The final countdown
So here it is: my final column, my last hurrah before I walk across that makeshift stage at Wells Fargo Arena and bid Arizona farewell. It seems surreal.
Use the fields below to perform an advanced search of statepress.com - Arizona State Press's archives. This will return articles, images, and multimedia relevant to your query.
14 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
So here it is: my final column, my last hurrah before I walk across that makeshift stage at Wells Fargo Arena and bid Arizona farewell. It seems surreal.
Quick quiz: What did Darth Vader say to Luke at the end of Star Wars Episode V? If you answered, “Luke, I am your father,” go watch the end again. He actually says, “No, I am your father!” but try telling that to the generations of Star Wars fans who are positive it went down the other way.
I was born in Texas the year Nolan Ryan got his 5,000th strikeout. I lived in St. Louis when Mark McGwire hit his 70th home run in 1998. I moved to Houston the year the Astros made their move to Enron Field. Given my history, it seems that I was fated to be a baseball fan. My dad grew up less than 10 minutes from the original Grapefruit League spring training grounds, and my grandpa’s childhood was spent watching Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford and Yogi Berra light up Yankee Stadium. But somehow, the sport never really caught my attention.
I’m probably revealing way too much about myself here, but I have to admit something. As embarrassing as it is, I never played Pokémon as a kid. No cards, no Pokémon Red/Blue/Yellow games for the Nintendo Game Boy Color, no live action role-play in the backyard — none of it.
A couple of weekends ago, I joined my brother, his wife and their 3-month-old baby in Sacramento for a family get together. But because it was the first time we’ve been together since the kid was born, it was more of a “gather-round-and-marvel-at-how-cute-the-baby-is” than anything else.
I recently discovered a website and it’s become the most fascinating way to waste two or three hours that I’ve encountered in a while.
Until recently, I had never gotten a ticket. In fact, I had never been pulled over (Excluding the time I was parked in a Whataburger at 3 a.m. and was questioned for eating my taquitos in the parking lot). No crashes, no camera flashes, not me.
I have seen “The Big Lebowski” at least a dozen times. Jeff Bridges, John Goodman, Steve Buscemi and Julianne Moore play out the mistaken identity of a bowling bum for a millionaire, and the subsequent events are hilarious. The movie deserves its cult following, but my point is not to praise this film.
I have a confession to make. Last week, much to my mortal embarrassment, I reactivated my Facebook account.
There’s a sad truth that’s becoming apparent to me as I hear more and more about George Lucas’ most recent blockbuster, “Red Tails.”
I love the English language, but sometimes it doesn’t do the sensations of the soul justice. There are some words so beautiful and untranslatable that people have resorted to leaving them in their original form. And no, I’m not talking about “enchilada,” though that is a beautiful word, too.
TV Tropes will ruin your life. It’s true — you can take my word for it. Unless you’d rather spend hours reading about the nuances of fiction they’ve complied to explain why writers write the things they do and don’t, and why readers respond the way they do and don’t.
You might not know it, but you’re thinking about sex right now. Don’t look so embarrassed, my collegiate constituency. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.
“You should be a lawyer.”
This website uses cookies to make your experience better and easier. By using this website you consent to our use of cookies. For more information, please see our Cookie Policy.