New, but Not Improved

This is a new blog post. The one I wrote yesterday--that one is already old. If you'd opened this website about half an hour ago, before I posted this, you'd have started re-reading yesterday's entry and then quickly stopped yourself. "Shoot," you'd have said, "what am I doing? This is old. It's a waste of my time."

Old is a waste of time. It just is. We value new because it relieves the boredom. New gives us something to do. We have to explore, experiment and become familiar with new. Once we've done those things, of course, it becomes old. That's the way it is with things. People are different. People are not like cars and iPods. People can make themselves new. My wife does this. New attitudes about herself, about life, new ideas about what to do with her life. She is constantly offering up things to explore, experiment and become familiar with. This is a good thing, and certain people are able to do it.

A mistake many people in my business--TV comedy--make is confusing people with things. They don't make shows for old people to watch (and old to them means anyone over 35--sorry) because they believe old people are done. They are through changing. They know what brand of toothpaste they like, they know the kind of detergent they want for their clothes, and you can show them commercials from now until the cows come home and nothing will relax their grip on that tube of Crest.

But that's just not the way it is. Look at me, for example. I'm 51, well past what TV defines as old, but I'm doing something new. I want to dunk. That opens me up to a whole new line of dunking-related products. A year ago, at 50, I would have had no interest in a pair of jumpsoles. But now, at 51, when I'm even older, I'm looking at ads for the damn things, trying to find the lowest price. Imagine. An old person wants something new.

TV executives also do not like to hire old people to write their shows. They believe that, like a windup toy, the older person has been sitting on a shelf, unchanged from the last time they took it down to fiddle with it, and when they wind it up and set it on the floor, it will do the same old tricks. But people can have new ideas. They can have new experiences that give them new things to say. Couple that with the experience and expertise to know how to say them and you'd think you'd have a pretty hot commodity on your hands. Sadly, no.

TV executives have had these attitudes about their audience and their writers for a long time. They haven't changed. It's getting old.

A Sharp Left Turn

So, I got another phone call from my bank the other day. Gil, my Dunk Dreams trainer, was attempting to cash the check I'd written to pay him. This happens every time Gil cashes one of my checks. The bank asks to verify that I wrote the check, verify the amount, verify the check number...they're full of questions. Take a look at the picture of Gil in the right-hand corner. Now, what is it about him that would make a bank nervous about giving him any of my money? And it's not just my bank and my money. While cashing another client's payment, Gil once overheard the teller on the phone tellng the client, "I've got two black guys here (Gil had one of his nephews with him) trying to cash one of your checks." Nice.

Gil and his nephews have also been pulled over in San Clemente for no reason other than, well, being in San Clemente, and they've been ushered out of the USC Research Library. What were they doing there? Research. Gil takes this all with as much good humor as any person could muster. "I just think, 'Don't they know, I'm the Dunkmaster. I was on Katie Couric.'" But me, well, it just pisses me off. It makes me sad. It makes me want to do ... something. But that's the problem. Do what? So that makes me feel impotent. Another lovely feeling.

A few years ago while writing for the TV show "Roc," I befriended one of the writers, a young black guy, and I remember similar feelings when he told what would happen whenever he'd walk through the Beverly Center mall with more than one of his friends. I think the moral to this story is, if you make friends with black people, prepare to be aggravated. Your ability to maintain any rose-colored illusions about the society in which we live will be severely tested. You might also be compelled to re-evaluate some of your own attitudes. I remember in the immediate aftermath of 9-11 thinking it might not be such a bad idea to seal the borders to anyone with a turban and an "al-" in their name. For a while, anyway. You know, until things settled down. The thing is, reacting to people as a category saves us a step. But, of course, it does an injustice to the individual, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. See how aggravating this is? But, fuck it, Gil's a nice guy, so I guess it's worth it.

Low Flying Objects

So they're saying that this year's NBA Slam Dunk Contest was the best ever. It certainly was impressive. Gerald Green set a cupcake and candle on the back of the rim, lit the candle, jumped up, blew out the candle and dunked. That, of course, is the dunk I've been training to do, so, thank you Mr. Green, now I have to think of something else. That was followed by Dwight Howard donning a Superman cape and flying so high above the basket he was able to throw the ball down through the hoop. He received a perfect score of 50--five 10s--for that dunk. Next year, to get a 50, he'll have to do the same dunk, but while catching a bullet in his teeth.

