AN OBBEY PRESCRIPTION

Pay attention, my health-conscious reader, because what Dr. Lip is about to prescribe could save your life.

You think I'm kidding? You think I'm going off on one of my rants to elicit laughter? Well, the good doctor says that can help save lives, too, but I'm about to give you some advice that you should eagerly take.

Why? Because this medicine doesn't taste bad and this procedure does not cause any pain. It's about adjusting your attitude to convince every atom and molecule in your body that life is wonderful.

My best buddy Ronnie and I call it "Obbey Ride." Obbey is short for obnoxious, because that's what we were back in the day when time moved so much slower and responsibilities were so few. Simply put, we got our way or we would make life difficult for the others in the group. I hope I don't have to give any examples because I won't on the grounds that I may incriminate myself, and even worse, Ronnie.

An Obbey Ride for the Obbey Brothers consists of jumping in my 2005 Avalanche with no particular destination in mind, tuning XM Radio to the Grateful Dead channel and cruising without caring where we end up.

We never go real far. We may be obbey but we are no longer obbey to our wonderful spouses, because they in turn could be very obbey to us and that wouldn't be pleasant at all. So, we tend to come home before the dawning of a new day, and we come home sober, with no police records and not even a dent in the Avalanche.

We look forward to these rides with great anticipation. Ronnie has been through several surgeries. He's dealing with other family issues. He needs the release.

I'm thanking God that my problems have been less acute, but the rigors of meeting deadlines and coming up with fresh ideas for stories and leads all the time can be draining. And I have my family issues, too, with a son who brings obbey to a whole new level previously beyond even the imagination of the Obbey Brothers.

So we drive. I drive. Ronnie drives. When we have to pee, we stop, and we're in our late 50s now so peeing often comes with the territory. We like our Dunkin' Donuts coffee so peeing is one of our favorite pastimes.

When we want to stop, we stop. When we don't want to stop, we keep going. When "Bertha" or "Me and My Uncle" or one of many Dead classics come roaring through my Bose speakers, we crank it up and bop to our heart's content. Nobody sees us so who cares. Oh, maybe the guy in the next car thinks we're crazy but we have a message for him that I just don't think is appropriate to print here.

We eat. We tend to end up at Pepe's Pizza either in New Haven or Manchester. We may find some seafood at Dino's in North Haven or down in Ronnie's hometown of West Haven. But we eat. I just wonder why he never gains any weight and I have to eat rabbit food for a month to lose a pound.

But the amazing thing is Obbey Rides have huge therapeutic value. They make us happy. For one day, they remove the stress from our lives and bathe us in the glory of reminiscing. Stress. there it is, dear reader, and that's the key to Dr. Lip's prognosis for the day.

Take your Obbey Ride soon. Call it whatever you want, but give your best pal a call and schedule one today. It goes a long way toward a happy, healthy life.

WHATTA DAY !!

What a day in sports!

My dedicated sports-fan wife Lisa and I rushed home from her mom's birthday dinner to catch the tip-off for the Celtics-Heat playoff game. I get to do the channel surfing so I bopped around the Comcast lineup.

Come to find out that Colorado Rockies pitcher Ubaldo Jimenez tossed a no-no against the Atlanta Braves. That makes it a rare day in itself.

In monitoring other games on mlb.com, I noted that the St. Louis Cardinals and New York Mets had quite the string of scoreless innings going. Would you believe 18?

Meanwhile the Celtics, pretty horrible through much of the game, made a nice comeback and were putting a wrap on Game 1 when a melee broke out near the Heat bench. Paul Pierce got dumped and was lying on the floor near the bench when the players started pushing and shoving.

Leave it to Kevin Garnett to say something. He got two technicals and was ejected. Miami has a new life with 4o seconds to go.

While the refs are trying to sort it out, I'm searching the Comcast lineup for the Mets game. It wasn't on SNY. It wasn't on CNX Ch. 9. The Comcast guide didn't help because the game should have been over four hours ago. Where the heck is it? I start going through the channels one by one when I discovered it was the Fox Game of the Week.

