Richie Whitt's DFW Sportatorium

Good news: As of today, March 1, DFWSportatorium is free.
Bad news: It will also be infrequent.
I thank you guys for buying memberships and supporting me, but recently my blogging time has drastically dwindled. With NBC graciously upping its ante on my writing, I'm now blogging there three times daily. And last week I also commenced some media consulting for an Internet start-up in North Dallas.
If I find time I'll write a Whitt's End on a Friday and perhaps sprinkle in a column or some radio news here and there, but as of now I don't have the time to make DFWSportatorium a daily commitment.
Canceling your recurring monthly membership can be done quickly and easily at PayPal, and of course I'll refund any payments that slip through the cracks to me from here forward.
You can still read me at NBC 5, where I'll blog daily on all things Cowboys, Rangers and Mavs. And you can keep up with my casual ramblings on Twitter @RichieWhitt.
Thanks again.
And don't be a stranger.

Saw American Sniper last night and, yep, figured my review was worth dusting off the ol' website.

In short: It's a good - but not great - movie, about neither a hero nor a coward.

Allow me to expound.

I won't sit here and pretend I was close friends with Chris Kyle. At most, we were friendly acquaintances. I was flattered that he was a loyal listener to my former radio show on 105.3 The Fan. He even came on as a guest one day in 2012 at the old Duke's Roadhouse in Addison, and wound up staying after the show and hanging out late into the night as a judge for our Miss RAGE beauty pageant.

He was always polite and respectful - and hopefully vice-versa - but no doubt we had our differences on military conflict. I would ask him why America needed to keep being the bully on the world's block, and he'd counter that it was simply his duty to keep bad guys from doing bad things, regardless of the location.

We got along. I'd make him mad, and make him laugh. But in a way that, post-chuckle, he'd punctuate his reaction with "You're a jackass." Guilty.

Kyle was more brave than I'll ever be.

But no, even in Clint Eastwood's Hollywood-ized version of his life - Kyle isn't a hero. But he's also far from a coward, which to me is a preposterous notion. My opinion of Kyle lies comfortably between what Michael Moore thinks about him and where my former radio partner placed him - on a pedestal just above Superman and a smidge below Jesus.

I'll go with what Kyle told me when he heard people refer to him as a "hero." He was just a guy with a gift, that used it to the best of his ability to help protect his country.

An epic marksmen? No doubt. A badass? Every SEAL is. But a hero? Nope. To me a real hero is the guy who - guaranteed zero reward despite assuming monumental risk - voluntarily runs into a burning building to save a complete stranger.

Kyle willingly chose the military for his career, and was compensated for it. He was doing his job. A dangerous, important job. But a job nonetheless. And boy did he ever do it well. With 160 confirmed kills, he is indeed the deadliest sniper in U.S. history.

The movie, however, takes liberties and sometimes strays from Kyle's book by the same name, in an obvious attempt to inflate his legend.

From Bradley Cooper's beard and build to the big, black pickup, the portrayal of Kyle is as uncanny as it is eerie. But where was the back-story building of Kyle via his celebrated bar fight with Jesse Ventura, his killing of two carjackers or his sniping of New Orleans looters in the wake of Hurricane Katrina? According to the book - and in opposition of the movie - Kyle wasn't suddenly impulsed to join the Navy after watching 9/11, his wedding wasn't interrupted by a call to duty, he didn't find weapons under the floor of an Iraqi house and there was no bounty placed on his head.

I left the theater confounded how the movie made Kyle's SEAL training seem like a weekend at the beach. I was confused at how he overcame his own Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder seemingly overnight and immediately began helping soldiers cope with theirs. And I didn't get enough of Kyle's human side. For example, on the radio show he admitted he had a great fear of heights. Who'da thunkit?

I remember when we got the news of Kyle's death. The Fan staff had just arrived back in Dallas from the Super Bowl two years ago and were at our Fan Bowl event at the House of Blues. News swept through the party like a suffocating blanket of sadness. That night I cried.

But after watching American Sniper, I didn't.

In life and at war, Chris Kyle was better than his movie.

'Twas the night after Christmas,
when all through the house;

An EF4 tornado plowed,
leaving Lisa clinging to her spouse.

Dec. 26 at the Alvizo home on Pacific Drive in Rowlett was supposed to be a quiet, family evening. Early dinner. Put away Christmas gifts. A deep, relaxing respite from the holiday hustle ‘n bustle.

By 6 p.m. you’re in your favorite Superman “sleepy pants” and …

“You don’t expect tornadoes around Christmas,” says Lisa Santos-Alvizo. “And never in a million years do you think you’ll be hit by one. But … here we are.”

Married to Fernando Alvizo last August, step-mother to two daughters and – sure enough – pregnant, Lisa on that Saturday afternoon headed home from work at her hair salon in Plano. A quick stop at the Wal-Mart off Dalrock Road and on to cook dinner – Shake ‘n Bake chicken, broccoli and salad.

“Who knows where that dinner wound up,” she says with a chuckle. “Probably still in the oven. But who knows where that oven ended up.”

She knew bad, eerie, Spring-like thunderstorms were rolling through the Metroplex. And at 6:32 pm. the neighborhood emergency sirens sounded. Like we all have done, she heard them, briefly paused and then, naw, never in a million years.

“I wasn’t scared at all,” she shrugs. “You live in this area long enough and you’ll hear your share of tornado sirens. In 1979 in Oklahoma I saw cows swept into the air by a tornado. I knew what they could do …”

But when Fernie pulled into the garage from church much earlier than expected, she felt something was different. Something was wrong. Something, was coming.

“I’m going about my business, about to get out plates for dinner and he checks the radar,” she says. “Um, yeah, we saw it headed right toward us. Something told me right then that this wasn’t going to be the nice, quiet evening we needed in between Christmas and New Year’s.”

Quickly, but not yet frantically gathering her purse and her beloved Chihuahua “Cowboy”, Lisa was suddenly jolted by Fernie’s scream.

“Closet!!”

And for the next 10 minutes, Lisa, Fernie, 10-year-old Marlee, 6-year-old Maddyn and Cowboy hunkered down in the safest place in their house – and absorbed the full brunt of an EF4 tornado. With Cowboy in her lap and a flashlight in her hand, she sat alongside Fernie, who prayed loudly. The girls huddled closely on an adjacent plastic tote.

“At that point I’m just trying to be calm, to keep the girls calm,” Lisa says. “They’re feeding off of us, and we’ve got assure them that we’re going to be okay. We tried to pray loud enough that they didn’t hear what was really going on right around us.”

But that convincing becomes more difficult when Fernie’s prayers are abruptly interrupted by the violent sounds of 2x4s snapping and shingles slamming into walls. And then, with the sound of a deafening freight train, the tornado carved a direct path into the Alvizo home. The group was lifted into the air twice, and not-so-gently slammed back into the ground – or what used to be their floor.

“Surreal,” she says. “There’s no doubt we were all in the air. Your sense of awareness is just all out of whack.”

The turbulence, the noise, the free ride – it lasts all of 15 seconds. And then …

“We knew were okay because we were talking to each other,” she says. “And because we were all covered in clothes that had fallen off the racks in the closet.”

It was pitch black. And it was, wet?

“I was hugging Marlee and I felt her back was all wet,” says Lisa. “That’s when I looked up and just saw the sky. There was no roof. That’s when I knew we had just survived a tornado.”

Carefully moving because they didn’t really know what was on top of them or – worse – what was beneath them (they had a pool in their back yard), the group climbed out from the debris and heard voices approaching. Neighbors, stunned that anyone survived the totally flattened house, helped them to safety. It was raining. The daughters were barefoot. The smell was of natural gas (“Rotten eggs everywhere,” Lisa says) and there were numerous explosions of transformers and live electrical wires dancing dangerously along their street.

Finally able to get a signal on her phone, she phoned her brother, Hector, to say "We've been hit!" A cousin soon arrived with umbrellas and hugs and a ride to safety. Less than 30 minutes after the tornado had leveled their home, the Alvizos were sitting numb in Hector's house, contemplating their brush with death, the reality of their house, the steps needed to …

“Ernie!” Lisa shrieked out around 4 a.m. the next morning. “We’ve got to go get Ernie!!”

It was the ashes of her deceased brother,tragically killed in a motorcycle accident in 2010. He was Lisa’s hero. And he was resting in an urn in her new home. First crack of dawn and Lisa and Hector were back at the mountain of debris that just 12 hours earlier was her tidy little home. Somehow, Hector immediately found Ernie.

“He was next to my grandmother’s 70-year-old wedding ring,” Lisa says, “and underneath his chaplain’s license.”

Not everything – or everyone – was so lucky.

The storms in North Texas that night killed 13 people, including one in Rowlett. Both Lisa and Fernie’s cars were destroyed. She lost a ring she’d just received on her birthday. The family’s Christmas tree – and most of their presents – were swept away, and as of yet still not recovered.

“We lost … just about everything,” Lisa says, fighting back a tear. “It’s just such an empty, naked feeling. I mean, material things are replaceable, but it’s just a horrible feeling starting from scratch. I wanted to brush my teeth the next morning, but I had no idea where my bathroom was, much less my toothbrush. I just want to cook in my kitchen and lay on my couch and … it’s going to take a long time to rebuild that.”

Amidst the daunting task of canceling credit cards and opening new bank accounts and and haggling with insurance companies for new cars and deciding whether to buy a home elsewhere or re-build on the same lot, there is hope. And joy.

The family, other than emotional scars and material losses, survived a tornado. As did its cat Max, who was found hiding under a mattress three days after the tornado. And its rabbit Clover, discovered the same day shivering and scared but otherwise okay in what was left of the workout room. Lisa found Cowboy’s cage – a mangled mess of twisted iron.

“Believe me, we know we were lucky,” Lisa says. “I’ve had some tragedies in my life, but so far my chances haven’t run out.”

A GoFundMe Page established for the Alvizo family has so far raised approximately $10,000.

