Mister Faded Glory | www.misterfadedglory.com

Since I’m practically a workout warrior, some of my best thoughts come to me at the gym, while pounding the virtual track during the evenings, listening to a halfway-decent metal cover of Land of Confusion.

Consider this collection of fragments and diatribes a twisted glimpse into my frazzled mind, neurons misfiring with every step. If only I had some other way to communicate these in 140-character bursts in real-time!

• Scratch that, I don’t even have a smartphone. My LG is barely functional. I’m half-tempted to order the Jitterbug, partially to begin a revolt against technology that enables us to do everything, at all times, and none of it well.
• How can I justify a Pre or a Blackberry? I’m currently trying to limit my Internet time, now clocking in at a disturbing 10 hours a day. It’s nearly 11 p.m. and I’m still blogging. What the heck am I clinging to?
• Speaking of Twitter, how soon will the young mothers that make up 80 percent of all facebook status updates migrate over? Soon, right?
• Facebook, as we know, is all that is good and all that is evil in this world. But I cringe for the future of writing, each time I’m forced to read hopelessly long status updates about Junior and his misbehavior. Or snarky asides, one incessantly after the other, detailing how exhausting it is to take care of your no-good rapscallion. (1) Maybe your kids would behave better if you, you know, got off fucking facebook and parented. Or (2) Try joining the rest of us. Get a soul-crushing job, run a bunch of errands, do your community stuff, and come home to read pithy status updates from those of you lucky enough to have any home time. Then tell us how tired you are.
• I’m really not this mean. I feel kind of bad. Oh, whatever, that’s writing. But here’s a positive note: Yesterday, I also ran on the treadmill, barely paying attention to the Memorial playing above my head. Somewhat shocked, I discovered Tiger Woods’ comeback. As Tiger stuck his dead-solid-perfect shot on 18 – I smiled, instead of recoiling. Me, who perpetually cheers the underdog, and despises the overhyped. It’s been rare in my life that I’ve celebrated a Goliath’s excellence, but that was quite a shot.
• Still, can we knock off the “Is Tiger a lock to win the US Open?” stories. Honestly, no. A thousand times no. No one ever is, that’s why we watch. Seriously, stop shouting, no.
• For all its bad reviews, Terminator Salvation really wasn’t that bad. All of us tend to overrate each Terminator installment just because T2 was so freaking good. But when you think about it, the first Terminator really isn’t all that special, and is fairly forgettable in its own right. Salvation was at least a worthy attempt.
• Just in case it hasn’t sunk in how eminently forgettable this Cubs season is becoming, ask yourself this – who represents the North Siders in the All-Star game? Ted Lilly and Randy Wells have outside shots, right? Alfonso Soriano may get voted in, sadly. But only Ryan Theriot should go. As a reserve. That’s it. That’s the list.
• We’re flush with “bro-mance” movies (I cringe at this stupid notion. Was Ghostbusters a bro-mance movie? Three Amigos?), all tributaries within the Judd Apatow comedy empire, and each and every criticing fawning over them to no end. Yet Ryan Reynolds is still forced to slum in schlock like The Proposal? Come on! He’s the world’s best comic actor! Has no one seen Just Friends?
• I just saw dueling TV ads for network shows called The Mentalist and The Philanthropist. That’s me, trendspotter. Now do you doubt the Jitterbug?
• The jury’s still out on the new Conan, even with Pearl Jam on his opening show. My question: PJ performed twice for the audience, but no clip of RITFW exists. Apparently NBC doesn’t want those million extra clicks on hulu.
• Recently I was in Lawrence, Kansas, (More later, he says forebodingly) and I chose to wear my bright orange Syracuse hat. This still inspired venom among Jayhawk fans, even though the whole thing was six years ago, and, ahem, YOU WON A TITLE SINCE THEN.
• The sales job on the Orlando Magic leading up to the Finals was absolutely fantastic. For the week dead time, the airwaves and broadband filled with postulates on how the Magic could make it a series; some talking heads even claimed Rafer Alston was a competent player. Even though game two was good, the Magic just can’t. I’m sorry.
• For crying out loud, Pau Gasol can guard Dwight Howard straight up. This is all we needed to know. I’m alternately impressed and depressed with Gasol – when he wants to play, the Lakers do not lose. If he’s uninterested, the game is in doubt. Similarly, I cannot fathom how few post moves the 23-year-old Howard possesses, it’s almost shocking . Imagine him facing up Hakeem, O’Neal, Robinson, or even his coach, Ewing. Long way for Howard to go.
• But it’s all sales at The World Wide Leader. And hypocrisy. For whatever reason (H/T, intrepid reader) ESPN’s baseball coverage, once fantastic, has regressed significantly. Besides Jayson Stark’s increasing irrelevance,  overworked Buster Olney spent all 2008 explaining and whining about a poor Indians-to-the-WS preseason prediction. God, we could care less. However, earlier this year Olney picked a precipitous decline for Johan Santana, but we’ve not heard or read a mea culpa since Johan launched his usual stellar campaign.
• And, finally, I’m extremely proud of Ms. Faded Glory, who begins today having achieved one of her career benchmarks. I won’t go into details, but she was rewarded with a smartphone.
• For me, I can only imagine the energy, relief, the satisfaction and empowerment that must bring. And, as I stare at an Inbox full of rejection emails from literary agents, all passing on These Monks, I’m somewhat inspired, still somewhat hopeful, still ready to press on. I guess. In fact, perhaps it’s time to wrap up this post.
• I mean, I can always check back in on Ms. Faded Glory’s smartphone, right?