The Mets scored in the 19th and the Cards tied it up? No. And former Rock Cats pitcher Kyle Lohse is playing where? Left field? And a position player named Mather is pitching? What's wrong with that picture? Is the great Tony La Russa still managing the Cards or did he get two technicals, too?

The Celts and Heat finally started up and the Celts hang on. Great game for Tony Allen, Tommy points galore.

Back to the Mets. They score in the 20th and after 7 hours of baseball, the Mets win the damned thing.

And through all that. the Red Sox and Tampa are still going because they had to finish up the suspended game from Friday. Cool. More baseball.

And with the Stanley Cup Playoffs going, I'm sure something exciting happened there, but I don't give a hoot about hockey.

NO MORE LETDOWNS

The last thing in the world most people want to do when they get out of work is what they were doing at work.

I'm pretty sure doctors don't do any doctoring, lawyers don't do any lawyering and undertakers don't undertake any undertaking. So after many years traveling One-Track-Mind Boulevard, I decided I wasn't going to come home after covering a basketball game and watch basketball. I found how I could select an exit to a glorious past.

Before I go into that, let me tell you that I've created a monster in my own household. My dedicated wife Lisa has become a bigger sports fan than me. She adores everything UConn, agonizes over the nagging injuries to Kevin Garnett and Paul Pierce and even watched some hockey (Olympics, mind you, not the version that crosses pro wrestling with roller derby).

I've analyzed the reason why I can no longer come home and watch the meaningless college basketball games or listen to some pseudo-expert harangue about who is going to win this or that with no repercussions when their opinions fall flat. The reason is that I can't depend on sports to make me happy, with the notable exception of the UConn women whose 40-point victories no longer compel me.

I find myself in the grip of some inner demon when the Celtics lose to (gasp!) the Nets at home. I'm tortured when the Giants defense takes on water like the Titanic. I need something I can rely on to make me happy. Hey, I work hard. I deserve it.

Well, I'm relieved to say that the forces have come together and made me a satisfied late-night couch potato.

First, we bought an HDTV. For years I debated plasma vs. LCD and all those alpha-numeric terms like 1080i and 1080p. We pulled the trigger and bought a Panasonic Plasma 42-incher.

Pulled the trigger? Perfect analogy.

When I learned how to use the DVR on my trusty new Comcast cable box, I began to scan the channels to find out what I wanted to record for convenient viewing. That's when I looked at the programming schedule for the channel called Encore Westerns.

There it was, my childhood pleasures laid out in front of me like dear, sweet Mom used to lay out my school clothes. The block of Bonanza in the afternoon was a terrific sight, but I've viewed every one of Bonanza's 440-plus episodes time and time again. You do that when you look in the mirror and decide you're some kind of reincarnation of Hoss.

But I never got into some of the others as deeply. Gunsmoke, of course, is legendary. It ignited the incredible run of Westerns on television when I was a toddler and remained long after the genre had its halcyon days fade away.

Man, I've gotten so into Gunsmoke that I'm feeling like I have a room overlooking the streets of Dodge City from the second floor of Miss Kitty's Long Branch Saloon. And you know what? Matt Dillon never lets me down, except he just won't kiss Kitty.

Then there's Have Gun - Will Travel. I remembered some of the primary facts about the series (1957-63), like Richard Boone played Paladin and the haunting exit music, "Have Gun Will Travel reads the card of a man. ... Paladin, Paladin where do you roam?" But I couldn't recall too much about the actual episodes. I was a bit young at the time.

But let me tell you there's no one cooler than Paladin. You want to know more, go to http://www.hgwt.com/ and read about him and the show to your heart's content. Encore Westerns runs it once in the early morning and another episode in the early evening, followed by Gunsmoke. Now there's a double-header I'm not about to miss, given the incredible power of the DVR at my fingertips.

So each night when my work is done, I'm not going to sit here and pound more sports into my sports-addled brain, not when I can rely on Matt Dillon and Paladin, baby. Even in black-and-white, they give me a look into life in the West in the 1880s. Sorry KG, sorry Pierce, sorry Lisa. I'll pick up March Madness in the semifinals and the NBA Playoffs only if the old and tired Celts have a miracle brewing. Otherwise, I'm working on my quick-draw.