Home, Sweet ... Gone

You know how you know when you're old? When your sports playgrounds are deemed archaic and impractical.
Yeah, ouch.
For me, hitting the big Five-Oh wasn't a big deal. The real punch to the ever-softening gut is losing the venues that shaped most of my sports memories and a good chunk of my media career.
Arlington Stadium. Reunion Arena. Texas Stadium. All kaput in the name of capitalistic growth. Next on the chopping block: Valley Ranch. Which for four years in the glorious early '90s was my office and, on a couple of occasions, my bed.
The Cowboys opened the practice facility north of 635 on MacArthur Road in 1985. For on-field football purposes, it's closed for business. When the team returns from training camp in Oxnard this summer it'll move into the new Star in Frisco, with a grand christening slated for Aug. 27.
And just like that, Valley Ranch will be tossed onto DFW's pile of discarded iconic venues alongside Bronco Bowl, Baby Doe's, Starck Club and Sanger-Harris. As part of my 18-year run at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram I covered the Cowboys from 1989-94. I wrote there. I lived there. I made friends there. I sometimes slept there.
I loved there.
Progress can take my buildings, but it can't delete my memories ...
10. Good Ol' Day Syndrome - The football and the freedom were drastically better around Valley Ranch in the '90s. In an era only at the dawn of the mainstream Internet and way before social media, there was no need for media IDs. No "Players Only" parking lot. No restricted areas. Regularly during my time as a beat writer I borrowed shorts and a T-shirt from equipment man Mike McCord to play racquetball, waltzed back into the coaches area to watch tape with then-kicking coach Steve Hoffman and, on a couple of occasions after being over-served at nearby Cowboys Cafe, slept in the FWS-T cubicle adjacent to the locker room. How laid back was the vibe? One day FWS-T partner Mike Fisher and I went out onto the practice field for an impromptu Punt, Pass & Kick Contest with our friends/rivals Ed Werder and Tim Cowlishaw of the Dallas Morning News. Try that today and you'll be a headline rather than merely a punchline.
9. The Hot Seat - In our tiny broom closet of an "office" we had enough room for a table and three chairs. One for me. One for Fisher. And one for guests. Players - Hall of Famers, turns out - would regularly come sit down on their way out the door. Just for casual conversation. To bullshit. "I'm not coming in here to be grilled on the hot seat," Troy Aikman once pronounced. Right then and there, we dubbed the empty chair "The Hot Seat." Michael Irvin. Emmitt Smith. Jay Novacek. Tony Casillas. Larry Brown. Even Jimmy Johnson, Jerry Jones, Brad Sham and Dale Hansen. Name a member of the Cowboys''90s dynasty and chances are they sat a spell in our Hot Seat. I cherish those times. Because it wasn't notebooks and recorders and formality and on-the-record, but more so just a chance to blow off steam. To talk. Irvin was probably the most frequent visitor. One day he sat down, grabbed our land-line telephone, propped up his feet and spent at least an hour talking to ... who knows? Kevin Gogan popped his head in, saw Irvin making himself at home and yelled "Damn, I need to call ahead for a Hot Seat reservation?" In the week after a loss I handed Irvin the latest NFL statistics in which he was near the top of the league leaders in receptions and yards. "We just lost!" he said, getting up from the Hot Seat while crumpling the paper into a ball and firing it at our trash can. He left. And, of course, soon came back. "Psst," he said, pretending to be covert, "where's that paper?" His exit was punctuated by the trademark Irvin guffaw.
8. Center Stage - I always kidded long-snapper Dale Hellestrae that he wasn't really a football player. "Snapping is an art form," he'd retort. So one day he bet us that he could snap a ball into the window of a speeding car. "You're on," we said collectively. But I'll be damned if Hellestrae didn't bend over and between his legs launch a perfect spiral through the passenger window of the Lincoln Town Car driven at 35 mph through the Valley Ranch parking lot by Mark Stepnoski.
7. Merry, um, Christmas - In the early '90s "breaking news" was whatever appeared in tomorrow's newspaper. But the competition to "win" the day's paper was fierce. That's the reason I spent most of Christmas Eve, 1991 at Valley Ranch. Through sources, Fisher and I had obtained every NFL player's salary. But, of course, it was given to us as raw material, printed on a thick stack of paper. Today we'd simply upload the file onto a website and, voila, news. But back then we had to manually type in every name, every salary, every signing bonus. It started around Noon on Christmas Eve and ended ... just in time for Santa.
6. Mutual Vomit - I witnessed Alexander Wright run a 4.14 40-yard dash on Valley Ranch's outside track and stood beside a freaked out Smith after he watched magician David Blaine seemingly levitate, but the most amazing performance came in '94 when Jones and Johnson held that infamous charade of a press conference to announce their divorce. During that 30-minute debacle I don't think one honest word was uttered. At the time the two men had zero respect for each other and their parting was anything was mutual or amicable. It was a tug-of-war, fueled by jealousy and targeted at credit. And, yes, it was down right disgusting.
5. Identical Intensity - In '97 Irvin went ballistic on the media for reporting that he and teammate Erik Williams had sexually assaulted a woman. Claiming his innocence, he hurled a huge rubber trash can through the locker room and implored the media to use the "same intensity" when eventually reporting the clearing of his name. In fact the woman's claim was false. The trash can, however, suffered irreparable damage.
4. Jimmy Genuine - Once a week Johnson would invite the print media - sans notebooks or recorders - into his office for a casual visit. The "fireside chat" it became known as. In it we could bring up topics, offer our opinions, engage in back and forth, touch on personal stuff, whatever. We just couldn't publish anything from the chat. One time Johnson started the chat by chastising me for documenting the play-by-play of his team's 2-minute drill at the end of practice. An opponent, he reasoned, could use that information and be prepared defensively come crunch-time. "I won't ask you to help row this boat," he said to me sternly, "but I demand that you don't punch holes in it." Message, received.
3. Richie Shit - Charles Haley was one of the best players and baddest people I ever covered at Valley Ranch. Years later we'd hug it out and Haley apologized for tormenting me, blaming his erratic behavior on being diagnosed as bipolar. But in '93 being serenaded as "Richie Shiiiiiiit" and used for target practice was wholly un-fun. As I interviewed Aikman at his locker, a roll of athletic tape whizzed between our heads. Like a menacing bazooka with bad intentions, I mean, it's just tape. But it's a thick roll. Getting konked by it would be about like getting dinged with a battery. And Haley was firing the rolls at me from 100 feet across the locker room. "Stop writing about me, motherfucker!" Haley cackled. "Don't you even write my name!" Me (ducking): "You have any control over him?" Aikman (leaving): "Yeah, right. Good luck,"
2. Spit Happens - One day Aikman is in the Hot Seat, flipping through the cheerleaders' calendar and bitchin' about how "Hail Mary" passes count as legit interceptions. "I think I'll just start taking a sack and maybe we'll stop calling that stupid play," he joked. As I pretend to listen while feverishly writing on deadline, I reach over and take a swig of my Sprite. Uh-oh. At the time the quarterback was huge into dipping tobacco. Always carried a paper Gatorade cup lined with a napkin in which to spit. On this day - lucky me - apparently he upgraded to an empty Sprite can. Guess who was too busy working to realize he'd picked up the wrong cup? Immediately, um, I knew. And realized I had two unfathomably nauseating choices: 1. Swallow Aikman's coagulated funk of saliva and tobacco and attempt not to vomit; 2. Violently spit and reveal my grotesque gaffe, and forever be the punchline that once had Aikman's bodily fluid in his mouth. Spit or swallow? I chose the latter, accepting one horrendous experience over a lifetime of ridicule. Until now, I guess.
1. Goodbye, God's Coach - My first time at Valley Ranch forged the most lasting memory. In '89 I made my virginal voyage to the complex to help FWS-T writers chronicle the final days of Tom Landry. He'd been fired by Jones and any day now would clean out his office and leave for good. Today was that day. As a lifelong Cowboys' fan, I grew up worshiping St. Landry. And now I was helping fan the flames of his funeral. I watched him meander through the weight room exchanging handshakes and hugs. Late in the day I turned a corner inside the building and almost bumped into - yep - Tom Friggin' Landry. "Excuse me, young man," he said, as I froze, speechless in awe. Along with up-close encounters with Prince and Anna Kournikova, it's as star-struck as I've been in 30 years in media.

Not bad for a neighborhood gate house, eh?

I'm not a big fan of "Who's wearing what?" or "Keeping up with the Joneses." But I am, alas, a huge supporter of the Cowboys in general and much-maligned, always-underrated Tony Romo in specific.
So ... let's bend the rules, crane our necks and check out the quarterback's new house.
We all know Romo moved out of his old house in the Cottonwood Valley neighborhood of Irving and is selling the 5,500-square foot joint for a cool $1 million. As for his new address?
I haven't seen his new digs with my own eyes, but got a couple of sources who have been on the property and inside the home in the far North Dallas community of Glen Abbey near Bent Tree Country Club.
The key, cool statistics:
*12,000 square feet
*Three stories
*A spiral slide that lands on an indoor basketball court
*A back yard that features a glass-enclosed spa and sauna
Sounds like a pretty swanky playground for sons Hawkins and Rivers, and not a bad place to entertain or relax for Tony and wife Candice.
The locale, of course, makes total sense. For now it's a quick drive up the Tollway to the Cowboys' new headquarters at The Star in Frisco. And, when Romo retires, he can simply meander down the street to play his beloved golf on one of the Metroplex's best courses at Bent Tree.
Don't have a price tag, but - relatively speaking - it sounds like a modest place. In 2013 the quarterback signed a contract worth a whopping $108 million. One of his peers - guy named Tom Brady - recently sold his moated mansion in Los Angeles and moved into a $50 million castle outside Boston.

By Richie Whitt
DFWSportatorium

Fine, serendipitous structure. You win.

I'm intrigued. Fascinated. On the verge of being mesmerized. I'm fully aware that we live in a scary, skittish world where terrorism has its own daily reality show from Orlando to France to Dallas to Baton Rouge to Germany. And that we exist in a warped culture where everything from Pokémon Go to Dak Prescott to Ken Bone can grip our nation.
But you ... you temporarily have my undivided attention.

Rising mightily in, um, Fannin County

So, c'mon, I've pulled over to the side of the road. Now spill your obscurely opulent beans. What-the-what is a big, ornate, marble statue doing perched high in the air smack dab in the middle of a tiny, unincorporated suburb of nowhere North Texas?
I mean, when tootling along between the one-stoplight towns of Savoy and Ector on sleepy State Highway 56 on a sunny summer afternoon, the last sight I expected is the building of something fit more for Caesar's Palace than Fannin County.
Rough, meet diamond.
The thing is beginning to rise out of the nothingness, appearing as deliciously out of place as an ice-sculpture centerpiece at a farting contest between Larry The Cable Guy and Real Housewives of Dallas star Stephanie Hollman. The moment Dallas Cowboys owner Jerry Jones lays eyes upon the spectacular structure he'll crave another glitzy AT&T Stadium accessory.
Seriously, it's ...

"Sir, we're going to have to ask you to leave," says the apparent foreman of a 10-man construction crew feverishly working on the statue, plumbing for the accompanying fountain and what looks like some sort of expansive entrance. "Stop taking pictures, please. This is private property."
"Yeah," I retort in retreat, "but what kind of private property?!"
As I drive away, I'm flagged down by a local rubbernecker. After all, it's not every day a UFO that glitters like the Palace of Versailles lands - or, in this case, was set into place by a 90-ton crane - in this down-to-Earth rurality 15 minutes south of the Red River.

"What'd he say to you?" asks a 60-something-ish man in his pickup while his female passenger cranes to hear my answer. "What the heck is that thing?"
"Honestly, I dunno," I shrug, "Best guess though, it's going to be the entrance to something. Something pretty big."
"Well," responds the man, "whatever it is ... I wanna be part of it."
In my rear-view mirror I see two more vehicles slow from 65 mph to skid marks in order to size up the mammoth mystery. If you build it, they will come ... to at least gawk.
After several shot-in-the-dark phone calls and two more empty trips over a couple of months, I finally get my answer. And an invitation.
"It's Trident Lakes," says Paul Salfen, who identifies himself as a spokesman and Director of Celebrity Relations for the development. "Think of it as a 5-star playground, equipped with DEFCON 1 preparedness. Why don't you come on up?"
Gulp. At first glance I think these guys building something so big in somewhere so small are out of their minds. But, no, as life as we knew it deteriorates into one of those Southwest Airlines'"Wanna Get Away?!" commercials, it quickly occurs to me that they're merely way ahead of the game.
Fine, serendipitous structure. You win.

PROVOCATIVE PROJECT

We grow up here learning everything is bigger in Texas, so we're a tad cynical when someone proclaims to be building "the next greatestbiggestbest thingamajig".

Closer to Paris, Texas than Paris, France

Our statues aren't something out of Greek mythology, but rather born-'n-bred icons such as Tom Landry, Nolan Ryan, Byron Nelson, Ben Hogan and Big Tex. And our epic construction projects include the world's largest football stadium, largest high-school football stadium, a retractable-roof ballpark for the Texas Rangers, 200,000-seat Texas Motor Speedway, The Omni Hotel, The Star in Frisco as the epicenter of the $5 Billion Mile, those two weird, white bridges near downtown Dallas and Trinity Forest Golf Course, a 400-acre, $50 million project in South Dallas aimed at hosting the U.S. Open. We've seen a giant chair promote the future of Nebraska Furniture Mart in Frisco and a huge beaver open the mega-truck stop Buc-ee's in Fort Worth.

Shoot, we've even seen Dallas swing-and-miss at hosting The 2012 Summer Olympics, drag its feet for 10 years on the Trinity River Corridor Project, and something called the Superconducting Super Collider flop and fail in Waxahachie in the '90s. In other words, Trident Lakes better be considerably bigger than something along the lines of "McRib is back!"

It is.

"This," says Salfen, pointing to the base of a statue that will soon rise to over 50 feet, "is just the tip of the iceberg."
When Trident Lakes is complete, it will be one of the most ambitious, grandiose and important developments in our state's history. Maybe our country's.