That's the thing about the Slam Dunk competition--I can't decide if it's inspiring or intimidating. Does it make me want to lace up my shoes, get out there and try to emulate what I've just seen? Or does it make me want to burn my shoes and sell my basketball hoop for scrap metal? Perhaps what I need is a competition for some of the NBA's more earthbound athletes. An NBA Lay-Up Contest.

Magic Johnson: "First up is the 12th man on the Toronto Raptors ... Dribbling up to the basket with his right hand ... he switches the ball to his left and lays it up left-handed!"
Charles Barkley: "A left-handed lay-up. Very nice. And I understand he's naturally right handed."
Magic: "You're kidding. Wow. That is impressive. Very fundamentally sound. I hope you kids are watching. What do our judges say?"
Charles: "Looks like Danny Ainge gave him an eight, Kevin McHale gave him a nine, and Bob Cousy, one of the great lay-up artists of all time ... he only gave him a seven."
Magic: "Well, Bob's seen some great lay-ups in his day."
Charles: "That's true... What do we have now? Our next contestant, he trots out onto the floor--he's in a Superman costume. He's got the cape and everything."
Magic: "What's he doing now? He's removing the cape ... he's putting on a suit. A three-piece suit. He's changing into Clark Kent. Unbelievable. We've got Clark Kent in the building."
Charles: "He's even putting on a tie. What is that, is that a Windsor knot he's making in that tie?"
Magic: "I believe it is. It's a nice one, too. Very tight. So Clark Kent takes the ball, he dribbles and goes UNDERNEATH the basket, flips the ball back over his head--a REVERSE lay-up."
Charles: "A reverse lay-up. In a suit and tie. Even Bob Cousy's got to give him props for that one."
Magic: "Amazing. We've had a left-handed lay-up. A reverse lay-up--"
Charles: "In a suit and tie."
Magic: "In a suit and tie. What do we have now? Our next contestant--oh, my God, he's white. He's incredibly white."
Charles: "One of the whitest men I've ever seen. He is actually the color of snow. When you're that white, can you even get off the ground? Can you actually even jump?"
Magic: "He doesn't jump so much, it's actually more of a hop."
Charles: "What's he gonna do? He's got a birthday cake ... What's he doing with that cake?"
Magic: "He's setting it on the floor ... Oh my God, he's going to jump--or, I guess, hop--over the birthday cake before he lays the ball in."
Charles: "Whoa. I hope he knows what he's doing. Wait a minute, what's this, what's happening? It looks like ... He's putting in candles--he's lighting the candles!"
Magic: "That means he's going to have to hop over the cake and the candles ... "
Charles: "If he doesn't clear those candles, he could set his shoes on fire."
Magic: "That must be why ... yes ... He's got Steve Nash standing by with a fire extinguisher."
Charles: "Here he comes, nice dribble ... He hops--OVER THE CAKE. HE HAS CLEARED THE CAKE."
Magic: "I don't think he cleared the candles, though. He's got a shoelace ... on his left foot ... It caught on fire!"
Charles: "Steve! Get over there with that fire extinguisher."
Magic: "They got it. They got it."
Charles: "But still. He cleared the cake. And that wasn't no one-layer sheet cake. That thing has two layers. With frosting in between."
Magic: "That's right. He hopped over the cake ... Did he make the lay-up?"
Charles: "Who knows? When you've got a man that white hopping over an entire cake, you're not watching the ball."
Magic: "I've got to say, Charles, this was the best Lay-Up competition we've ever had."
Charles: "Yes indeed. And by the way--the cake is delicious."

Just About to Lose My Mind

As regular readers of this blog know (are there actually any such people), a few months ago I tore the miniscus in my left knee. This is not a terribly serious injury as injuries to the knee go, but it will require surgery--arthoroscopic surgery, but surgery nonetheless.

This has put my pursuit of the dunk in neutral. In order that I might not slip into reverse, my Dunk Dreams trainer, Gil Thomas, has devised a workout to keep my legs strong without stressing my knees. (What stresses a knee? Traffic doesn't seem to bother it, so right there my knee is better adjusted than I am.)

For starters, I have done many exercises in my swimming pool. I have climbed into the damn thing on mornings so cold my breath was thick as smoke to stand and kick my legs straight from the hip, 50 reps with each leg; then another fifty kicking straight back; then 50 more kicking with a bent knee to strengthen the quads. I have wrapped straps around my ankles to do leg extensions on the Mini-Gym--a remarkable iso-kinetic contraption that gives an excellent workout without the next-day soreness one often gets from weightlifting.

