Nothing But Iron: fTunes
by Steven R. Lagman, M.D., C.A.S.W.
January 31, 2007
You’ll find out, so I might as well tell you now: I bought the Fart Machine. For those of two or three of you who are too sophisticated to know what that means–the Fart Machine is a remote controlled flatus simulator. That’s sound only. The press-and-sniff version is not yet available. According to the package, the device can be activated at a distance of 100 feet, which would be good if you ever want to embarrass your next-door neighbor, the mailman or a basketball official.
There’s a better reason than you might imagine for buying this device. It all started when I had the chance to see it in action at a friend’s house. Kelly and I had been invited there to watch the women’s finals of the Australian Open, where the primary entertainment, in lieu of a riveting tennis match, was watching three six to eight-year-old boys setting the Fart Machine near suspecting and unsuspecting adults and triggering the remote from a completely innocent-looking location, betrayed only by squeals of laughter as the machine did its convincing imitation of someone’s dad after several platefuls of baked beans.
It wasn’t until we left that we realized the utility of the device: we could use it to annoy either of our sluggish teenagers into getting out of bed. Instead of standing at the foot of the bed explaining how this is the last wake up, and how I am not some personified snooze alarm and how I am not coming back (at least for another ten minutes), I will simply set the Fart Machine on the unsuspecting teenager’s pillow, go back to bed and hit the remote every few minutes until I hear the sound of the shower running. I have not yet performed the first fart-enabled wake up, but it won’t be long before it is indicated. I am so confident it will work I am already designing the fPod, featuring a digital alarm clock with a most unique set of downloadable alarm sounds (www.ftunes.com).
Buying the Fart Machine was not as easy as you might think. I would have been fine with snickering pre-adolescents in tow about eight years ago, when I had snickering preadolescents, but I was uncomfortable as a 46-year-old man wandering into Spencer Gifts alone, well after Christmas season, looking for a gadget that makes fart sounds. Thankfully the device was well displayed, because I was as about as likely to ask the sales clerk for help locating it as a teenager searching for the condom aisle.
As I grabbed the package I had a quick vision of seeing someone I know. For a moment the words, "Hey, weren’t you my anesthesiologist?" haunted me, but I overcame my fear of that which was not actually happening and quickly got to the checkout where I was greeted not by a thirty-year-old guy with tattoos and a beer gut, but an attractive 18-year-old female, who processed my transaction without commentary, controlling what must of been the urge to flash the loser sign on her forehead. I suppressed my own urge to yell, "Wait, I really do have a life!" No, really, I do. She correctly assumed I wanted a bag for my purchase. In a matter of minutes the ordeal was over. I grinned on the way to the car as I pondered the look on my kid’s face the first time he would be awakened by the fart sounds produced by this precious plastic box.
I felt slightly less out of place in Carver-Hawkeye Arena on Sunday, though any number of people there probably thought I was a loser with no life by virtue of my red, motion-W-adorned shirt. My friend Brent, a major Hawks booster, offered a choice of seats. Son Patrick and I could sit with Brent at court level, a couple rows behind Mrs. Coach Alford, whose hand I shook prior to the game, or we could sit at mid-court about ten rows up next to my other friends Eric and Cheryl. We would have loved to sit courtside, but I reminded Brent and the now-salivating Patrick that it would not be politically correct to allow red people to infiltrate this most premium of seating. I felt he might have risked excommunication from the Church of Black and Gold had he done so. For all I knew we were being watched by some of the same people who sent death threats to Iowa’s AD when Bob Stoops took the football job at Oklahoma instead of accepting an offer to coach at Iowa. My boy and I would sit in the stands where we would blend well enough to be able to cheer for our team without jeopardizing Brent’s booster status.
Even these seats were miles closer to the court than mine in the Kohl Center. At that distance I could better appreciate the physical intensity of the contest, mostly because my chair vibrated every time the bigs collided. While it is true that Big Ten officials have the perplexing habit of sporadically calling the slightest of touch fouls, it became apparent that much more contact was tolerated than not. Said another way, there could have been twice the number of fouls legitimately called on either team. Said still another way, these players are tough.
It would be easy, Alando Tucker notwithstanding, to walk away from this game and wonder how the Badgers can be a 21-win team in the month of January. The winning formula is not always as elegant as it is effective, but then again, who cares? It starts with defense, which is generally unrelenting, and ends with Tucker, who had one of his can’t-stop-him-can’t-contain him kind of games, and a supporting cast that is adept at doing whatever else is needed.