The plans call for it to be part private resort/part safe haven. It will be both a lavish country-club community that features upscale amenities, and also a state-of-the-art secured fortress that boasts subterranean luxury condos able to withstand the shit's direct hit into our fan.
In other words, Trident Lakes promises to be the ultimate retreat for people seeking shelter from a world gone mad. The more your imperfect news cycle is littered with Amber Alerts, domestic terrorism in Orlando, an attempted coup in Turkey, police shootings in Dallas and Baton Rouge, trucks used as weapons in Nice and the stench of ISIS seemingly everywhere, the more this idea - unfortunately - makes perfect sense. America's FBI "Watch List" has grown to include more than a million names for crying out loud, and director James Coney recently admitted that there are ISIS members or sympathizers in all 50 states.
Yeah, yikes.
"We'll be one of America's most unique, most safe neighborhoods," says Salfen. "What we offer are world-class amenities combined with unprecedented civilian security. It's life assurance. Luxurious life assurance."

A settlement worthy of, indeed, a serendipitous structure.
The construction around Trident Lakes' majestic entrance is already gaudy enough to be a spin-off from Rome's Trevi Fountain. When finished, according to Salfen, the massive water feature will be the heart of one of the largest fountains in the world.
In terms of square footage (55,000+) and length (longer than Bellagio's famed lake of dancing water in Las Vegas), few - if any - fountains on the planet will be bigger. The height of the structure that will spew water and anchor the property's elaborate entrance will also be dimensionally unprecedented. Not exactly a fountain of youth, but more so one aimed at ensuring old age.

Design options call for this sundae's cherry to be a huge, gold Trident, perhaps even wielded by Poseidon himself.

(UPDATE: The Poseidon statue was severely damaged by a Blossom-based Unruh Construction cement truck in July. Construction on the surrounding fountain continues, but work on the statue is on hold until a settlement is reached with Unruh's insurance company - Albuquerque-based Mountain States. A Trident Lakes source says the company is hopeful the claim will be resolved without litigation, but - despite Unruh accepting responsibility for the accident - describes Mountain States as "wholly uncooperative.")
Fitting of its bedazzled beacon, Trident Lakes will surely become the crown jewel of northeast Texas. For now there's a website - www.TridentLakes.com - and social media accounts on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram (though with minimal activity and few followers). Salfen was tight-lipped on details surrounding specific security features and pinpoint costs. But after a 30-minute tour across the surprisingly lush and rolling property on an ATV, and discussions with security and real-estate experts, I can make some educated guesses on the particulars:
Try 700 acres and $300 million. Commence eyeball-popping.
The community is being developed by Dallas-based Vintuary Holdings Corp. which - hence the giant fountain and grand entrance - looks like they have the moxie to pull this off. I managed to get in touch with lead architect Charles Ralph, but he only wanted to talk about what everyone else was already talking about.

Yep, the serendipitous structure and its vast waters.

"We’re confident one of the largest fountains in the world sets the stage for a standard of quality that will bond the entire community,” said Ralph. “It’s a unique tone-setter for a place residents will enjoy, but also depend on.”

Our proud history and state pride be damned, I'm pretty sure we've never seen a community adorned with enough bells, whistles, upgrades and foresight to keep survivors from becoming victims in the event North Texas deteriorates into an apocalyptic combination of The Walking Dead, Game of Thrones and The Purge.

"You can't predict catastrophes, but you can prepare for them," Robert Glasser, head of the United Nations International Strategy for Disaster Reduction, said in a recent speech. "The prudent people are taking steps to be ready the best they can for the worst that's likely to come."

Says Salfen, "Live on a piece of paradise, get peace of mind. It's a win-win."
Though Trident Lakes won't come alive with water through its veins until 2017, it's already casting a substantial shadow. Salfen says the early "trickle" of cars stopping with curiosity (guilty, party of one) has increased to a "steady stream" of visitors seeking answers, snapping photos or - in some cases - attempting to reserve a plot in the affluent-yet-anonymous neighborhood.

Residence at Phase I - the first of three planned subdivisions - will be via invitation-only, complete with a waiting list. After successful beta testing, according to Salfen, engineering plans for Phase 2 have been accelerated and accompanied by a formal waiting list as well.
Offered initially to movers and shakers throughout America, Trident Lakes' membership will likely parallel the hoity-toity exclusivity of Dallas National Golf Club, Washington D.C.'s Greenbrier Resort and that fantasy land beyond the armoire known as Narnia.
Though the price tag will remain confidential until initial invitations are hand-delivered, seems reasonable to estimate the cost aligning with that of an affluent second home. That, of course, would preclude the community from becoming fertile ground for grass-roots, nut-job government separatists and keep it instead purely an oasis for the powerful and savvy.
Make no mistake, Trident Lakes will be much more Elysium than Idiocracy.
Though Salfen was adamant about maintaining the privacy of residents, rumors are that notable celebrities are already sniffing around the place. After all, swanky resorts exist from coast to coast, but not many - if any - include state-of-the-art security prepared to mitigate our planet's biggest threats.

Hope for the best. Prepare for the worst. And, apparently, have a lot of fun in between.

5-STAR PLAYGROUND

You would expect the DFW Metroplex's rich and famous to vacation in exclusive spots such as Aspen, Cabo or Maldives. But why in the world would they make the hour trek northeast to a previously unremarkable landscape?

Easy. Because most well-to-do families also own lake homes, and Trident Lakes vows to both pamper and protect its residents while turning the trick of putting this lil' corner of Texas on the global map. It's going to transform nowhere, into somewhere. Somewhere special.

Today: Natural Texas landscape
Tomorrow: Nasty Trident 18th green

It promises to be one of the world's best-appointed hiding places. After all, we need complex "what if" plans. But, in the meantime, we also need cool "what if not yet" playgrounds.

During my tour I heard general plans for seemingly every toy imaginable including an 18-hole golf course, 15-acre blue lagoons with white-sand beaches, a 5-star spa, jogging trails, sports courts, kids' play areas and learning center, equestrian center, polo fields, zip lines, gun ranges, retail shops, restaurants, waterfront wedding venue and a row of helipads.
Weaving throughout the planned development will be about 400 Earth-covered, terraced condos with three unique floor plans ranging in size from 900-3,600-square feet and all providing patio views of the site's lagoons.
Barring the Apocalypse, Trident Lakes could simply maintain itself as one of the most exclusive, best accessorized country clubs in Texas, if not all of America. But if Hell and high water converge simultaneously, developers have a plan for that too.

DEFCON 1 PREPAREDNESS

Trident Lakes promotes itself as more than just a pretty place. Its three-pronged purpose ensures "Plan", "Protect" and "Play." With terrorism tragedies spreading almost daily from Orlando to Turkey to Belgium to Joint Base Andrews to (fill in the blank), some probably feel like this protective palace can't be built too fast.
As last summer's sniper ambush in Dallas unfolded, the shooter (Micah Johnson) who killed five officers told police "the end is coming."
Cue the chills. Call to action.
"Our hope is that membership will never need Trident Lakes for anything more than a vacation home, main residence or just a fun place for a family getaway," says Salfen. "But in the event of something dramatic, it will also be a 5-star insurance policy and a place that will - as well as possible - dilute the ongoing dangers."
I wasn't privy to a formal Master Plan, but was told Trident Lakes could eventually become a self-sustaining community using off-the-grid sources of food, water and energy. Among the extensive security features being kicked around are a protective wall surrounding the property (eat your heart out, Mr. Trump), watchtowers, air-lock blast doors, a navigable tunnel system, communal greenhouses and a DNA vault.
Those detailed checks and double-checks would, in theory, protect residents and minimize disasters such as terrorism (ISIS). It will also be built to diminish the brunt of virus pandemics (Zika), intergalactic events and violent conflicts. From Mother Nature's mood swings to scary scenarios that would empty store shelves within hours, Trident Lakes plans to take a big swing at answering the most ominous questions ... even before they are posed.

"One of Trident Lakes' most appealing features is its proximity to Dallas and Fort Worth, yet its location at least an hour from the major 'threat zone'," says Salfen. "Whatever danger arises, we feel confident we're providing the best Plan B money can buy. After all, preparation negates panic."

One of the things that struck me about Trident Lakes is its seeming contradiction: Existing as a deluxe, secret safe house - but one adorned with one of the most ostentatious fountains on Earth. The palace screams "Look at us!" But the philosophy is founded upon "Please don't notice us."
In his UN address, Glasser just might have it figured out.
"It's all about risk management," he said. "If you plan properly, you can hide in plain sight."
Like a joint password protecting sensitive information, a safe word drawing boundaries on sexual exploration or the designated family meeting spot during ominous weather, planners hope "Trident Lakes" becomes the default escape destination when and if Doomsday dawns in Dallas and beyond.
Fine, serendipitous structure. You win.
In the present, your sprawling fountain in the remote reaches of North Texas will generate unique curiosity.
In the future, you just may provide unparalleled security.

Cops. Guns. Dallas.

In the wake of the horrific July 7 police massacre and smack dab in the middle of our open-carry state desperately fighting off attacks of the 2nd Amendment, you'd think that Lone Star trifecta would receive patriotic support, punctuated with a red-white-and-blue salute.

You'd be wrong faster than a New York minute.

Because someone far from here - in geography and apparently ideology - is indeed daring to Mess With Texas.

"We're just a couple of friends trying to sell guns the right way," says Russel May, a veteran Sergeant in a DFW department who owns Front Sight Firearms with brother-in-blue partner Eric Wilson. "But these folks in New York are doing everything possible to kill our business. What's happening to us just isn't right."

If you've kept up with my writing and ramblings through the years, you know I'm not exactly a gun advocate. But, in trumping that liberal leaning, I am a champion for what's fair. Right over wrong, regardless of the currency in play. And in the case of the policemen's gun store vs. their New York landlord, something seems fishy at best and down right discriminatory at worst.

Frustrated by years of being subjected to a double-standard by Rochester-run First Allied Corporation, Front Sight is engaging in a dispute that's trending toward a lawsuit.
"In hindsight it's clear they (the landlord) don't like guns," May says. "They didn't really want us there in the first place. But they sure wanted our money. Soon as we signed the lease we've been treated disproportionate and unfairly."
By all accounts, they're good ol' boys with great intentions. May, a 48-year-old Sherman native, moved to McKinney 14 years ago after serving in the Grayson County Sheriff's Office; Wilson is a local law-enforcement officer whose current responsibilities require a lower profile. Their friendship included a shared love of firearms, and a business relationship blossomed.
With Federal Firearms Licenses and all the secondary job paperwork filed with their appropriate law enforcement departments, Wilson and May began selling guns part-time out of their houses in the mid-2000s.
"We knew we were on to something," May says. "Outgrew our garages in no time."
In the Fall of 2013 their search for a brick-and-mortar space led them to Orchid Centre, a shopping center managed by First Allied and located on Eldorado Parkway in the northern Dallas suburb of McKinney. Far from perfect, the modest spot was next door to a karate studio and sat - blocked from the main street's view - directly behind a free-standing building anchored by a UPS store. And the monthly rent of $2,759 uncomfortably bulged their budget.

Before landlord demands; After landlord demands

At that price and with that obstructed view, no wonder the space sat vacant for four years. May and Wilson had the lease looked over by a realtor friend, who found nothing out of the ordinary in what he termed a "standard lease." On Oct. 10, 2013, with relatively minimal haggling, Front Sight had its location, McKinney had its first and only Class 3 firearms storefront and First Allied finally had a tenant.
"At first, they wouldn't let us put in bollards to fortify the front entrance, but we did get them to eventually agree to those and to let us put in a steel hurricane door," according to May. "We wouldn't move in without it being safe. I wouldn't have been able to rest my head on my pillow without proper safety measures. (Upgrading the security) was a deal-breaker to us. Trust me, no one is more concerned about keeping guns away from the bad guys. That kind of goes without saying. Plus, we promised to take everything out when we moved out. No big deal."
But May and Wilson, turns out, were just beginning a litany of headaches.
Blue-state agenda > #BlueLivesMatter?!
About nine months after they opened for business in December 2013, a space became available next to UPS in the free-standing building close to Eldorado. Being a tenant with a long lease, high hopes and a perfect rent payment history, May inquired about moving into the much more visible space. Without any explanation, their request to relocate was denied. Inexplicably, he got the same answer 90 days later when the karate studio next to Front Sight up and moved out. That simple move next door would've doubled Front Sight's square footage and increased its visibility as a corner store.
After being told to stay put, the adjacent space sat vacant for almost a year until Condom Sense moved in.
"With us," says May, "it's been ugly from the get-go."