That's not me, but

it is a mini-gym

I have lowered myself onto the Super Cat to do squats and jump-squats on one leg--the good leg, of course. I feared this would leave me with one Popeye-strong leg and one Wimpy-weak leg, but Gil assured me that wouldn't happen. Of course, if he's wrong he has nothing to fear--I won't be able to catch him because I'll only be able to run in circles.

The Super Cat

All of this is being done so that after my surgery I'll be able to recover quickly and soon resume my pursuit of the dunk. All of this--it's all about the dunk. Truth be told, I could live with my knee the way it is now. I'm not able to run or jump at anything near full speed, but what 51-year-old man needs to do such things? Only a 51-year-old man determined to dunk. I have stood freezing in a pool, jumped and squatted on one leg, and, finally, I have decided to undergo an operation--the first operation of my life, mind you--all so I can dunk. I ask you, dear reader--have I lost my mind?

La Dunk

If I were a 51-year-old WOMAN who was able to dunk a basketball, I would be the next president of the United States. What makes me say this? Recently, a video of a 6-foot-8 high school girl dunking during a game made the ABC Evening News. When a 6-foot-8-inch man dunks, it does not make the news. Unless it's a particularly spectacular dunk, it won't even make a local sportscaster's highlight reel. A 6-foot-8-inch man might, however, make the news if he were NOT able to dunk. Such are a man's advantages in the battle of the sexes.



So there you have it. We've got women dunking now. The revolution is complete. This is a relatively new phenomenon. I don't remember women doing this 20 years ago. Is this strictly a function of the whole Title-IX, the-girls-can-play-too movement, or does it have something to do with the hormones in the milk everyone is always shouting about?

I'm not complaining, mind you. As a dunk aspirant, I salute all the dunkettes. The dunkstresses. The dunk-a-ladies. I wonder, though, if a woman can truly dunk. Yes, she can stuff the ball through the basket, but can she DUNK? By that I mean, can she do it with the proper attitude? The dunk is aggressive and in-your-face. It says, "Take that asshole." This is not the language of a lady. Or, in any event, it is certainly not the language a lady uses in the company of other ladies. A man could push a woman over the edge and into such an attitude, but women do not typically play basketball with men.

And, indeed, when I watch the videos of the young lady dunking, I see none of the I-am-king-of-the-jungle roar one typcially sees when a guy dunks. Her dunks are very polite. She goes up, stuffs it in, comes down, trots away and that's it. Thanks for the two points, see ya next time. She doesn't beat her chest, she doesn't point at anybody, she doesn't even look around to make sure everyone saw it. No statement was made beyond a very matter-of-fact "I'm so damn tall, what do you expect?" I'm guessing that there are more women out there who are able to dunk but they just ... don't. Their disposition doesn't demand it. They are not driven to belittle, provoke and shame the way a man is. They do those things, but not with a man's violence.

So I salute Brittney Griner and Lisa Leslie, two women I can think of off the top of my head who can stuff the ball through the basket. But I believe we are still waiting for the first woman who can DUNK.

Area 51

In my first blog as a 51-year-old, I've decided to write about the advantages of becoming an age-encrusted coot. A fossil. A bag of bones. A relic. One thing that occurrs to me immediately is that there are many colorful nicknames for the condition. Another advantage, for me anyway, is that with each passing year, I get closer to the Shit Hat. Years ago, my wife and I were at Lake Elsinore, and there, wandering the streets of the local village, was an ancient, creaky old soul, and on his head was a distinctive baseball cap. This cap was topped with a load of fake shit, and under the fake shit were the words "Shit Head." My wife vowed that when I reached that age, she would get me my own Shit Hat. Size 7 1/4, please.

Now, as regards chasing one's Dunk Dream, there are three main advantages. If you train with Gil Thomas, as I do, you typically end up working out with people who are much younger. Much younger. Twenty-five to thirty years younger. Therefore, it's perfectly okay if, in exercise after exercise, you bring up the rear. In fact, it's expected. If you can do what they do, even if it takes you longer to do it, you still win. No need to be the first one to the top of the hill--take your time. Simply making it there will suffice. Reduced expectations -- don't denounce them as youthful condescension. Embrace them. Make them work for you.

