Latest teenage lingo confuses my generation

I’ve been on a mission trip again. This time it was to Red Springs, NC- the same place I went last year with a group of college students from Gardner-Webb. Supposedly in this arrangement, I am the chaperone. Even though I was the only “adult”, I was far from lonesome. I learned much during my time driving the van, especially all the new terms the kids are using in conversation these days. For example, the word “beast” is now an acceptable verb as in, “Coach, beast up and pass that slow truck in the road ahead of us.” Even my ten-year-old got in on the act recently. He came home one day last week and bragged, “I beasted in football during recess at school today.” Back in my day, both the words “cool” and “hot” could mean something was popular. That’s still true but today, you can also say something is “nasty, filthy, or sick” and it still serve as a raging compliment. I overheard one young lady having a rather heated conversation on her cellphone with a friend of hers. Let me assure you I wasn’t eavesdropping because kids don’t mind if you hear their conversations these days. In fact, sometimes they put it on speakerphone so everyone can hear. Anyway, at one point she said, “It’s not acceptable for us to agree to disagree on this.” In the old days you could agree to disagree and the conversation was over and the friendship was preserved. But apparently for some kids, times have changed. They’ve got to hash it out and find some middle ground before they can move forward. The most fascinating revelations I was privy to involved male/female relationships. In primitive times, two people who were dedicated solely to each other referred to themselves as courting. From that, the whole “going steady” phenomenon emerged. “Leave her alone,” a boy would say, “she and I are steady.” That got a little old in my day so we referred to it as “going together”, though we weren’t exactly sure where it was we were going. And in most cases we didn’t go anywhere before we got our driver’s licenses. But at least it served as a workable definition of courtship, unlike the confusion that exists among today’s kids. Case in point: On the last day of our trip, we passed a man riding a motor scooter and a girl in the van announced, “My almost boyfriend rides a scooter sometimes.” I just had to ask, “What in the name of all that is good is an almost boyfriend?” It’s when you’re talking, which is now the last step before dating, I was told. So, what is talking? Talking is when you are texting, facebooking, or making eyes at each other in the cafeteria. And if by chance you should ever go out on your first date, your almost boyfriend immediately transitions into a full-fledged boyfriend, even if he hasn’t asked you to go steady. I’m glad I’m semi-old and don’t have to keep up with all the newfangled rules. But just to stay hip, I beasted up the other day and asked my former almost girlfriend- now wife- if she would “go” with me. “Sure,” she said, “as long as we end up at the grocery store. We’re out of milk.” Filthy sick.

Thanks for Supporting my Monday Night Habit

It’s that time of year again. The annual Fair has left town and I am reminded of an important anniversary. I penned my first column six years ago as the last bolt in the giant ferris wheel was being packed away into the moving truck. That’s around 312 columns or so. When I started, I honestly believed I had enough material in me for maybe ten to twelve weeks worth of columns. Yet somehow, I have continued to tap letters on the keyboard one night per week, usually Monday night while most men are watching the big football game. I made a commitment to myself a number of years ago during what some might refer to as an early mid-life crisis. I vowed to take whatever humble gifts God had given me and put them to use. I decided not to waft through life, merely passing the hours in a day instead of filling them. And so I write columns each week. Oh, I realize they’re largely amateurish. But I do know they’re from the heart. And I’m certain you’ve noticed I butcher proper English grammar regularly. All I can tell you is that my 9th grade English teacher tells me she likes to read my stuff. That’s good enough for me. Someone recently told me I was completely different than what they expected me to be. This person was referring to the fact that I am a college baseball coach by profession. I wasn’t sure he meant it as a compliment until he explained that he had expected me to be a jerk. Thanks, (I think). Fitting the mold as a coach, writer, and person has never been a goal of mine. And so, every once in a while in these columns, I make it my habit to bask in the sunshine that glows outside the darkness of the dreary “box” that attempts to confine me. Perhaps I am too politically correct because my columns rarely rock the boat or address controversies. Why don’t you take a stand on the major issues of the day, you may rightfully ask. Quite simply, that’s not my calling. Those belong on the Op-Ed page. I’ve come to believe my calling on this page is to bring an occasional smile to the face, laugh to the belly, lump to the throat, or moisture to the eye. I can’t claim to do it successfully, but my intent is to inspire, encourage, and challenge those who dare to read my ramblings. And every once in a while, someone somewhere will say something I need to hear at that very moment to keep me going. Like the woman who said she reads my column second thing on Sunday, just after Billy Graham’s column- one I will gladly play second fiddle to. Or the elementary school boy who shouted, “Hey, JT’s Dad, I saw you in the paper the other day!” When I asked if he liked my column, he said, “Oh, I didn’t read what you wrote, I just checked out your picture.” So onward I go. Maybe I have 312 more columns in me- maybe I’m down to my last ten or twelve. Only God knows. But in the meantime, thank you for allowing me to spend a small portion of your Sunday with you. God bless.