Guns, anyone?

First Allied was founded in 1984 in Los Angeles by the late Malcolm Glazer, whom Forbes regularly ranked among the planet's 400 wealthiest humans. His real estate holding company, which also has management offices in New York, today owns and operates almost 7 million square feet of shopping centers across 20 states. When Glazer died in 2014, his family - including six children - was left to run his business empire including the NFL's Tampa Bay Buccaneers and English Premier League soccer giant Manchester United. Talk about being born deep in life's Red Zone, sons Joel, Bryan and Edward were handed down First Allied.
May says he has never spoken to a Glazer, instead left to communicate with First Allied's Rochester-based Operations Manager, Greg Burnham. He's treated Front Sight as a nuisance, like Hillary and those pesky emails or Trump and the raunchy remnants of a hot mic.
Reached on the phone Monday morning with a repeated offer to tell his company's side of the story, he was as dismissive as advertised.
Despite being informed that I was poised to publish a story detailing what appeared to be gross mismanagement by First Allied, Burnham simply said ...
"We don't comment on anything in regard to relations with our tenants."
Strangely, interviews with several Orchid Centre tenants revealed little or no other landlord problems.
"It's good," characterized one owner who has conducted business in the shopping center for four years but wished to remain anonymous. "The place always looks good. Gets kept up nice. I haven't had many problems, but when I have they've addressed them pretty quick."
With First Allied tight-lipped, we can only speculate at the reason for the uniquely strained relationship with Front Sight. New York, blue-state liberalism? Anti-guns? Anti-cops? Culture conundrum?
Whichever, even before being roadblocked in their desire to change spaces Front Sight was handicapped from the start with an identity crisis.
A couple weeks after moving in May and Wilson realized their Front Sight name did not - as expected - get placed alongside the other stores on Orchid Centre's monument sign at the high-traffic intersection of Eldorado-Orchid. Soon after, however, a First Allied "Now Leasing" slide-in sign on the monument vanished, leaving Front Sight to consider it an invitation.
May had a friend at a sign company make a small slide-in panel and ...
"Two weeks later we got a letter telling us to take it down or we'd be in default of our lease," says May. "So they needed a spot on their monument sign and a big, separate, double-sided sign for their company? But none for their new tenant? Sorry, but that's screwed up. So much for welcome to the neighborhood."
May says he asked Burnham where they could put a sign and was told "You don't have a space."
What. The. What?
"Not only that, he accused me of stealing his sign," May says. "I told him, 'I'm a policeman. I've got a lot better things to do that go around stealing your $3 signs'. It's not like we're trying to move mountains or ask for a special favor. Just let us advertise our store. I mean, plain common sense says you have to have signage, to advertise in order to sell things. Letting people know we were there was a huge challenge from almost day one."
During a complaint about his new store's lack of visibility, May claims to have had this exchange with Burnham:
May: "I don't understand why you don't want your tenants to be happy? Don't you see that if we make more money, you'll make more money?"
Burnham: "I'm not concerned with your success. I've already got your signature on a 60-month lease."
"That," says May, "is when we really realized what we were up against."

With customers slow to trickle in to the almost invisible location, Front Sight was forced to become innovative. They constructed a wooden sign, and put it in the back of Wilson's parked pickup adjacent to Eldorado. Immediately, business boomed.

Recalls May, "Yeah, we did okay. For about three months."

Front Sight's Only Sign Of Life

Short-circuiting Front Sight's blip of prosperity, another letter arrived from First Allied's Burnham warning to move the truck ... or else. Same with a sandwich board sign out on the sidewalk, placed alongside the exact same type of sign that other tenants such as Pizza Hut were using. And same for a box truck the partners bought, wrapped in advertising and parked by the street.
With each new attempt to attract customers, Front Sight was greeted with a "default on your lease" threat from the folks in New York who obviously failed Southern Hospitality 101.
The box truck actually stayed - and worked - for 10 months. Until one morning when it didn't. Because it was, well, gone.
"First Allied towed it," May says. "Even though I reminded Mr. Burnham that I know the city ordinances here better than him, and that there weren't any towing signs anywhere in that parking lot. I told him I wanted our truck back, but he just stumbled and mumbled and ... it's probably still sitting wherever they towed it."
Undaunted, Front Sight resorted to Plan - oh, I've already lost count - and bought another box truck. But this time each night they moved it from the street to the back of their store in their designated parking spot. It didn't work. A towing company arrived one day, but May sternly warned the driver that there were no signs in the parking lot. The tow truck left, but it was merely a temporary stay of execution.
A week later - now in early 2016 - May and Wilson arrived at the store only to find new "Towing Enforced" signs in the front, and nary a truck in the back.
"We checked our security cams and, sure enough, First Allied hired a different towing company and they came at 2 in the morning so nobody was here to stop them," says May. "The transmission was ruined, the tires locked up and there were skid marks all around the back of our space."
But when May says he demanded $2,000 for repairs on the towed truck, he was again met with indifference. Somehow still undeterred, last June Front Sight adorned its front windows with garish red, white and blue signage that included American and Texas flags that goosed business, before, of course, First Allied sent yet another demand letter to remove the flags. I mean, really, the most dickish of HOA's wouldn't even do that. An understated, flagless strip of that display remains, only because May reminded Burnham that Pizza Hut is allowed to have the exact same type of signage in its window.
From JFK to J.R. Ewing, guns are an ingrained, important fixture in Dallas' culture and Texas' history. What First Allied is doing is akin to holding a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new Philadelphia restaurant, then promptly cutting off its supply of cheesesteak.
At its peak doing six figures in revenue, Front Sight - mainly due to sketchy signage - has seen that number drastically evaporate.
"We did half that in August. September was bad. And October looks worse," May says. "In this area, with what's going on around the world, and with what we provide, our business should be off the charts. But we're being choked and bled to death by our own landlord. If we try anything to spark business we get a letter threatening to 'comply' within 10 days or else we'll be accelerated into default and be facing $80,000 in legal fees just fight it. We know we're right, but we can't afford that. We're cops, for crying out loud."
These days Front Sight parks the box truck - repaired out of their own pocket - by Eldorado a couple days a week. They have negotiated a deal with a neighboring store to park the truck inside a locked garage every night.
In the meantime, May and Wilson are searching for a new home. With 24 months left on their lease, they can't yet afford to just pack up and leave. But can they really afford to stay?
They plan to reach out to the National Rifle Association for help. Maybe a boycott of Orchid Centre will rattle First Allied's New York cages, just enough for the company to tear up the lease and allow Front Sight to skeedaddle.
"At this point we just want to move," May says. "We're in Texas and we're legally, safely selling guns. There just has to be a friendlier place."
Cops. Guns. Dallas.
It's a shame those harmonious, home elements are being forced to play an unfair road game.

You're ... hired?!

16. No, I'm not moving to Canada. Or rioting in the streets in protest. Or joining some nut-job Tea Party to waste my weekends waving banners from highway overpasses. It's politics. I get it. In this state - and in this country - if you bleed blue you'll always be in the minority. Life goes on. That said, I do sympathize with Democrats balking at the "forgive and forget" demands to unify for a smooth transition of power. I'm sure they remember Trump's "birther" movement and Rush Limbaugh openly hoping that new President Obama "fails miserably." It's difficult to accept losing, especially when - technically - you won. By perhaps 500,000 votes. Trump said all the right things in his acceptance speech and deserves credit for doing so. But when you run on a platform of insults and intolerance, you can't be naive enough to think the wounds will heal overnight.

15. Hillary is a person that made bad decisions, but Trump is a bad person. My vote was 20% for her; 80% against him. My vote, like our country, has never been more divided.

14. Lots of left-wing pundits are waxing angrily today, but this is one of the best takes. And it comes not from TV analyst nor spurned Senator nor Hollywood elite, but the head coach of the NBA's Detroit Pistons:

“I didn’t vote for (George W.) Bush, but he was a good, honorable man with whom I had political differences, so I didn’t vote for him,” said Stan Van Gundy. “But for our country to be where we are now, who took a guy who - I don’t care what anyone says, I’m sure they have other reasons and maybe good reasons for voting for Donald Trump - but I don’t think anybody can deny this guy is openly and brazenly racist and misogynistic and ethnic-centric, and say, ‘That’s OK with us, we’re going to vote for him anyway.' It’s incredible. I don’t know how you go about it, if you’re a person of color today or a Latino. Because white society just said to you, again - not like we haven’t forever - but again, and emphatically, that I don’t think you deserve equality. We don’t think you deserve respect. And the same with women. That’s what we say today, as a country. We should be ashamed for what we stand for as the United States today."

13."When they go low, we go high." Great quote and, in theory, solid strategy. Unless of course, it isn't. Easy to second-guess, but perhaps Hillary should have lashed back at Trump with a barrage of personal and professional insults instead of keeping her hands clean. In biting her tongue in an attempt to allow Trump to hang himself, she gave power to her opponent's snippy, childish sound bites without a return of service. Hillary might have taken the high road, but she also lost a primo job. Same plan backfired on a certain former radio host a couple years ago. Ring a bell?

12. Get ready for four years of the biggest Fascist blowhard this side of North Korea's Kim Jong Un. Trump actually said and - in his delusional brain - likely believes:
"No one respects women more than I do."
"I know more about ISIS than all of our generals, believe me."
"I could shoot somebody and I wouldn't lose voters."
"I've given $100 million (of my own money) to my campaign."
"I donate a lot to charities, tens of millions to charities."
"My health is perfection."
"My golf handicap? It's a 3. Could be better, but now it's a 3."
Ya know, those things are indisputably false. And I'm minimizing doozies like Obama being born in Kenya or climate change being a hoax. Seems as long as he doesn't have a private email server his followers will allow him the freedom to blabber gross hyperbole sans accountability.

11. Make America ~~Great~~ Hate Again.

Clearly they've been dealt impossible hardships

10. I still believe Trump was/is better suited for the WWE ring than the White House. Think about it. He's a fake villain in a grotesque wig who riles up crowds with salty, aggressive monologues and audacious actions. And, of course, his gullible fans buy into every ounce of his character. His pro wrasslin' cameo should've been a career.

9. Tuesday night felt like I was watching golf's Ryder Cup, hoping to see one color but being besieged by repeated body blows from the opposite shade. Though I wasn't real fond of the outcome, watching an event that unpredictable felt very (and historically) sportsy.

8. 42% of women - inexplicably - voted for Trump. Tell them to shut up? Rate them based on looks? Call them nasty and slobs and smugly claim that no flat-chested woman could ever be a 10? Walk in on them naked in a dressing room? Even brag about forcibly kissing them and grabbing them by the pussy? No problem. The biggest shock to me is that almost half the women in this country hate private email servers more than being objectified and disrespected.

7. I long for Bernie Sanders (and his competence). I already miss Barack Obama (get ready to cringe at Trump's crass over his class). And I fear at some point I'll even dream of the "good ol' days" of George Dubya Bush. I'll even shed a tear for Obamacare. Why? Because I'll gladly pay increased middle-income healthcare premiums as long it allows low-income Americans to have insurance they couldn't otherwise afford. But that's just me.

6. So let me get this straight: We elect a man who didn't get the most overall votes and whose victory publicly elated the KKK and Russian dictator Vladimir Putin and we're sure we got it right? In the wake of Obama's 2012 re-election Trump Tweeted: The electoral college is a disaster for a democracy. To which I say, Amen. But, like it or not, them's the rules for both teams. (If you're fearful of Trump as truly dangerous, however, I might just have a safe solution for you.)