Which brings me to the next advantage. The trainer will often use your age as a bludgeon against the youngsters. "What do you mean you can't do 30 squats? Mike did them, and HE'S FIFTY!" Your performance becomes the low bar that the youngsters dare not trip over. There is no greater shame than being beaten by The Antique.

Another thing--age makes one's achievements more remarkable. If a 20-year old busts his ass for six months and finally dunks--big fucking deal. The world will barely take notice. But if I manage to slam one home for the first time at the ripe old age of 51--I'm going on Oprah!

Finally, with advancing age comes an increased spirituality. The cynic might say that that is merely a case of the old bag of bones fervently kissing up to God to get on His good side before He draws the final curtain. You want God's last impression of you to be a good one so He saves you a space in the up elevator. I don't know. I think the increased spirituality comes from actually experiencing the divide between body and soul. Your body is breaking down, you can feel its agonies. However, that other thing inside you--your spirit, that energy that you perceive as yourself--that remains unchanged. That feels the same. With each passing year, as you feel more acutely the deterioration of the shell, the difference between that and the vitality of the spirit becomes more pronounced. You begin to suspect that, yes, perhaps there is something in me that will live forever.

And then, of course, there's the Shit Hat.

'Roids

Now that I am involved in something vaguely athletic--trying to dunk--and I have this forum, I can pop off about steroids. Let me begin by saying I think steroid use should absolutely be banned by the governing body of every sport in every land. First of all, anything that shrinks the testicles--gone. Beyond that they've been linked to rage, depression, cancer, various liver ailments ... the list goes on and on. They do far too much physical harm for their use to be sanctioned.

However, I have no quarrel with steroids' role in enhancing athletic performance. Let Marion Jones keep her gold medals, let Barry Bonds' home run record be asterisk free and get off Roger Clemens' back already. Have I missed something, or don't we want our athletes to try to enhance their performance? From what I understand, and, remarkably, I have read a thing or two about their effects, steroids are not a magic pill. It's not as if you can shoot your ass full of steroids, go to bed looking like Woody Allen and wake up with the pecs of Lou Ferrigno. You still have to work out like a bastard for weeks at a time. Steroids can help you with that; they reduce the recovery time after exercise. In other words, an athlete on steroids can work out harder and more often. Again, isn't that what we want our athletes to be doing? I'd rather our athletes spent all their time in the gym than, I don't know, killing dogs.

That's why I don't begrudge Marion and Barry the records they set while using steroids (or, in Barry's case, allegedly using steroids). They still had to work for it. Over the years, we have learned many things about the body and how to optimize its performance. Today's athletes do a lot of things to prepare themselves that were unheard of 30, 40, 50 years ago. Baseball players, for example, never used to lift weights. They had some superstition about how it would rob them of much needed flexibility. Now, damn near all of them lift weights, and obviously it enhances their performance. So where do we draw the line? How strictly do we want athletes to adhere to the way things have always been done? Is a record only valid if the player lived Babe Ruth's lifestyle? Do we need one record book for guys who eat hot dogs and drink beer and another for those who lift weights and eat vegetables?

Another thing that drives me up a wall is this reference to the Steroids Era. For God's sakes, these guys did not invent the practice of taking a drug to help them play better. Several superstars from the '50s and '60s have admitted to taking amphetamines to give them a boost during the dog days of the long baseball season. It seems very likely that at least one or two home runs each year cleared the fence because the guy with the bat in his hands had just given himself a little boost. So for what exactly are we penalizing the players of the Steroids Era? Taking better drugs?

The debate about steroids is filled with hypocrisy, hysteria and self-righteousness. It's stupid to take steroids. But from what I can see, taking issue with the achievements of the athletes who took them is just as dumb.

Hank

I believe it is my son Hank's goal to obliterate his old man. He will not rest until he has left me with nothing, nothing I can point to and say, "This is my domain. I excel at this beyond all those who call themselves Teverbaugh." And, yes, in the privacy of my own home, I do talk like that occasionally.

First there was the guitar. We started taking lessons together when he was about 10. In the beginning, I progressed much faster than he did, as his little fingers struggled to make even the simplest chords. Not being as proficient as his 46-year-old father drove him absolutely nuts. I, on the other hand, was fine with that. But his little hands grew and his maleable brain absorbed the rhythms of classic rock, and soon his guitar playing advanced from noise with a recognizable tune floating around in there somewhere, to nearly note-perfect recreations of the riffs and solos I grew up listening to. Meanwhile, I was still trying to pluck out the chorus to "Peaceful Easy Feeling." I've almost got it.

