People sometimes develop unhealthy obsessions with entertainment figures and fictional characters. I have never really understood it, but I don’t let it bother me. Well, I didn’t until recently when this hero worship hit a little too close to home. I don’t really care if people spend their days obsessing about James Bond, but they don’t have to insult me in the process.
Now that the Olympics have started, Americans can put on display the thing they do better than anyone else in the world. Whining.
I love a good chance to complain as much as the next guy, maybe even more, but we really ramp it up as a nation when the Olympics roll around.
It seems as if we have to make fun of a sport or complain about its foreign nature if we’re not good at it. Where’s the American spirit in that?
We don’t always get a chance to confront our childhood fears. Thanks to two of my crazy sisters, I will get that opportunity later this year. I’m going to Disney World.
Well, all of us are as part of a small-scale Shea invasion. This is nothing new for my siblings, some of whom go once or twice a year and have planned this particular family jaunt.
I haven’t been to Disney since one summer in the early 1970s when I celebrated a birthday – I either turned 5 or 6, I forget – at the happiest place on earth. My memories are far from happy.
I don’t know what to do today. Well, I’ll naturally go to a Super Bowl party and eat too much. That’s a given. But I don’t know what to do during the game.
I might actually have to root for the Steelers.
I know. Things are that bad.