I'm Retiring from using empty cliches

Everybody seems to be saying it these days. Especially athletes and their coaches. It is simple yet profoundly confusing. Brett Favre of quarterback retirement and un-retirement fame, said it the first time he retired. Then he said it again when he un-retired. Then he said it again recently when his new un-retired team was about to square off against his old retired team. Incidentally and unrelated to this column, Favre’s retirements and un-retirements have moved him past Michael Jordan for most retirement switch-a-roos. But they both trail the late and highly esteemed sports columnist Ronald “Scoop” Kiser of the Cherryville Eagle, who retired and un-retired approximately twice a month over a twenty year period or so. (For the record, I’m glad he always came back- his legendary status is well deserved.) Anyway, Favre has company when it comes to uttering the phrase in question. Nicole Kidman said it when she and Tom Cruise split up. Britney Spears let if fly when photographers snapped shots of her driving with her infant child in her lap instead of the safety of a car seat. Brad Pitt spoke it when one of his movies flopped, and someone close to David Letterman called upon the phrase when it was recently revealed Letterman had been “misbehaving” with some of his staff workers at CBS. So what is this newest catch phrase? Plain and simple the newest favorite quote is: “It is what it is.” Simple. Unimaginative. Jibberish words that mean absolutely nothing. It’s the modern day equivalent of “No comment.” And people say it all the time. Precedent was set in the past when Plato of ancient Athens once said, “The city is what it is because our citizens are what they are.” Huh? And then Popeye came along spouting off all that “I yam what I yam” stuff. It’s been downhill ever since. One irate NFL coach told a group of reporters after a tough loss, “They were who we thought they were.” This is as close to “It is what it is” as you can get without actually saying it. Taking the whole thing a ludicrous step further, some coaches advise their players to “stay within themselves.” Other relatives of “It is what it is” include: “We do what we do”, “He is who he is”, “What you see is what you get”, and “Be yourself”- which is what humans advise other humans to do when they’re about to go for a job interview. Of course modern day politicians have chimed in. “It is what it is” is a shifty way to avoid a tough question. It basically says, “Make of it what you wish, print what you want to print, but don’t quote me because I didn’t say anything.” On a personal note, I’m making a commitment not to say “It is what it is.” I choose to aspire to higher communicative gestures. I will rise above petty, insignificant sentences comprised of dead words and despicable clichés. As I write this column, one of my offspring has entered the room and expressed concern that I share sensitive information about him in the paper without him first being aware or giving his approval. I look the child straight in the eye and utter the only words that come to mind- “It is what it is.”

