserve 32 years of perfectly convenient life? Nothing, I've just been blessed by the Lord.
Others aren't as fortunate. When someone takes 10 minutes to walk down the cereal aisle in front of me, I get irritated instead of thanking God that I don't have chronic arthritis or whatever might be ailing them. I've been noticing this in a lot of different ways, not always physically. Sometimes other people make decisions that make me mad. Maybe they weren't blessed with the upbringing I had, taught to know the difference between right and wrong.
Instead of focusing on how their decisions or afflictions affect me, I need to be focusing on how they affect them. How much better would my life be if my heart poured out compassion and grace instead of selfishness and complaining?
That's what God's been showing me ever since my accident. Might not apply to you, but I thought I'd pass it on anyway.

Pretty Fly For A White Guy

Last week I bought a new pair of shorts at Old Navy. Stop the presses, right?
Anyway, last weekend I went to Durant for a poker tournament. I pack pretty light, and for this two-night stay I brought a pair of jeans and my new shorts. That's it in the pants department.
On the first day we were down there, I wore the new shorts. After a few hours of poker, I hit the urinal. Business as usual, until I get done. I zip the shorts up about a quarter of the way and then the fly breaks off. I'm holding the thing in my hand while my pants remain 75 percent unzipped. A brief attempt to re-attach the zipper resulted in utter failure and a small cut on my index finger.
Before I could even get out of the poker room to go back to my room to change, I saw a few friends and had to stop and say hi.In these poker tournaments, there's always a few photographers trolling the room. Some of them are are looking for the big chip stacks at the time, some of them are looking for celebrities or poker pros, and some of them just take everyone's picture and hope you'll pay them $20 for a print.
While I was talking to my friend Jon Bennett, I noticed a photographer taking his picture. I didn't take me long to realize that Jon is sitting at a poker table, and I am standing right behind him, which means my wide open fly is about 4 inches from his head and directly in line with the photographer's shot. I decided it probably wasn't a good time to mention to Jon that my fly was open (so this whole thing is probably news to Jon if he's reading it!), but I made up an excuse and got the heck out of there.
It's a pretty lengthy walk from the poker room to the hotel tower connected to the casino where we were staying, and I was a little self-conscious about it. I was pulling my T-shirt down as low as it would go and holding it that way while I walked.
Long story short, I made sure to have four napkins on my lap for every meal I ate with the jeans on, since I had no backup for those. And I didn't make a dime in the poker tournament, so Missy's going to have to work an extra shift at the hospital...Daddy needs a new pair of shorts!

Wings Down/You got fired for WHAT?/How 'bout them Eagles

Had a few random run-ins over the past few days that seemed funny enough to write about...

Those of you who have ever been in the Riverwind poker room know how crowded it is. For those who don't, I'll try to explain it.
The casino did a pretty good job of putting the poker room in an enclosed area, away from most of the cigarette smoke and noises of the slots and music. It's got lots of TVs and the dealers are pretty good. It's the perfect size for a 12-table room. Unfortunately, they crammed 17 tables in there. It's so tight that there are really no aisles between the tables; anyone coming or going inevitably puts a knee in the back of someone's chair as they pass by.
Last weekend they had me in one of the worst seats in the entire room. I was in the corner seat near the "aisle" at one of the front tables, which means that anyone going to any table on my half of the room had to go by me. That's about 45 people, and I got to enjoy a knee to my back every time any one of them went by.
Actually, a knee to the back is the best-case scenario. God forbid you ever want to eat or drink anything at the table. The guy next to me had an iced tea on a tray between our seats. Someone came by and knocked it all over his lap, partially onto his cell phone, and all over the floor. Fun.
Against my better judgment, I decided to take part in "60-cent wing night" at the casino. The same tea-stained gentleman next to me and I decided to split a dozen wings.
The ending to this story is pretty obvious. Before we even got them, I asked the table how long it would take for someone to knock them onto the ground, and sure enough someone knocked them onto the ground. Some of the sauce got on my jacket but we were otherwise unscathed.
The guy who did it was pretty funny. He took out his wallet and half-heartedly offered to buy us more wings. I told him not to worry about it, and he said "Thanks bro" and was out the door in about three seconds flat.
That night, the floor got a better meal than we did. Iced tea and wings...not bad!