5. Another thing I don't get is the venom spewed toward the media. By my unofficial math the major networks covered Clinton's email scandal more than any other singular campaign topic. And no way Trump didn't get his fair share of face time. Besides, what newspaper or station or anchor or analyst would be that wrong on purpose? They were wrong - all of 'em - because they were wrong. Not because they wanted to be wrong. If you believe that a media outlet knew Trump was going to win but stifled that opinion in favor of some ratings-nabbing agenda then, I'm sorry, you have zero clue how the media actually works. I have 30 years' experience in media and ... Oops, probably the wrong number to be pushing ... I've picked against the Cowboys many times. Not because I wanted them to lose. But because I believed they would lose. And, yep, been wrong several times.

He said; She sad

4. Despite his six bankruptcies over 18 years, Trump may be good for American business. Trickle-down economics giving tax breaks to the wealthy led us to the financial meltdown in '08, but I'll have an open mind. It's the social and moral components of him, his platform and his followers that irk me. Exclusion and intolerance are both despicable traits. But Trump's VP Mike Pence is on record saying homosexuality can be "cured". And this morning I read this nauseating Twitter exchange: A Syrian refugee that had recently relocated to Texas asked nervously "Now what?" A proud "Deplorable" Trump follower retorted with "You go back! Now!!" I fear that's just the tip of the iceberg.

3. In a scene straight out of the movie Idiocracy, a coalition of non-degreed White males has up and elected a reality-show TV star with zero political experience to the office of President of the United States of America. More bizarre, along the way the candidate publicly alienated and denigrated women, Blacks, Muslims and Latinos. How'd he survive? Trump somehow tricked his followers into thinking he was of them. They are working-class Americans he calls the "forgotten." But him? He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, lives in a gold-plated Manhattan palace and has worn a blue collar about as often as he's paid taxes. Hint: never. (By the way, wouldn't it be justice if Obama now turned the tables and dogged Trump with a "taxer" movement that demanded the new President produce his "long-form" tax returns?) In exit polls 60% of voters said Trump was "unlikable" and 53% admitted his takeover of Washington, D.C. would make them "concerned" and/or "scared." He will be, by far, the most controversial and least popular person to ever assume the Presidency. Which - in Idiocracy - means even more High-5s.

Coming soon: The new Trump Tower

2. Bottom line: Whites voted against Hillary as if she was trending Black, and Blacks mildly supported her as if she was trending White. She got 88% of the Black vote. But that is down from 93% for Obama in '12. Ramifications? Clinton earned 129,000 fewer votes in Detroit than Obama, and 95,000 fewer votes than him in Milwaukee four years ago. She wound up losing Michigan by 61,000 and Wisconsin by 73,000. And the Latino backlash toward Trump that many experts predicted never materialized. Despite the insults and promises of deportation and plan to build a wall, Latinos voted for Hillary even less than they voted for Obama. Women and minorities had their chance to defeat Trump. You can either blame them for blowing it, or blame her for being such an unconvincing candidate. In the end, the male chauvinist pig d. the scheming, dishonest woman 7-5, 6-4.

1. Congrats to Trump and his passionate supporters for pulling off an upset that rivals Buster Douglas knocking out Mike Tyson. (I do find it painfully ironic that the candidate who criticized a "rigged" election won the Presidency despite finishing in 2nd place.) I may never like President Trump. But rest assured I'll afford him more respect than a lot of Texans ever gave President Obama. Hopefully you'll treat Democratic Presidential Nominee Michelle Obama better come 2020. Peace Be With You.

Not that he's - ya know - dead 'n gone, but Tony Romo's statement on Tuesday was certainly saturated with resignation.

Oh, and also guts, class, respect, dignity and professionalism.
For some of us who've loyally - even stubbornly, at times - supported the most prolific passer in the history of the Dallas Cowboys, it felt a lot like a retirement speech. Or at least the official beginning of the end.
Kleenex, anyone?
He's won playoff games and made Pro Bowls and shoved Roger Staubach and Troy Aikman from the record book, but not sure I've ever been more proud of No. 9. And also never been more sad for him.
No way around it, at this point in their polar careers Dak Prescott is a better quarterback than Tony Romo. You know it. I know it. And, yep, Romo - gulp - knows it.
Under heavy pressure in a town that loves, loves, loves it some quarterback controversy, Romo made one of the best, most accurate deliveries of his career. On time. And on target.
I was at Texas Stadium the night Romo replaced Drew Bledsoe and it felt - yeah - kind of eerie. With Romo injured and certain to get his job back (we figured), there was no similar passing-of-the-torch moment on the field this season. But while Romo sat silently and helplessly, Prescott yanked him off the pedestal and down the totem pole.
The rookie who's only a Cowboy because of dumb luck (management whiffing on several other more desirable options) and only under center because of two injuries (Kellen Moore ring a bell?) is now on the verge of a magical season. The Cowboys are 8-1, and they just might win a championship.
As a Cowboys lifer, I'm rooting for another Super Bowl. But, I admit, without No. 9 throwing the winning touchdown or taking the final knee, it will feel a tad hollow. Much like it will if the Rangers ever win a World Series without Michael Young, or maybe Elvis Andrus. Like it would've had the Mavs triumphed after Dirk Nowitzki.
You just root for great things to happen to good people. But sometimes life - and sports - kicks that hope square in the kisser.
Nobody's been persecuted in DFW sports more than Romo. So on this bittersweet day, I figured I'd dust off one of my many defenses of No. 9.
What it was like to be a Romo fan in 2013?

Exactly like this.

An egomaniac that arrogantly tip-toed close to being a domineering, autocratic czar of the '90s Dallas Cowboys, even Jimmy Johnson knew the value of a free and robust press.
In those days at Valley Ranch, Johnson would host a weekly "fireside chat." In his office. Sans notebooks or recorders. Just a group of reporters chewing the fat and talking shop, football, politics, movies - anything and everything - with the leader of the free world's favorite football team.
America's Team.
To me and my Fort Worth Star-Telegram co-beat writer Mike Fisher, to Ed Werder and Tim Cowlishaw of the Dallas Morning News, and to Mickey Spagnola and Susie Woodhams of the Dallas Times Herald, it was a disarming, refreshing and enlightening forum. Despite each of us at times writing various unflattering stories about Johnson or his hair or his team, we never in our darkest dreams imagined being banned from the chats or labeled "fake news." Johnson might fume. He would purse his lips. But he knew that, ultimately, we were an asset to his kingdom.
Why? Because although there was once a decadent "White House" in Valley Ranch just a Michael Irvin "skinny post" from Johnson's office, there is only one Donald Trump. And the leader of America's immeasurably more important team's irrational ambush on our free press is simultaneously alarming and dangerous.
This - to be clear - isn't an attack on Trump. It's an attack on his attack. A reaction to his unscrupulous action.
In the wake of our President labeling anything unflattering to him as "fake news", the White House recently banned legitimate news outlets from an off-camera "gaggle" - Washington, D.C.'s version of the "fireside chat". Trump subsequently blasted the mainstream media as "the enemy of the American people".
Let that sink in: Because his thin-skinned, insecure ego cannot take scrutiny - much less criticism - The President of the United States would have you believe that Breitbart News is more credible, more fair and more balanced than The New York Times.
I migrated into journalism because I was curious. Because I enjoyed looking at standard objects from unique angles. And because I cherished nothing more than educated, fact-based opinions on highly debated topics.
Considering Trump's assault on free speech, seems the perfect time to remind that a free press works for you, the People. You have jobs. You have lives. You don't have time - or a credential - to go to press conference starring Trump or Mark Cuban or Dak Prescott. So the media is your conduit. It gets the As to the Qs you want asked. According to The Constitution, the media is allowed - encouraged, even - to probe, to question, to disagree.
It's that freedom of the press that is vital part of America's checks and balances. It's our first line of defense against the erosion of Democracy. But Trump is trying to discredit it, as a captor would apply Duct Tape to its victim.
He's an authoritarian, steamrolling toward dictatorship. No? I prefer to be fair and to, first and foremost, get the facts straight. After that we can worry about who was right and who was wrong. Just not sure Trump shares that vision and semblance of order.
As a long-time writer in DFW, one of my favorite criticisms was being labeled a "hater." As in, "Damn Debbie Downer, go write someplace else if you hate the Cowboys so much." See, I'm a lifelong Cowboys fan that - deep down - painfully pulls for them to win every year, every game, every snap. But as a mainstream media reporter I was paid to be unbiased, to pursue with equal vigor neither stories positive nor negative. But, rather, the truth.
The reporters at CNN or The Los Angeles Times have opinions, and - like you and I - they have a vote. But they can't afford to blur personal and professional, lest they be unemployed by sundown.
Are there websites and publications pushing particular, transparent agendas? You betcha. But I still believe the mainstream media isn't among them. And you should as well. A player for the Washington Redskins isn't automatically an asshole. Any more than a newspaper writer or TV anchor that disagrees you is therefore and undeniably a buffoon.
That's not fake news. It's flawed logic.

A good, credible reporter lives comfortably in the safe space between carrying pompoms and carrying a pitchfork. In a memorable fireside chat moment, Johnson revealed his desired relationship with the media:
"I don't expect you to help row the boat," he said, "but don't go out of your way to punch a hole in the bottom of it, either."
When did I know I had penned a fair piece?When the home fans called me a "hater" and the opposing fans labeled me a "homer."
I realize that Trump demonizing the press with his hollow, lazy, simpleton "fake news" catchphrase plays harmoniously to his fawning, nodding base that is teetering on becoming a cult. But I also recognize that the petty pigeon-holing of something so important - it is, after all, the First Amendment - sets an ominous tone.
The other countries on this planet whose leaders have deemed the free press an "enemy": Venezuela, Burma, Cuba, China, Russia and North Korea. Is that really what Trump considers "good" company? State-run news agencies thrive in dictatorships, not democracies.
Or else?
Or else the good ol' US of A will deteriorate into North Korea.
Those citizens - barred from a free press and beholden to only a single news outlet controlled by a singular voice - actually refer to their president (Kim Jong-un) as "Supreme Leader." Worse, they have been ~~told~~ brainwashed into believing that Jong-un's father and predecessor, Kim Jong-il, actually recorded a 300 the first time he picked up a bowling ball, and aced five holes en route to an 18-hole score of 34 in his first round of golf. And, of course, if you lived in the Soviet Union in 1980 you still haven't heard about the U.S.'"Miracle on Ice" upset of the Russian hockey team in the Winter Olympics.
Just a hunch, but I'm guessing that in the USSR any state-run media account of the USA's remarkable gold-medal run was labeled ... say it with me ... "Fake news!"
Ignorance isn't bliss. It's perilous.
Look, we're all entitled to our own opinions. But we're not entitled to our own facts.
The Onion is fake news.
Warren Beatty's Oscars envelope is fake news.
Lying is fake news.
Perhaps it's time Johnson met Trump at Mar-a-Lago for a little fireside chat.

Tony Romo leaves the Cowboys today.
But eventually - eternally - he'll be back. When inducted into the Ring of Honor.
No, this isn't even up for debate. No. 9, who will be officially released today, is statistically the greatest Cowboys' quarterback of all-time. And despite only two playoff wins and never a sniff of a Super Bowl over 10+ seaons, he'll deservedly reside forever inside AT&T Stadium alongside Roger Staubach, Troy Aikman and Don Meredith.
As confounding and frustrating and polarizing as his career was, Romo's path to immortality is likewise peculiar. As in, there are 21 members of the Ring of Honor. Romo will be only the third - joining Meredith and Don Perkins - with no ties to a championship.
But since Meredith got in, Romo's a slam dunk.
Dandy Don won exactly one playoff game as Dallas' quarterback in the '60s. He completed only 50% of his career passes, threw for half as many yards as Romo, won merely 47 games and lost consecutive NFL Championship Games to the Packers, including the Ice Bowl.
Romo leaves town holding the franchise passing records for yards, touchdowns and career 300-yard games. He has a Top 5 all-time passer rating. A 78-49 record. 4 Pro Bowls.
And a legacy as one of the best all-time NFL quarterbacks to never reach a conference championship game, much less a Super Bowl. Romo has his stubborn, irrational critics, but he messed around and had a career that parallels a guy named Y.A. Tittle.
In six fewer seasons, in fact, Romo won the same number of games, threw for 1,100 more yards, six more touchdowns and 131 fewer interceptions than the legendary 49ers' and Giants' quarterback. Tittle made three more Pro Bowls than Romo, but never won a single playoff game, going 0-4.
Tittle's bust resides in Canton. Romo's helmet is likely headed for Denver, before retiring in glory in Arlington.
I didn't exactly have high hopes that night in October 2006 when Bill Parcells yanked Drew Bledsoe in favor of an undrafted, untested Romo. But there's a special place in my heart for him now.
Just as there is reserved a spot for him in the Ring of Honor, and on the list of greatest NFL quarterbacks to never achieve great team success.