It didn’t hurt that the three-point shot made a guest appearance. Some of those threes were Tucker’s. He’s not deadly from that distance, but makes enough of them that one must guard him beyond the arc. That gives him the option to attack the basket if the defender should suffer the indiscretion of blinking.
Brian Butch played like the big man we had hoped he would someday become. In the Big Ten the inside game is more about strength and position than it is about height. It was the kind of strong performance that reminds us of what a smart decision Brian made when he decided to redshirt his freshman year. The Hawkeyes won the rebounding category, but, as Eric pointed out that was partially the benefit of them missing so many shots.
The fans were tolerant of us for the most part, with the exception of the man behind me, who whined loudly and constantly about the various misfortunes his team was suffering, usually at the hands of hopelessly incompetent officials. Finally, long before the outcome was apparent to the rest of us, he gave up on the game in progress, choosing instead to attack the Badgers through future opponents, all for my benefit I’m sure. "They’ll get beat when they play somebody," he cautioned, "and we’ll get to watch." Eric later explained that this so-called fan wore an Oklahoma cap and pictures of Bob Stoops during Kirk Ferentz’s first few seasons. Sad thing is this guy had two young kids with him. I hoped they were somebody else’s progeny, but I could tell by way the kids carried on that the ash had not fallen far from the cigarette butt.
My friends, of course, were gracious and congratulatory. They capture the essence of good sportsmanship, and I try to return the favor, though it did not prevent me from returning the football loser’s Corn Trophy to its rightful owner in a poorly attended (just Brent, Patrick, me and a five-foot-high statue of Herky Hawk witnessed the exchange) ceremony at Brent’s house after the basketball game. Another fan, said "good game" as he passed me in front of me on his way out of the arena, with a few minutes left to play.
As for Hawk Sooner Whiner, sure, his prediction of a Badgers downfall could come true, not because the Badgers aren’t good, but because, in the course of a thirty-game season, a team is bound to run into at another that outscores it, despite the best efforts of its players. It could happen tonight at Indiana, when the Badgers played the third team of the Red Triumvirate. Or not. If UW wins that one HSW will likely point out that Indiana is not really somebody.
This, like all Big Ten games is a big game, at least as conference supremacy goes. I have this nagging sense that OSU is going to run the table, so that means any team that has its sights on the hardware had better not falter. It’s not like the old days when you could contend by winning all your home games and half your away games.
You probably wonder why I have yet to mention Wisconsin’s No. 2 ranking. I fail to do so because I find it meaningless. Maybe meaningless is too strong. Maybe premature is the better word. In my mind Florida is No. 1 and will be until the Gators play their last game in the tournament. If they win that, they will still be No. 1. Do any other rankings really matter? I know what your are thinking. You are thinking, yes, they matter because the four highest-ranked teams will probably be seeded No. 1 in the tourney. What, so we can draw Winthrop or Missouri State in the first round? Every team in the tourney will have to beat other good teams to advance. Unless you are in it for the consolation prize of having made it pretty far, the playing order doesn’t matter.
I can’t end without a word about football. Mostly, I am not a very good friend, at least to my friends, not to mention one step dad, who are Bears fans, because I cheered for New Orleans. I know the wet rags to riches story was overused, but it was a good one, and I bought into it. I thought the Bears played great. I thought that weather was a factor. Isn’t that ironic that weather would ultimately play a role in the Saints defeat? You may argue otherwise, but it is a proven fact that warm weather people can’t function in winter conditions. Just watch them drive, and you’ll realize I am right.
I could accept either the Bears or Peyton Manning as Super Bowl Champions. I hope mostly that it is a good game, the commercials are hilarious and that someone gets partially naked during the halftime show.
Lastly I have a hard time shedding the feeling that it is such a shame that either of these teams had to advance to the championship. Both teams’ seasons could have ended weeks ago, if only the NFL would adopt the highly-successful bowl format popularized by college football. Sure the playoffs offered were exciting. Sure I watched games featuring the likes of Dallas and Seattle whose teams I didn’t usually care about. But in the end, was it all really worth it, when Chicago and San Diego or Baltimore, depending on which controversy was to be arbitrarily favored, could have been paired with a fraction of the effort?
P.S. Indiana is somebody. Good battle. Better team won tonight.
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Nothing But Iron is an amateur sports column written by the vacationing author whose three-day vacation ends at the end of this day. The author thanks Brent Feller for the generous gift of excellent seats for the Iowa-Wisconsin game and apologizes to Brent that Barry Davis (the other Barry) is coaching the Wisconsin wrestling team so well. The author reminds all Iowa fans that Wisconsin Hockey has no coaches or players who hail from the state of Iowa. ©2007 DrTM Enterprises. All rights reserved.