The next day I went to Walgreens to fill a prescription. While I was standing in line at the pharmacy, I hear the following cell phone conversation behind me.
"No, I don't think they'll give me unemployment. They already warned me about it and then I did it again so they fired me."
I did the slow turn-around where you act like you're looking at the top of Aisle 14 but you're really trying to check out the lady who doesn't feel the need to use her inside voice while talking about getting fired. There was instant recognition. I've never seen this chick in my life, yet I've seen her a thousand times. You know, the ones who never shut up and think everyone cares about their lives as much as they do. And most of them look similar to this one, with the multi-colored hair, over-the-top lipstick and outfit that looks like it was put together by fourth graders in arts and crafts class. Pretty much looked like the actress from "Criminal Minds."
I don't know where she was working or what she did to get fired. From that job, anyway. After a brief pause, she continued.
"No, I think it's the same thing that happened when I worked at Hertz. At Hertz I kept not showing up for work, so they warned me and put it in my file. Then I didn't show up some more, so they fired me. And they used that file to deny my unemployment."
Who knew? Companies prefer it when you show up for work? Good thing this lady was standing right behind me at Walgreens, otherwise I wouldn't have been privy to this crucial inside information...

On Monday it was so beautiful outside that I decided last-second to take Addison to the zoo. While she was playing at the playground, a lady approached me and asked about my hat. I could spot the crazy from a mile away.
I have several Major League Baseball hats from a variety of teams, and on this day I was wearing my Philadelphia Phillies hat. I'm not a Phillies fan, but my favorite NFL team is the Philadelphia Eagles. So here's our conversation.
Crazy chick: Hey! Is that a Phillies hat?
Me: Yeah.
Crazy chick: So are you a Steelers fan?
(This really doesn't make any sense at all. The Pittsburgh Steelers are in a different city and a different sport, but I guess being in the same state is all that counts).
Me: No, I'm actually an Eagles fan.
Crazy chick, shouting to her husband: Rob! We can't talk to this guy! He's an Eagles fan!
Me, thinking to myself: OK, too bad. I understand. See you later!
Crazy chick, talking to me now: Have you ever been to a game there?
Me: Yeah, it was pretty cool.
Crazy chick: I lived there for seven years. Did you go to a game when it was the Eagles playing against the Steelers?
Me: No, but I bet that would be a lot of fun.
Crazy chick: Um, no it wouldn't! Did you hear where a couple of years ago there was an Eagles fan who shot a Steelers fan? It's crazy!! One time my family came over and all the Steelers fans were in the living room and all the Eagles fans stayed in the kitchen!
(I'm starting to envision a scenario where an Eagles fan shoots a Steelers fan...)
Crazy chick: So, aren't the Eagles not having a very good year so far?
Me: Well, the season ended four months ago, but the Eagles didn't make the playoffs so, yeah, it wasn't a very good year so far.
Crazy chick: So that really is a Phillies hat?
Me: Addie! Let's go look at the elephants!!

Press Box Shenanigans

I read something in Sports Illustrated the other day that had me absolutely cracking up for about 15 minutes.
It was about a soccer game in Europe, where a guy got knocked unconscious and, it turns out, cracked a couple of vertebrae in his neck or something. Evidently, the referee suspected that he was faking the injury, so he gave the guy a yellow card.
The player wasn't paralyzed or anything, but he was still unconscious and paramedics had to cart him off the field. That didn't stop the referee from doing his due diligence. Because the player had received a yellow card earlier in the match, the referee -- while this guy is being carted off the field -- gave the player a red card, which means he is ejected from the match.
Maybe it's just me and my weird sense of humor, but that story was just so ridiculous that I couldn't quit laughing, picturing the referee seriously giving a red card to an unconscious player on a cart.
That story reminded me of my own run-in with a referee, so it seems like a good excuse to re-tell it. Besides, my fellow Riverwind poker players (holla!) have been quite supportive of my blog lately, and they've probably never heard this story. So here goes.