10 BEST NFL QUARTERBACKS TO NEVER REACH THE SUPER BOWL

10. Dave Krieg - 19 seasons, lost only AFC Championship Game in '83.
9. Sonny Jurgensen - Hall-of-Famer never even started a playoff game.

8. Tony Romo - 4 Pro Bowls. Top 5 passer rating. 78 wins. 0 NFC Championship Games.

7. Randall Cunningham - 4 Pro Bowls, lost only NFC Championship Game in '98.
6. Philip Rivers - 5 Pro Bowls, lost only AFC Championship Game in '08.
5. Bernie Kosar - 3 straight AFC Championship Game losses with Browns.
4. John Brodie - '70 NFL MVP went 0-2 in NFC Championship Games.
3. Y.A. Tittle - 32,000 yards. 242 TDs. 7 Pro Bowls. HOF. 0-4 in playoffs.
2. Warren Moon - 9 Pro Bowls. 5 Grey Cups. HOF. 0 AFC Championship Games.
1. Dan Fouts - Hall-of-Famer went 0-2 in AFC Championship Games in '80-81.

I don't hate Star Wars.

But what I do despise is hearing our country confusing cleverness with laziness. Take today, for example.

Because Star Wars is popular and "fourth" sounds like "force" - sorta, kinda I guess - people are attempting to enthusiastically empower each other with the cunning use of a fabricated phrase that makes no sense.
May the fourth be with you!
With each utterance, America's Wonderlic score plummets toward Mo Claiborne territory.
Fortunately, we only have to withstand this nonsensical barrage once a year. As for the other 364 days ... The 10 Worst Sayings I Wish Would Never Again Be Said:

10. "_gate" - The sportswriters' crutch when anything abnormal happens. From Spygate to Deflategate, if you can't think of anything more original and creative then go be a plumber. Please.
9. "It is what it is" - Never heard anyone say "It is what it isn't", because, well, that sounds incredibly ignorant. Next time just go with "It is." Or, better yet, just quietly pass your turn to someone smarter.
8. "Just sayin'" - Used by those with insufficient vocabulary and flimsy communication skills, which renders them incapable of clearly stating their point. Next time you hear this phrase, simply replace it with "I can't think of any more words!" Guaranteed it will fit.
7. "We control our destiny" - See, destinies are inherently pre-ordained events and road maps designed by a higher intelligence to steer our lives, regardless of our actions. You can no more control your destiny than you can influence Earth's orbit. By definition, your destiny controls you.
6. "Git r done" - When Nike prodded us to "Just Do It" it was an iconic call to action. But when folks plot their strategy of success upon Larry The Cable Guy's diluted bastardization it just sounds ... ewwww. Hint: Your plan should be wholly discernible from your goal.
5. "Love is blind" - Nope, and neither is lust. Which is why our vanity empire dwarfs our education budget.
4. "Give 110%" - Fools who say this clearly gave only 73% during Math and Science class.
3. "Everything happens for a reason" - Try selling that to the Alzheimer's victim and surrounding family immersed in a devastating, drawn-out decline toward death. Remind them again the reason for this part of "everything" being crow-barred into their grand plan.

2. "I could care less" - Yeah, and be sure to say it with an animated, angry face and punctuate it with a fiercely extended index finger. Because, of course, what you meant was the exact opposite. As in, I don't care one bit therefore it isn't possible for me to care any less. "I couldn't care less." Genius.

1. "'merica" - Lopping off the first letter and syllable of our country's name doesn't make you sound patriotic or folksy. Merely uneducated. Now, about why we dropped the "North" part ...

Flamboyant hats. $16 Mint Juleps. Mudders. And ... cue the yawns.
Today is the Kentucky Derby and - admit it - the only reason you're tempted to watch is because you're anchored to the couch after ingesting a little too much Cinco in your de Mayo.
It's horses. Which are not athletes. And who have no idea whether they win, lose or draw, as long as it leads to a post-game meal.
It's billed as the "most exciting two minutes in sports." What the what? Give me the final act of any NBA Playoff game or, for that matter, the waning moments of a Jags-49ers' half. The first half.
One of the few sporting events I've never attended is the Kentucky Derby because, well, I just have no desire. Nor do I have any interest in watching NBC's five-hour - I kid you not - pre-game show today. I mean, foreplay is great and all, but ... five hours for two minutes isn't my kind of math.
Let me know who wins. And I'll guarantee you at this time next year you won't remember either. Fine then, without Googling, who won last year? (No way "Nyquist" was on the tip of your tongue or top of your mind.)
No, the "Run For The Roses" isn't the most overrated events in sports, but it's undoubtedly on the short list.

10. Tour de France – Bunch of drug cheaters who’ll never drug cheat as well as Lance Armstrong.

9. Army-Navy – Pageantry, yes. Quality, must-see football? Nope. Not anymore.

8. Indianapolis 500 – Once the “Greatest Spectacles in Racing,” it’s long been swallowed up and digested into tiny, irrelevant bile by NASCAR and its Daytona 500.

7. Kentucky Derby – We waited almost 40 years for a Triple Crown winner and, just like, it fizzled. Quick, which horse won it last year? Right.

6. Any Heavyweight Boxing Championship Fight – Epic? Really? Fine, then name the current champ. No way you guessed right, because (far as I can tell) there are actually two. One from New Zealand (Joseph Parker) and one from England (Anthony Joshua). Once upon a time there was Liston, Ali, Frazier, Foreman and Tyson. Sigh.

5. College Basketball Post-Season Conference Tournaments/Any College Football Bowl Game Outside The Final Four – Hailed as March Madness, the hoop tournaments are merely meaningless appetizers. And the habit of draftable players skipping random football bowl games has only just begun.

4. Winter Olympics – Sold as a global event, but barely one-third of the world’s nations (68 of 196 at Sochi in 2014) participate. And way less than that can relate to events like Ice Dancing, Curling and Biathlon.

3. NFL Scouting Combine – Things tend to change drastically when they put the pads on.

2. Opening Day – Baseball hypes this as a national holiday, but it represents exactly 0.61 percent of the six-month, 162-game season.

1. Heisman Trophy – Exactly 0 of last 17 quarterbacks to win the storied hardware has gone on to win a Super Bowl: Andre Ware. Ty Detmer. Gino Torretta. Charlie Ward. Danny Wuerffel. Chris Weinke. Eric Crouch. Carson Palmer. Jason White. Matt Leinart. Troy Smith. Tim Tebow. Sam Bradford. Cam Newton. Johnny Manziel, Jameis Winston and Marcus Mariota. I rest my case.

“Be more positive!” she says.

“Stick to sports!” he chides.

“Too many Top 10 lists!” they decry.

Fine, you win. Today: A warm-’n-fuzzy Top 20 list about sports.

But first, a little background …

I lied to get into the sports media business. Sorta.

Went down like this:

In 1986, a few months before I graduated UT-Arlington with a degree in journalism, I caught the eye and grabbed the ear of an editor at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram.

“I’ll do anything, for any price,” I begged, attempting to jam the tip of my toe into what I perceived to be a sliver of an opening in the door.

“Hmm, okay,” returned the editor. “Do you follow soccer?”

“Are you kidding?!” I fibbed, having attended a Dallas Tornado game or two as a kid but not really knowing a goal from a goal kick. “One of my favorite sports!”

Two nights later I was inside Reunion Arena covering a team called the Dallas Sidekicks and a sport called the Major Indoor Soccer League. Orange ball? Walls? A guy who takes his shirt off when he scores? I was clueless. And I was hooked.

Not necessarily on the MISL, but on getting paid to attend sporting events.

What a ~~scam~~ brilliant career choice.

I’ve covered sports in the Metroplex for 30+ years, writing/talking about everything from dart tournaments to The Olympics. Today, with a little prodding and a lot of reminiscing, I pieced together the most memorable events I’ve attended during 18 years at the Star-Telegram, seven more at the Dallas Observer, five atCBS Radio/105.3 The Fan, three more at NBC5 and, since the Summer of 2013, here in my own lil’ corner of the blogosphere.

My initial brain dump birthed 44 memories. I painstakingly narrowed it to 20. Not necessarily the best moments. Merely the most memorable. (Leon Lett, Brett Hull and Bill Clinton's White House just barely missed the cut.)

Hope you enjoy re-living them half as much as I delighted in covering them.

20. February 16, 2001; Infield Circus – Assigned to capture the suds, speed and socializing of the Daytona 500, I drove through the tunnel at the Daytona International Speedway and immediately saw a woman. Walking. On her hands. Naked. With grinnin’ guys playing ring toss. Using her legs as the targets. Swear.

19. April 6, 1997; Mav-Wrecks – Though the franchise had bottomed out a couple years earlier with head coach Quinn Buckner and consecutive 13- and 11-win seasons, the Mavs under the utterly forgettable Jim Cleamons managed only two points – on a pair of Derek Harper free throws – in the third quarter of a lowly loss to the Lakers in The Fabulous Forum.

18. Nov 30, 2006; Anna Nirvana – Got to play three games of tennis at the T Bar M Racquet Club in North Dallas against one of the hottest females on the planet, Anna Kournikova. Nothing really spectacular about the tennis, other than the fact that it was against one of the hottest females on the planet, Anna Kournikova.

17. June 20, 1987; Sidekicks Celebrate – Down 3-1 with less than two minutes to play in Game 7 of the MISL Championship Series, the Sidekicks pulled their goalie in desperation. After an improbable two goals to force overtime, Tatu drilled a shot that Mark Karpun re-directed for the goal that stunned the Tacoma Stars and 20,000 fans in the Tacoma Dome. Two days later I covered a championship parade through downtown and around Reunion Arena. Still pinching myself to this day.

16. Dec. 10, 1989; Bounty Bowl II – After Cowboys’ head coach Jimmy Johnson had chastised the Eagles’ Buddy Ryan for putting out a bounty on kicker Luis Zendejas in a Thanksgiving Day game at Texas Stadium, the payback at Veterans Stadium was gruesome. Philadelphia beat an infamously futile Cowboys team, 20-10, punctuated by batteries wrapped in iceballs hurled at the sideline and even inside CBS’ broadcast booth at Verne Lundquist and Terry Bradshaw.

15. June 29, 1998; Dirk’s Debut – He stepped off the plane from Wurzburg, Germany all of 19 years old. Chili-bowl, long haircut. Big, gold hoops dangling from his ear. But then Dirk Nowitzki dazzled us inside the Baylor-Tom Landry Center gym. 3-pointers with each hand. And a smooth, flowing stride leading to effortless dunks. The Flamingo Fadeway wasn’t yet born, but just days after the NBA Draft Nowitzki’s eventual Hall-of-Fame star was already rising.

14. Dec. 20, 2008; Farewell, Old Friend – It was freezing that night. Winter wind whipping through the tunnel at Texas Stadium. But with the Cowboys rallying and former players lined up to see the last game in Texas Stadium it would end up warm and cozy. Right? Nope. As Baltimore Ravens’ fullback LeRon McClain rumbled 82 yards right up Dallas’ gut it almost made us vomit. Then, about 17 months later, an 11-year-old from Tyler pushed a plunger that imploded my all-time favorite sports stadium.

13. May 14, 2005; Tiger Prowls – Back when Tiger Woods was Tiger Goods, I followed his every move at the Byron Nelson golf tournament. On the 9th fairway he exited a Port-a-Pot … to a rousing ovation.