A TALE OF THE SMOKING GUN

The trails were dusty and pitted.

Transportation by overland stage jostled a traveler’s bones like lottery ping pong balls. Arriving on horseback between cities that we can reach in hours took days. Instead of a motel and shower, adventurers found basic comfort laying in a bedroll by a campfire and bathing in a stream when they could find one.

Ah, the legend of the wild West, from the time gold was discovered at Sutter’s Mill until wondrous inventions like the automobile and telephone turned dusty memories into legend.
That truly was a long time ago, when men did things like punching a man in the gut for looking at him funny or shooting him for anything worse. A popular saying at the time was, “There’s no law west of the Misissippi River and west of Dodge City, there’s no God.”

How uncouth. We don’t do anything like that today, refined and cultured as we are. Heavens no, or do we?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the internet, where lawlessness and anarchy reign just as sure as they did behind the swinging doors in those shoot-em-up western saloons.

Maybe it’s even worse. At least if somebody threw a punch or fired a shot at you at the Long Branch Saloon, you knew who was delivering it.

On the lawless plains of the internet, perpetrators don’t even have to announce themselves to fire shots. They use false names and even misrepresent other people whom they hold in contempt.

Unlike our gruff western ancestors, they don’t have the guts to stare a man in the eye before they strike. They don’t provide the courtesy of even the most despicable gunfighters inching closer and closer with gun hand ready as the women and children head for shelter. They hide behind the brambles of anonymity, shielding themselves cowardly from any possible retaliation.

Even these techno-twerps need some kind of forum in which to spread their venom, and sports make a fine vehicle. Many take aim at the local pro or college teams. Arguably, they’re fair game with their million dollar salaries and in the case of college athletes, the free education they receive at a value of a few hundred grand.

While the pros and high-profile collegians have mothers too, I’ve given up railing about how Sox and Yankee fans yearn for even more superstars in the lineup after every defeat. Fire away, malcontents. I wonder what it’s like to have no life.

But attacking high school coaches? In the Old West, that would be akin to staging an Indian massacre where mothers and babies were fair game.

A high school basketball coach earns in the neighborhood of $5,000. Most of them are teachers primarily, folks with the vision, talent and desire to guide our malleable youngsters through the challenge of their turbulent teens.

They play to win, but temper that with an attempt to give deserving candidates a fair shot. An athlete has got to be a student and good citizen first. From there, they are rewarded for how much they put into their respective games and the talent with which they’ve been blessed.

From the minds of the people behind giving trophies to Little League teams that go 0-16, I remind you that enabling youngsters presents them with a false sense that life habitually rewards non-achievers. Thus, if a high school sophomore loves baseball but simply can’t play, the coach is morally committed to suggest other avenues of self-expression.

Because many of today’s parents absorbed unfortunate messages during the start of the Everybody Gets Trophies Era, they simply can’t see beyond their own needs. They don’t get their way so they go into their cozy computer rooms, strap on their holsters, load their six-guns with misspelled invectives and fire away.

So you think the world has progressed so much since Marshal Dillon dined with Doc and Miss Kitty? Think again. Custer had his day of reckoning and I can only hope the internet snipers get theirs.

NEW BLOOD

If I spend too much time on this entry telling you about the tenuous future of newspapers, I would be wasting your time. You all know that newspaper circulation is down and young people aren't in the habit of turning pages between sips of morning coffee.

Since my salary comes from being a sports reporter, the viability of the industry is of great consequence to me. Thus, I will never stop trying to promote newspapers, whether it's on the deck of a sinking ship or not. If it is sinking, I'm too set in ways to do anything but go down with the ship.

Throughout my time in the business, I have always availed myself to youngsters showing an interest in our craft. It has turned up some interesting twists and turns that have helped the papers I've worked and assisted young people in shaping the foundation of their professional lives.