I've pretty much been doing journalism my whole life. My first job, when I was 16, was doing sports stories for the old Moore American newspaper. It was a free weekly paper that was choc full of errors and probably not worth lining your bird cage with, but they paid me $10/hour and it was a pretty good experience for an aspiring sportswriter. (Does anyone know if that paper still exists, or has it been swallowed up by the Norman Transcript?)
Anyway, based on my clear mastery of the English language and complete grasp of the Westmoore High School sports universe, I got hired to do public address announcing for junior high and junior varsity football games in Moore.
It was a fun job, and I was basically just flying by the seat of my pants. It's not like they gave me any training or instruction whatsoever. They just handed me a mic and told me to announce the down, distance, and whatever happened on the previous play.
Sometimes my friend Kevin would go to the games with me and help me spot who made the tackle and what yard-line the ball was on, etc. The first few weeks I tried to be professional and whatnot, but a junior high game we did one night changed everything.
As always, we went down on the field before the game to get the rosters for both teams. Well, this night, one coach said, "I didn't bring one. Just make up the names. I don't care."
Of course, Kev and I went to town. We made up names for everyone on the team and used them over the PA throughout the game. We used a wide array of names, from celebrities (this was the 1990s, so I think Vanilla Ice was playing QB), to NFL players (Barry Sanders at RB), to the classic adolescent laugh-getters (starting at receiver, Ceymour Butts).
Nobody complained, and it was a heckuva a lot more fun than doing the job right.
My favorite games to work were the Westmoore JV games, because I was a junior at Westmoore and the team consisted of all my friends. Also, we had a really good JV football team which I think went undefeated.
One night, I was doing a JV game and we were beating the tar out of another hapless foe. I started taking a few liberties with the mic. "That's yet another touchdown for the mighty Jaguars." "Matt Fallwell slices through the defense like they're not even there." "Incomplete pass for Del City. What a shame." And so forth.
Late in the game, we had scored a TD to make the score 49-0, which was punctuated by another obnoxious call from the PA announcer. On the ensuing kickoff, Del City returned it for a touchdown but there was a penalty which negated the score. This was the call from the booth.
"Ohhhhh! The 15 Del City fans still in attendance are in a state of shock as their only chance to score has been wiped out by an illegal block in the back."
Then the ref threw another flag. I said, "It looks like there's another penalty on the play," and the ref starts pointing up at the press box, right at me actually. He signaled unsportsmanlike conduct on us and marked off 15 yards. I got a penalty from the press box!
On cue, one of our principals stormed into the booth and literally ripped the microphone plug from the wall, leaving me holding the useless stub. I was a little relieved to see our coaches in the next booth cracking up.
Fortunately, all my friends on the football team thought it was hilarious too. I was worried they might not be too pleased that a guy who never played a down of football in his life cost them 15 yards, but I guess the 49-0 score mitigated that.
To this day, I like to think that I'm the only person who's ever gotten penalized from the press box.
Somehow, my shenanigans didn't even end up costing me my job. I got lectured in the principal's office at school the next day and forced to sit in the booth at a varsity game so I could learn from the old fart who did the PA at those. I cleaned up my act after that, but it wasn't nearly as much fun.

Chick-Fil-Eh?

I have to start by saying I think Chick-Fil-A is by far the best-run fast-food restaurant in the world.
Despite the fact that the restaurant is always packed to the gills, it's clean, the employees are very friendly and the service is fast and generally accurate.
Today, the drive-thru line was wrapped all the way around the restaurant and the inside was totally full, and we were all the way through it with our correct order in 9 minutes.
I don't necessarily think they have the best food on the planet, but Addison certainly does so we eat there quite often.
Today, a couple of funny things happened that inspired this brief blog.
As we pulled in to the franchise on I-240 and Western, Addie said, "What does that sign say?" I said, "Chick-Fil-A." She said, "Then why is it a picture of a girl?"
I looked up and realized that she was asking about the sign for the gentleman's club right next door.
I doubt it was Chick-Fil-A's preference to be directly next to a strip club, and I'm sure I wasn't the first parent who had to point out an airplane in the sky so his daughter would forget about the strip club she just asked about. On the other hand, it sure hasn't seemed to hurt Chick-Fil-A's business, and it's probably "enchanced" the bottom line at the gentleman's club as well.
As we waited in the drive-thru, I noticed that the restaurant had a dude whose job was to carry an umbrella and walk people to and from their cars, for it was raining rather heavily. Just another example of Chick-Fil-A going the extra mile for its customers.
I did find it quite humorous, however, when I saw the dude standing by the driver's door of an SUV, waiting for the driver to get out. Out of the passenger's door came a lady who was about 7 months pregnant, and she stumbled around the car getting soaked before making to the driver's side. This umbrella dude either never saw her or just ignored her, because he waited while the chick's body-building husband got out of the driver's seat. Then he put the umbrella over that guy and walked him to the front while the preggo lady walked next to them getting wet.