12. July 4, 2004; Fantastic Federer – Only thing more amazing than sitting at Centre Court Wimbledon and watching Andy Roddick spank 140-mph serves was witnessing Roger Federer deftly return them for winners with merely a flick of his legendary wrist.

11. June 17, 1994; The Day The World (Cup) Stopped – International media from the globe’s four corners descended upon Fair Park to cover the World Cup, but suddenly we all found ourselves not watching soccer inside the Cotton Bowl but instead huddled around a TV in the Hall of State’s makeshift media center gawking at another type of football player. It was O.J. Simpson, leading Los Angeles police on a low-speed chase.

10. January 17, 1993; How ‘Bout Them Cowboys?! – Candlestick Park. The mud. Major underdogs. Up 24-20 with four minutes remaining, but backed up to their own 10. Get conservative and work on the clock? Nah. How about Troy Aikman to Alvin Harper for the most important 70-yard pass play in franchise history. Cowboys 30, 49ers 20. Hello, Super Bowl.

9. February 28, 1989; Doomsday Indeed – Only days after he was fired by new owner Jerry Jones, Cowboys’ coach Tom Landry went to Valley Ranch and cleaned out his office. Unfortunately, I had to document every sad detail.

8. June 14, 1998; The Joy of Six – With his Chicago Bulls on the brink of losing Game 6 and having to play a Game 7 in the Delta Center against the Utah Jazz, Michael Jordan scored, stole the ball from Karl Malone and then deftly shoved Bryon Russell out of the way before swishing an 18-foot jumper to seal his sixth title. We forget John Stockton front-rimmed an open 3-pointer at the buzzer.

7. October 22, 2010; Hello, World Series! – When closer Neftali Feliz struck out Alex Rodriguez on a nasty curveball, our goose bumps had goose bumps. Yep, after 38 seasons the Texas Rangers were finally going to the World Series.

6. February 8, 1986; Soaring Spud – On NBA All-Star Saturday at Reunion Arena it was 5-foot-7 Spud Webb who stole the show by winning the Slam Dunk title. But in the locker room it was Celtics’ legend Larry Bird who chugged a Lone Star beer, loudly burped and then offered “Excuse me, I’ve got a trophy to win.” He then went out and at one point made 12 straight 3-pointers en route to the Long Distance Shootout championship.

5. July 27, 1996; Olympic Bombing – During The Summer Olympics in Atlanta I saw Michael Johnson’s double in the 200/400, the Dream Team cream everybody and Andre Agassi win gold. But it was 1:30 a.m. when our bus taking us to our dorms at Emory University abruptly stopped. Announced our driver, “A bomb went off in Centennial Park.” Still makes me queasy. I had been there 20 minutes before. And now I was headed back.

4. August 22, 1989; 5,000 – I was assigned to paint the scene surrounding Nolan Ryan’s historic 5,000th strikeout. Not Nolan fanning the A’s Rickey Henderson or the ball caught by Chad Krueter, but more so the scalpers selling box seats for, get this, $150 a pop. Probably go for $1,500 today.

3. October 27, 2011; Title Tease - One strike away. Twice. I was lined up with a gaggle of media underneath Busch Stadium, awaiting the Texas Rangers’ World Series celebration that would never happen. Plastic was hung from lockers. Boxes of championship hats and T-shirts were carted past. But after David Freese tripled off Neftali Feliz in the 9th, Lance Berkman singled off Scott Feldman in the 10th and Freese homered off Mark Lowe in the 11th to end a dramatic, gut-wrenching Game 6, it was instead our worst case of blue balls. Ever.

2. January 31, 1993; 'Boys Are Back – From Garth Brooks’ National Anthem to Michael Jackson’s halftime show to Troy Aikman’s four touchdown passes to the nine turnovers, the Cowboys’ 52-17 romp over the Buffalo Bills in Super Bowl XXVII will be eternally vivid.

1. June 12, 2011; Finals, Finally – As Nowitzki made a lefty layup to give the Mavs a nine-point lead in the final minute, I found myself trying to do my job – blog and type and talk – amidst a stream of tears. Couldn't have been more perfect. In Miami, against the Heat team and villainous player (Dwyane Wade) that ruined the ’06 party. Favorite moment: Original owner Don Carter handing the Larry O’Brien trophy to Finals MVP Nowitzki. Sometimes, if you stick with it long enough, life turns out to be fair after all.

Every once in a while we're reminded that, in fact, we haven't evolved as a society nearly as much as we'd like to think.

Isn't that right, racist punk Charlie Burkhart?

Isn't that right, common denominator Jesuit High School?

The kid is was a freshman at Jesuit in North Dallas. And apparently when he wasn't playing lacrosse he spent his time on another favorite hobby - disgustingly talking smack to and/or about blacks.

According to a source, last year when Burkhart played football on the 8th-grade team at St. Rita he started an on-field scuffle after calling a Bishop Dunne player the n-word. And, now, after a video surfaced of him going on a racist rant in which he again uses the n-word and gleefully exclaims of blacks, "I hate 'em. Crucify 'em!", Burkhart has deservedly been forced to withdraw from the school.

Kudos to Jesuit for not tolerating this egregious, vile and unacceptable bigotry. Though the statement from school president Mike Earsing released around 4 p.m. Tuesday alludes only that "we swiftly addressed this situation in an appropriate way", a Jesuit source says Burkhart was given a choice: Withdraw from school or be expelled. He left. When the incident made it to social media, the school was forced to act.
The teen's smirking, slurring, 10-second rant occurred while wearing a Cleveland Cavaliers jersey and being filmed in front of at least one giggling onlooker. Maybe he was at a party. Possibly alcohol was involved. But definitely, undeniably, it is disgusting.

There was a time not that long ago when I actually thought we were taking genuine strides toward a truly "United We Stand" America. Instead, slapped in the naive kisser by this ...

"Fuckin' nigger," Burkhart exclaims in the video. "I hate 'em! Crucify 'em! Put 'em on the cross. Put hands on their fuckin' heads. Holes in the hands ... "

This isn't merely "locker-room talk." This isn't just "kids being kids." This is a nauseating, revolting commentary on our society in general and Burkhart in particular.

It's just one guy? Maybe. But there are people laughing. People filming. People sharing. And, yep, people saying this is anything but an isolated incident.

The video is apparently shared by a "JC Ericson." In a response, "Max Heitzman" offers:

"It was much worse when he was goin ape shit on Tyson."

I don't want to believe this kind of attitude exists in 2017. But, chillingly, it indeed does.

And, like it or not, Jesuit is again at the root of the evil.

It was only two years ago, remember, that two Oklahoma University students and fraternity members were expelled for their tuxedo-clad leading of a chant that included "You can hang them from a tree, but they'll never sign with me. There will never be a nigger at SAE."

One of those kids - Parker Rice - was a graduate of, sure enough, Jesuit High School.

Ignore the message. Kill the messenger.
No, literally, kill the messenger.
In the wake of my Tuesday post exposing a racist rant that forced the exit of a teenager from Jesuit High School, that fatal intention is the alarming crescendo of feedback. Rather than admitting shock, expressing sympathy or pledging to examine the culture of a prestigious school that has helped foster two infamous racist videos in two years, the wave of comments on my story quickly deteriorated into personal attacks.
And, ultimately, escalated into this:

... nobody gives a fuck about this website and your illegal blogs about childeren(sic) u fuckin loser. Kill your self(sic)

I've been at this 30+ years and have experienced my share of pushback on articles and columns. But never - not once - has the feedback gone to such a dark place that the stated goal was my death. Look, I have developed some extremely thick skin. The insults and attacks on my appearance or my writing don't offend me.
But the perverted perspective behind them absolutely alarms me.
Over 13,000+ unique views and 90+ comments later, the running theme in response to Charlie Burkhart's disgusting racist rant was not to admonish the message, but rather to ambush the messenger.
Granted, a majority of the responses were likely crafted by teens armed with free time, keyboard courage and minimal maturity. In their eyes, I had the audacity to pick on one of their own. (Which, think about it, is a scary notion.) The response - cloaked in anonymity, of course - was to shower me with all sorts of colorful labels and creative descriptions. A sampling:
"Idiot".
"Turd".
"Dick".
"Penis".
"Gay".
"Chode".
"Retarded".
"Inbred".
"Douchebag".
"Sadistic fuck".
"Fucking toad".
"Sick son of a bitch".
"Soulless ginger fuck".
"Tranny with bad plastic surgery".
And, my personal favorite: "A frog mixed with chewbaccas(sic) asshole that sprang out with Down syndrome and diabetes."
The irrationally misguided haters also yanked my wife, Sybil Summers, into their bullseye, comically claiming she is "an ex-porn star." I mean, she's hot and all but ...
A in creative writing. F in sensitivity training.
The comments also came with assorted calls to action, such as "stick to sports", "get a life", "stop being a liberal" and, of course, "Kill your self."
More troubling, there are attempts to inexplicably diminish, or even justify Burkhart's rant:
"It's a 15-year-old boy making one mistake. What's your problem?"
"Leave him alone! He's just a minor!"
"Fake News!"
Personal attacks notwithstanding, one comment - from an adult Twitter follower who claimed to be a Jesuit parent - genuinely bothered me.
"What Richie did in writing about that kid is equally as horrible as the video."
Think about the warped mentality behind that statement. In essence, the thinking is that the only thing as bad as racism is ... exposing racism?
I guess I was naive enough to expect reaction to the video to be overwhelming - if not 100% - condemnation. This kind of attack of the messenger and, in turn, support of Burkhart is down right chilling.
Again, the motivation for my original post was not to indict Jesuit for some sort of systemic, institutionalized racism. But you cannot deny the connection between the two stars in the videos. I don't think Jesuit is teaching racism, but there is evidence to suggest it's not doing enough to un-teach it.
Hence ...

President Mike Earsing in 2015
I am appalled by the actions in the video and extremely hurt by the pain this has caused our community. It is unconscionable and very sad that in 2015 we still live in a society where this type of bigotry and racism takes place ...

President Mike Earsing in 2017
We are saddened by this young man's actions because they are not representative of what we - and our student body - stand for ...

I respect Jesuit as one of Dallas' finest learning institutions. Jordan Spieth, in town for this week's Byron Nelson golf tournament, is just the latest example of what Jesuit is capable of producing. I coached youth soccer and basketball teams with several kids that went on to graduate from there. I'm still friends with many of the parents from the youth teams.

Proud Jesuit parents.

They acknowledge that Jesuit is willingly held to a higher standard, and that the actions of Burkhart and Parker Rice woefully fail to meet those standards and therefore do harm to the school's image. The incidents by no means suggest a habitual, unbreakable pattern of behavior by all Jesuit students. But nor should they be shrugged off as random, wholly disconnected coincidences.

A "mistake" is when you turn right instead of left and are five minutes late to your appointment. Burkhart's racist rant wasn't merely a mistake, something he inadvertently blurted out. It's not a trivial hiccup to be swept under the rug. It was a product of a bigoted belief system he had before he arrived at Jesuit, and will likely maintain now that he's left.

Best we can hope is that Burkhart learns a lesson from the incident. Maybe he will alter his actions, if not altogether transform his beliefs.

There is, alas, a glimmer of hope amidst the hate.

Rather than respond with crude, callous, childish and cowardly "anonymous" attacks, one Jesuit student took the time to respond via thoughtful email.

Charlie Burkhart is a great example of the opposite of what Jesuit students stand for: We are taught to care for our brothers, not to insult and push hate towards them. Charlie Burkhart had a negative reputation for incidents like this before he attended Jesuit. Jesuit's goal is not to instill hate in our hearts but to help us become open to growth, intellectually competent, physically fit, loving, religious, and committed to working for justice. Obviously not all students hold on to and care for what we are taught. I assure you that the hate in their hearts was not put there by Jesuit College Preparatory. I currently attend Jesuit College Preparatory School of Dallas. I am in the class of 2020. I am not one of Charlie Burkhart's friends nor have I ever had the idea of trying to be. He is a disgusting individual and I am glad he is gone. I am only sending this to stand up for my school and its beliefs.