Service at the Gas Pump

Believe me when I tell you that, for the most part, I am intent on minding my own business. I don’t purposely seek out opportunities to interject my opinion, especially when it involves strangers. But on a particular day in the recent past, I spoke up. It all started innocently enough when I pulled into the service station to feed the starving gas tank of my Nissan truck. As I was pumping lifeblood into its body, my truck and I became privy to a rather loud conversation between a mother and her daughter at a neighboring island. “Guys can’t stand mouthy girls!” said the mom to her teenaged daughter, who I later discovered was seventeen. “What do you know, you’re too old to understand,” taunted the teen. The conversation was not contentious. It was light hearted and they were actually giggling at each other’s comments as the daughter pumped the gas. At one point, I think Mom realized it would have been impossible for me not to hear what was going on. So she turned to me and said, “You’re a man, tell her!” There are times in a person’s life where they wish they could just shrivel up into an invisible ball-shaped mass and slither away unnoticed. But not being one to shy away from interesting social interaction, I bit. I looked at the daughter and asked, “Well, first of all, young lady, how old are you?” When she informed me that she was seventeen, I looked at her mom and cried, “Aha! I have one of those at home, too. Isn’t it amazing how they become experts all of a sudden?” I had Mom at “Aha.” I turned toward the young lady and started my speech. “First of all, your mom is right. I am a man. Second, she’s right again. We don’t mind girls who talk a lot, but we get nervous around females who are mouthy and confrontational, if that’s what your mom is talking about. I overheard your mom say earlier that you were terrible at picking out guys. All I can tell you is to pick a guy because of his heart. Don’t be fooled by his looks, his smooth lines, or his car tires. Make sure he has a good heart.” Throughout my little sermon, I heard Mom popping off a couple “Amens” here and there. Emboldened by her support, I concluded by gently explaining to the young teen that she was lucky to have a mother who cared about her. I also told her that her mother was probably much wiser than she gave her credit for. The young girl didn’t seem to be irritated but I could tell she was ready to get out of Dodge. I wasn’t ready for them to pull off just yet because I was relatively certain Mom was going to hand me a twenty dollar bill and some change for my trouble. But monetary compensation evaded me. As they pulled away I noticed they were both smiling and laughing. I have no idea if they were laughing at each other, something on the radio, or that crazy Dr. Phil wannabe man in the truck at the gas pump. I really didn’t care which. As long as they’re laughing together and talking to each other, there’s hope. And that’s plenty of compensation for me.

Old Man Reclaims Title of Forever Young

I’m no chicken. At least not as it pertains to thrill rides. I certainly pass on those twirling rides that could potentially incite an unpleasant regurgitation incident. But that avoidance is not motivated by a fear of the ride- it is predicated by my fear of vomiting. I visited Carowinds theme park recently in celebration of my youngest son’s 10th birthday. My wife and I took the birthday boy, one of his friends, and our middle son. Things have changed over the years. What was formerly known as Carowinds became Paramount Carowinds, but now is just plain old Carowinds again. But some things never change like Thunder Road and the Carolina Cyclone- two roller coasters my boys and I have successfully conquered on numerous occasions over the years. This year’s adventure began at a coaster called Afterburn, formerly known as Top Gun. After some cajoling, we convinced my son’s friend and my wife to ride. It would be my lovely wife’s first and last ride of the day. Not amused afterwards, she didn’t even glance at the photo they take of you during the ride when you’re about to flip over. So the He-Man Thrill Seekers carried on without her. We conquered the Southern Star, formerly known as Frenzoid, a pirate ship contraption that suspends you up in the air then flips you over while the coins in your pocket plummet to the earth. Due to my obsessive fear of public regurgitation, I skipped out on the Hurler, appropriately named due to its propensity to induce vomiting among riders born during or previous to the Kennedy administration. Ditto for the Kaleidoscope, formerly known as the Scrambler. We survived the Drop Tower, formerly known as the Drop Zone, despite my phobic distaste for heights exceeding 10 feet. But the ultimate highlight occurred on our last ride as night fell after a two hour rain delay. Soaked to the bone, we waited first in line at a ride called Vortex, a stand up roller coaster that flips, drops, and turns you in various sorts of gyrations that are likely illegal in most of the contiguous forty-eight states. Just as the rain delay was proclaimed ended, the four He-Men strapped ourselves into the front row of the Vortex. At that very moment, the heavens let loose again and a downpour greeted us smack dab in the face as our contraption climbed the hill toward our destiny. Note: The Vortex travels fifty miles per hour. The sensation of being tossed, turned, and flipped while rain pelts you in the face at high speed is indescribable but the closest analogy is that of pins sticking you in the face while bees sting you. It reminded me of that scene in the old Mad Max movie where the bad guys strapped prisoners upright on the front of their vehicles to deter enemy attacks during battles. Except we were getting pelted with rain bullets. While some may have considered the experience miserable, we later declared it the most thrilling ride any of us had ever survived. A 45-year-old dad and his fellow He-Men laughed so hard during the adventure that we all nearly drowned. And in doing so, Dad- formerly known as the “Old Man”, was elevated to the proud status of “Forever Young” in the eyes of his kids. Certainly a thrill.