These are a few of my favorite things

I felt like writing something tonight, but I didn't have the typical funny story or overly cynical take on an irrelevant sporting event. What started as a blogging brainstorm became a blessings basking. Nice alliteration, huh? The point is, I just started counting my blessings, thinking of some of the things in my life that make me smile.

• Starting every day by reading the newspaper and drinking a fruit/yogurt/protein shake
• Relaxing on the couch and watching a TV show with Missy
• Skype-ing with mom or my sister from Asia
• Seeing how much God has done with my little brother's life in the last 5 years
• Crushing online bridge tournaments with Francine
  
• When Addison puts one of her blankets on me while I'm laying on the couch and brings one of her books over and reads it to me while patting my shoulder
• The time I have to think and pray while running around the track at Earlywine
• The massaman curry chicken from Panang
• Covering a football game that won't end til 15 minutes after deadline and having it done on time anyway
• Tennis with Chad
• Making the right decision in a really tough spot in a poker game
• Wednesday nights with the awesome youth group at DPCC
• Getting yelled at by Addie for turning right on red because "Red means STOP, Daddy!!! You have to wait for GREEN!!! Green means GO!!!"
• Going for a walk with Missy, Addie and the Bailey dog 
• Talking about life with Mike 
• Seeing the crossword puzzle in the newspaper, because it reminds me of my Papa
• Getting a good needle in on one of my poker buddies
• Fantasy baseball
• Real baseball 
• Letting Missy drag me to corners of the world I would never go to on my own
• Dominoes with Keefesus, Dub, Player and Gibby
• Seeing all the great people I met over 7 years in L-Town
• Making up half a song on the guitar
• Rocking Addie to sleep
• Writing something good
• Eating anything my wife makes
• Beating the flat-bellies at basketball without ever going inside the 3-point line
• The flutter in my heart when I read the Bible and God shows me something I've read 100 times but suddenly has new meaning or is clearly speaking to my life right now
• Memories of my dad randomly popping in my head. They usually make me sad, but only because they're great memories and I just plain miss him

Obviously there's plenty more I could have included. It's pretty humbling to think of how richly I've been blessed and how little I've done to deserve any of it, but such is the love and grace of God.

I'd Rather Watch Them Actually Bowling

I was subjected to cruel and unusual punishment Sunday night.
I went to the casino to play some poker, and they sat me directly across from the 90-inch big screen TV projector.
The Pro Bowl was on, and I was forced against my will to watch it for three hours.
I've always thought the Pro Bowl was a joke, but I hadn't watched any of it in at least five years. After watching it, my opinion has gone from it being a joke to being an outrage.
It's a ridiculous waste of everyone's time. To even call it "football" or "a sport" is an insult to everyone from Vince Lombardi to John Daly. Yes, I'm saying that fat golfers display more athleticism than what is seen in the Pro Bowl. The WNBA would be a close call.
I was just casually watching the game between hands of poker, with no sound. Early on, there was a handoff to LeSean McCoy. Right after he got it, the offensive and defensive linemen kind of slowed up, and McCoy made a half-hearted jog right into them and flipped the ball to the ref.
I just assumed there was a false start or something, but then it said "2nd and 8" on the screen and I realized there was no penalty. That's a football play??? Not only was he never tackled, he was never even close to being "in the grasp."
Between the hideous uniforms, the lack of athleticism displayed and all the hugging, I felt like I was watching "The Biggest Loser."
Look, I get it. These guys don't want to get hurt, and the game is simply a symbolic reward for a good season.
That's fine, but putting it on national television and expecting people to watch it is an insult. The NFL probably figures, "Hey, these idiots will watch the 6th round of our boring draft and they'll watch Tulane play Western Michigan in the Kill Yourself Bowl, so we'll just tell them to watch this."
We've got to take a stand.
The other sports at least have something to offer. The NBA All-Star game is a farce, but they do some cool dunks and try for the final two minutes if the game is close. Baseball's ASG is the best, because the players try just as hard as they would in a real game. You don't see CC Sabathia lobbing balls underhanded to Ryan Howard and then hugging after Howard smashes one into the upper deck.
A couple of my Facebook friends had good suggestions to improve the Pro Bowl. One said to turn it into a skills competition and another said to have a flag football game where the winning team wins a bunch of money so they try harder. Both are good ideas.
There's absolutely no reason to continue to play an actual football game under the current setup. It's even worse now that they moved the Pro Bowl in front of the Super Bowl. Players from the best team in each conference don't even show up. If I'm gonna watch a quarterback shred fake defenses, I'd much rather it be Tom Brady than Ben Roethlisberger.
Just announce who made the team and save us from the embarrassment of actually playing it. Do the skills thing, the flag football thing, or nothing. Whatever. Give us something worth putting on TV, or don't put anything on at all.