Next came math. Math was always my thing. Hell, I took calculus as an elective in college because I knew it'd be an easy A. Hank inherited my math gene and quickly became one of the best mathematicians in his class. Still, I was able to double-check his work and tutor him when needed throughout 4th, 5th, 6th and most of 7th grade. But then he started getting into the areas I had forgotten. He is in the 8th grade now, and I have cried uncle. To me, the equations in his textbook look like the scribblings on Einstein's chalkboard. I am eating his math dust, and it tastes like pi.

Now, my dominance in sports hangs in the balance. He has grown as tall as I am, so I don't know how much longer I can beat him in basketball. Plus, I have enrolled him to workout with Gil Thomas, my Dunk Dreams trainer. I know. I'm an idiot. He is already jumping nearly as high as I was before injuring my knee. He has risen to the challenge of Gil's workouts extremely well. I have learned that my son is capable of pushing himself and working through the pain of fatiguing muscles. Sure, there are times when I have to nag him to get off the couch and go to Gil's class, but there have been as many times when he's come to me eager and willing to put his body to the test. He truly has impressed the hell out of me. If he doesn't dunk before I do, it will only be because I took a baseball bat to his legs. I won't do that, of course--his mother would get too angry. So I am fated to stand by and watch my son best me once again.

Finally, I write comedy for a living. And my son ... well, the little bastard has a wonderful sense of humor. I think we all see where this going. God help me.

Growing Up

Growing old and growing up, of course, are two different things. You can do one without doing the other. It's not advisable, but it happens. In attempting to dunk a basketball at the age of 50, my aim is to preserve a sense of physical vitality and longevity. I need to believe that the end is nowhere in sight. But because my goal involves a basketball, I suppose it's possible to assume that I am also attempting to forestall the aging process emotionally, to maintain that eager immaturity that in grown men is often referred to as "boyishness."

Let me give a big fat "no" to that one. For me, boyishness is so ten years ago. Or maybe seven or eight. I don't remember exactly when, but I do remember making a conscious decision to ... well, for want of a better term, act my age.

Guys who don't act their age have become something of a pet peeve of mine. They are celebrated on the big and small screens, and that just annoys the hell out of me. In comedy, particularly, no other portrayal of men seems permissible anymore. The central figure of so many films and TV shows is the lovable oaf who just won't grow up. In other words, he runs from responsibility as if it were a hungry lion. Typically, he just wants to have a good time hangin' with his buddies, but some force--usually an incredibly beautiful woman--compels him to change. A recent and very popular example of tihs was the movie "Knocked Up," or as I like to call it, "According to Jim: the Early Years." (Think about it--he's an overweight slob, she's a beautiful blonde; one could easily read that movie as the story of how TV's Jim and whatever his wife's name is met.) I understand that the fun-loving guy is a more obviously comic figure, but could we at least try something else?

I confess that for many years I affected a certain boyishness. But that ended about ten years ago, while on vacation in Miami with my wife. Sightseeing in some fancy-pants hotel, I found myself surrounded by a bunch of very business-y looking guys in suits. They seemed capable and in charge. I felt like a child among them, less mature, even though at 41 I was actually older than most of them. I realized then that my "boyishness" was nothing more than my fear of being ultimately responsible. In other words, I was afraid to be the guy with whom the buck stops. Hence my retreat to boyishness, because nobody would put a boy in that role. I immediately realized how pathetic that was and vowed to change. I went home, shaved away the haircut I'd had since high school, started wearing shirts with buttons, grew some facial hair and began the difficult task of updating my perception of myself. I guess that's why whenever I see some 40-year-old jackass in baggy shorts with his cap on backwards I just want to spit with rage. I figure if I can grow up, you can, too.

So don't confuse my quest to dunk with some Peter Pan-ish desire to be young forever. I want to live forever, sure, but, I promise, I'll always act my age.

A Success Story

For any who dare doubt the effectiveness of Gil Thomas's Dunk Dreams workouts, below is a video that should convince even the most skeptical. The young man shown in the video is someone I have worked out with personally. He could not dunk when he first began his workouts, but in just a few months, he got there. And he's just 5-foot-10. He is an inspiration to us all. Keep the dream alive!