I like to tell the high school athletic directors I know to keep an eye out for talent -- a devoted interest in sports and a love for expression through writing. A number of years ago, former Rocky Hill High AD Brian Fell told me of such a young man. The discussion cleared a path for my learned colleague Ryan Pipke joining the fold, first as a part-timer, then as a full-time writer and now as assistant sports editor.

About the same time, I was asked by golf coach/student newspaper advisor Bob Francini to speak to a group of aspiring journalists at New Britain High. Among them was a sports-loving young man with a flair for said expression named Ryan Cote.

Cote eventually became a part-time writer for the Herald, a position he held for the most part to augment our comprehensive coverage of local high school football.He did a nice job but ultimately determined that a lifetime as a newspaper sports reporter was not what he wanted. He opted to get his teaching certificate and is teaching part time at his alma mater.

A segment of life came full-circle Tuesday morning when I made a presentation to HIS class. As always, I found some of the youngsters bright-eyed and interested while others doodled and gazed into space, but whether the seeds sprout remains to be seen. As always, I found the experience to be personally fulfilling because the youngsters keep me feeling as young as this tired old 57-year-old body allows.

TIME FOR THE ROCKING CHAIR

I have nothing against the UConn men's basketball program. Ambivalence would be the best word to describe my level of interest in it.

But when the media covers each game like Under Armour apparel, I generally take a look.

I read with interest one account of how Jim Calhoun berated a state columnist. The columnist couldn't even get one-third of the question out of his mouth when the coach publicly ridiculed him. I could see if the question was inane, and as a person who has to conduct interviews often, sometimes our questions can be weak, but that wasn't the case here. It had the makings of a question that needed to be asked yet was never fully articulated.

I have a deep respect for Calhoun. Anybody who doesn't would be a fool. The man is a coaching genius and has done plenty to put Connecticut on the sports map, but he isn't so high and mighty that he should embarass (a word the coach used often in his postgame press conference after the 60-48 loss to Cincinnati) an esteemed journalist trying to do his job.

The Huskies lost? So what. Somebody loses every time a game is played. The coach's reaction was like that of a petulant teenager who had his I-phone taken away.

I truly believed after hearing of Calhoun's recent medical leave that he should leave the coaching ranks for reasons of self-preservation. I would like to see him enjoy his family and friends for a few years before his time here is through. Judging from the nature of the reports on Calhoun's recent malady, stress is at the roots. Stress is a killer, and if I were Jim, I wouldn't let the bastard win.

With his medical leave over, I thought Calhoun would tone down his act but I guess he can't. Perhaps raining verbal abuse on reporters and columnists is something that has gone on in UConn postgame circles for years. That I wouldn't know because I've never covered a UConn game and nor do I want to.

He reminds me of the grade-school bully who rules with an iron fist at the top of the heap until somebody, or in this case something, knocks him off. I revel in the body of his work but given the account of his postgame actions, that's where my respect ends.

The Huskies are having a bad season. Certain things didn't work out. Live with it, Coach Calhoun, and stop trying to slay the messenger. It's Valentine's Day, Jimmy. Can't you show a little love?

WEATHER OR NOT

I had to pick up a few groceries Tuesday afternoon and found the Stop & Shop parking lot jammed.

Now I'm not one for watching weather reports. I figure why worry about something I can't control. If it's going to snow, I'll wear my galoshes. But small talk is a great conveyor of current events so it did dawn on me that there was a blizzard in the forecast.

I never could understand why a nor'easter sends people to the market to stock up like they're going to be snowbound for a month. When was the last time any of us spent more than a full day in the house because of a snowstorm? Inches fall, the plows come out, you shovel the drive and you're good to go the next day. I'd swear these meteorologists must get free groceries every time they mention snow.

Anyway, while I was checking out, I was checking out this divine little check-out girl named Jenni.

"Jenni," I said. "Whaddya think about all this snow talk?"

She said, "I hate snow. It's not going to snow."

"Okay, I'll remember that."

So it snowed, not the 10 to 16 inches that the weather reports stated but a mere dusting. The moral of the story is, if you want a better weather report, see your neighborhood check-out girl. She'll probably be closer to being right.