 

Growing Up in the Dark Ages

Allow me to apologize for the long delay between blogs. During football season, I was doing a bunch of freelance newspaper writing, and I decided that getting paid to write about football games was slightly more important than doing a blog for my own kicks and giggles.
Then we went to Thailand for two weeks for Christmas, which was AWESOME. It was me, Missy and Addison, my brother, my mom, my sister, her husband and three kids. Her kids are ages four, two-and-a-half, and nine months. Addie turned three while we were over there. They loved playing together and of course it was a great and rare opportunity for the Franklins to all be together in a beautiful country. I posted some pics on Facebook.
Anyway, what I was going to write about was the fact that for two weeks, we had virtually no access to those staples of American culture, phones and internet. Our phones didn't work at all, and we didn't bring our laptop. There was a community computer at the resort we stayed at, but I only got on it twice in two weeks.
It was really nice to be free from those things, they can definitely bind you and take over your life if you let them. I know I spend way too much time on them.
While we were in Thailand, I got to thinking about how much different our lives were before those things. Many of you may not be old enough to have experienced this, but when I was in high school (graduated in 1998) I didn't have a cell phone and our computer was so slow that all I'd ever do on it was check my e-mail.
Growing up, if I wanted to call a friend I had to pick up the house phone and call their house. Usually a mom or dad would answer and then I had to ask for my friend. If they were there and available, we could talk.
Many times, just picking up the phone in our house was a chore. Between my parents and little brother and sister, it was in use quite a bit. And since our internet was dial-up, if anyone was on the computer it tied up the phone line as well. Picking up the phone when someone was on the computer was a big no-no, as it booted them off the internet and they had to start all over (not a swift process back then).
Texting would have really come in handy for me back then, since I was a typical teenage dude who didn't really want to chat up his friends but just wanted to see if I could get a game of basketball or Super Nintendo going.
Overall, I'd say the advances in technology are a very good thing. Many a fight in the Franklin household would have been avoided by all of us having our own phone line. Also, it seems odd now that when I was in high school, I could go out with my friends and my parents would have basically no way to get ahold of me. I ran with some really good guys so we were never drinking or doing anything too stupid, but not everyone is that lucky.
Of course, everything must be done in moderation, and there's definitely an epidemic in society now with kids who can't carry on a real conversation and spend all their time on their phones and laptops. It's something we'll be handling with Addison not too long from now. (I know I sound like an old man).
It's really funny to think back to the days of having to wait for my sister to get off the phone so I could call someone. Or when I was convinced my girlfriend was calling but my brother probably wouldn't even switch over on the call waiting. Or of waiting literally several minutes for a web page to load, and this was before the days of Google, YouTube, Facebook and Twitter. I don't even remember what web pages I ever went to, other than AOL to check my e-mail and ESPN to get sports scores.
I'd be ripping my hair out if I had to do those things now. If a web page takes 10 seconds to load, I'm muttering under my breath.
Anyway, I found a hilarious video on YouTube that sums it up pretty good.