Here's hoping that message echoes throughout Jesuit's halls, and finds its way into Burkhart's heart.

Last call indeed.

Stepdad. Divorce. Engagement. Marriage. Stints at the Dallas Observer and CBS radio and NBC TV paving the way to media consulting. Ghosts (maybe). Squirrels (definitely). Pool parties (uh-huh). Tyron Smith breaking the bar. Armen Williams mysteriously losing his ring in the back yard. Girls jumping off the roof - topless. 40th and (yikes) 50th birthdays. And, yep, a championship by the Mavs, a nauseating flirtation by the Rangers and nary of whiff by the Cowboys.
A lot has transpired since I moved into 2823 Roundrock in McKinney back in 2002. Other than the house I grew up in, I've lived here longer than any residence.
But alas, nothing lasts forever. Especially addresses.
So here Sybil and I go. Downsizing. Upgrading. You know the drill. You say you're never going to move and then - the commute gets longer and your patience gets shorter and the offers get bigger and ... Poof, just like that, we're dumping leisurely life in the 'burbs for shorter drives to longer nights down by the Dallas Arboretum.
I'll always have McKinney. But I no longer need the McKrap.
Bottom line: Estate Sale, courtesy of Attics to Basements. It begins - right now! - and runs through Saturday afternoon. Schedule: Thurs 10-4/ Fri 10-4/ Sat 10-2. (If you can't make it out but will be in the market for some sports memorabilia, an item or two that goes unsold will be donated to the Do It For Durrett and/or DFW Talk Of The Town charities.
Come help us bid a fond (and fruitful) farewell to a house saturated with 15 years of excessive hunting and gathering in the form of ...

SPORTS

Rookie of the Year - 1995

RADIO

Not Fake News

SYBIL

Gently pre-owned

VALUABLES

Some of these you'll have to fight me over

RIDICULOUSNESS

Before ... you know.

AND EVERYTHING BETWEEN

Garth. Michael. Toy. 52-17.

The Great Goodbye

(Not so) Gently pre-owned

He had/has my vote.

You'll have to outbid Ron Chapman.

Before ... you know.

Yes, it works.

2011 = Pins 'n tears.

Funnynotfunny?

After an entertaining, bizarre, and really bad night in Arlington, there's no way to sugarcoat it:
Umpire Gerry Davis needs a sense of humor. Because, yep, he's a major league asshole.
On a sweltering July night at Globe Life Park in which Yu Darvish might have thrown his final pitch as a Ranger, it was the arrogant umpire who decided to inject his pall-bearer gravity into a laugher of a game by ejecting future Hall-of-Famer Adrian Beltre for - I kid you not - standing to the left on the on-deck circle.
They say you can go to a baseball game and see something you've never seen. Man, are they right.
Last night I witnessed:
*A combined 32 runs
*Yu surrendering 10 runs in 3.2 innings, the 2nd-shortest outing of his career.
*3rd-string catcher Brett Nicholas mopping up on the mound in the 9th, and offering a 45mph slow-pitch softball.
*And Beltre, one of the game's greatest and goofiest players, getting tossed for daring to exhibit a moment of levity at his doorstep of history.
The score was 22-8 and it was approaching 11 p.m. on a Wednesday. The only reason there were a couple thousand of us fans left in the stands was Beltre. He already had 3 hits including a homer and a double off the wall, and was in his usual on-deck position preparing for what we all hoped would be career hit No. 2,997.
Enter Gerald Sidney Davis, aka Baseball Buzz Killington.
Earlier in the game my Dad and I had already taken note of Davis. He's been around forever. Crew chief since '99, umped 5 World Series and has the 2nd-longest tenure. He's obviously good at what he does. But he does it despite a surly, smug disposition that would make even our President cringe.
Davis was the 2nd Base Umpire and on a couple of relatively close plays - a sliding double and a double-play pivot - we were amused, no, make it annoyed, that he made no call. None. Not as much as a shrug in reaction to the plays. Pretty clear to us that the runner hustling for a double was safe, but there was a tag. And similarly routine that the double-play pivot was executed without hiccup for an out.

At least I had a good view of a bad outing.

But Davis' grandiose delusion caused him to deem neither play worthy of him even lifting a pinkie. He responded to each with ... nothing. He stared at the play and then walked away. The play, his warped ego reassured him, wasn't even close enough for him to stoop to making a hand gesture. "Even the peasants can figure that one out"? Guaranteed with a closer play - with perhaps the game on the line - Davis would get a running start and land the dismount with an exaggerated "Look at me!" out or safe call that would surely grip and enthrall the onlooking commoners.
My guess is that throughout the stadium little boys and girls with their caps and their gloves and their baseball obsessions watched both plays and were left not impressed by Davis' visible indifference, but rather confused enough to ask "Dad, was he safe or out?"
With nothing to justify him being a part of the proceedings, Davis decided to shove his sourness into the game in the bottom of the 8th. Beltre - as he has done for, oh, 20 years - was standing about 5 to the left of the on-deck circle. Out of nowhere - totally unprovoked - here comes the jerk of a judge.
Inexplicably, he yells at Beltre to move to the right and stand on top of the on-deck circle mat adorned with the Rangers' logo. With comic reactions as fast and slick as his Gold Glove, Beltre instead drug the mat to where he was standing.
To Davis, this was an unpardonable felony. He picked a fight, but when Beltre dared to "fight" back, he threw him out of the game. "Nobody disrespects me!" the giant ego in Davis' little brain was sure to be screaming. In Davis' scenario, Beltre should've moved, stood somewhere he was uncomfortable standing and saluted "Sir, yes sir!" in the process.
Because, you see, Davis would like us to believe he is baseball royalty. An advanced, decorated professor of the sport. His inner monologue has him being such an expert of the game that we should all bow at his feet while he wows us with his judgments.
But Davis is not a black-belt in baseball, merely a black eye on the sport.

One I won't soon forget. Thanks, Gerry.

How are we certain that his 8th-inning temper tantrum was merely a grand personal publicity stunt to get him some needed attention? Because last night - and every night - 1st and 3rd-base coaches stand as much as 20 feet outside their designated box. Because after Beltre's ejection, Mike Napoli's customized on-deck circle was on the grass even closer to home plate than Beltre's. And Jonathan Lucroy stood to the left of the plastic circle. To the left of it, yep, even more left than it was after Beltre's relocation.
From Davis? Not a peep.
It's clear he wasn't enforcing any rules, he was merely making himself feel important.
Never met Davis (nor do I ever want to), but my image is of him dining alone after a game. Sending back the soup because it's too soupy. Customizing his meal with 42 alterations. And then, you guessed it, leaving a $0 tip because such a mundane meal was beneath him.
Davis was likely very satisfied with himself last night. He had reminded Beltre - and everyone in the stands - who was the real boss. In his world, remember, we paid our money to watch him umpire just as much as paid to see players.
There will be a day - hopefully sooner than later - when baseball is flawlessly ruled by computers, GPS, laser technology and advanced gizmos equipped with no egos or agendas, and that mercifully will make umpires obsolete. Our kids' kids will laugh at the fact that we once upon a time relied on humans to judge our beloved outcomes.
And they'll be right, because last night there was nothing funny about Gerry Davis' devoid sense of humor.

After 30+ years in this weird, wonderful industry, I’ve pinpointed an undeniable, common thread running through every professional writer:

They all started out as amateur writers.

The other day I was doing some mundane grocery shopping when a 20-something recognized me. "Hey, how do I get started?"

Other than, "How in the heck do you land Sybil?!", it's the question I've been asked more than any other over my career. My answer, invariably, is simple:

Start writing.

You’ll likely need a couple breaks to become a professional writer – a friend of a friend already in the business or perhaps just being at the right place at the right time. But something you can’t short-cut is the act of writing. Again. Again. And some more again. If you don’t love it - and if you haven’t done a lot of it - you might as well attempt to open a Lemonade Stand without a single lemon.

Yes, the demonstrated ability to consistently observe, opine and write is your currency. It's your product. Your main asset.

So now that I’ve totally empowered you, go get ‘em! Good luck and never give up and … Oh, my story? Well, sure okay.

Allow me to, um, write it for you.

No way around it, I was born with the tools essential for writing – creativity, curiosity and a vivid imagination. Mom says I often stretch the truth yet I simply rebut that characterization, based on the fact that she herself has a vivid imagination. While my younger brother would merely dab some peanut butter between two slices and enjoy lunch, I’d get out a piece of paper and spin a yarn about how exactly it came to be that Mrs. Baird herself happened to deliver a loaf of bread to our house. I dunno, somehow it made my sandwich taste better.

Meanwhile, Dad led me into sports as soon as I could walk. I was always fascinated by big words, which facilitated a decent vocabulary and, voila, my foundation as a writer. So when did I begin?

When I was about 7 years old I’d go in the backyard with my baseball glove and a tennis ball (I initially used a real baseball, but one shattered window later I involuntarily downsized the danger). I’d throw that ball off the side of the house, off the roof, off the barbecue grill, off the neighbor’s latticework. All the while producing a running commentary in my head, as if watching real baseball players throwing, hitting and fielding.

After an hour or so I’d go inside and write the story of the “game” I’d just played.

Hello, amateur writer.

In high school I idolized Isiah Thomas and Bjorn Borg. But despite my finely-tuned vivid imagination, I eventually realized my 5-foot-8 frame wouldn’t be garnering me millions of dollars playing sports. So, I reasoned, why not get paid instead to go to games writing sports?

I grew up reading Blackie Sherrod in the Dallas Morning News, Skip Bayless in the Dallas Times Heraldand Rick Reilly and Gary Smith in Sports Illustrated. I was the editor of my high-school newspaper in Duncanville, majored in Journalism at UT-Arlington and, upon graduating in 1986, landed an entry-level job at the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. (My first assignment was to write a story about a sport I had barely heard of and never seen or attended - Dallas Sidekicks indoor soccer. Imagination, activate!) I’ve been writing – for newspapers, magazines, blogs, books and even radio and TV websites since.

And, yes, I’m the dork who will still – in lieu of buying a gift – simply write a poem or a story for a friend’s, or my wife’s birthday or special occasion. (Trust me fellas, that trick will come in handy.)

To me there’s nothing as rewarding as writing. The feeling after nailing a story is the equivalent of a runner’s high. The process of having a thought, processing and refining it in your brain and through your creative filters, bringing it to life through your fingertips, and then having a total stranger both read it and “get it”? Priceless.

It’s the reason I write.

So you’re willing to write. On your own time. With zero compensation, for now. But at some point you’ll want to advance your hobby into job, and hopefully a career. From my experience, here are a few things to consider:

Be Your Own Boss – If you’re resourceful and organized and motivated, you can make a decent living as a freelance writer. Get on the Internet and search job posts. “Writing Jobs” is a simple, solid search to begin with. Spend an entire day doing it. Maybe two. Make a list of contacts. You’ll be pleasantly surprised at how many websites, blogs, magazines, etc. have a need for unique, original content. No matter fast and far our communication advances, content remains king. Every platform - whether it be cute 140-character takes to long-form 14,000-word exposes - needs fuel to run its engine. And that fuel is content, written by - tuh-dah! - writers.

You can write about sports, food, electronics, concerts, the likelihood of a major earthquake taking down Dallas. Anything. And you should write about them all, as long as you don’t compromise your quality with too much quantity. Individually, each gig won’t make you rich. But cumulatively, you’ll be able to keep the lights on. The great thing about freelancing is that you’ll also be honing your skills, building your portfolio and making invaluable contacts in the literary world.

Don’t Hire An Agent – Unless you are an accomplished writer looking to move to a new city (like say, ahem, Hollywood), my experience is that it’s not worth it. Nobody knows you better than you. And nobody will fight harder for you, than you.

Pay Your Dues – If you’d rather wedge your foot into the door of a newspaper than try to go it alone, it’s doable as well. Most publications accept interns and there are certainly entry-level, fresh-outta-college jobs. Just be prepared to get coffee in the morning and to cover wacky, irrelevant assignments at night. At the Star-Telegram my rookie year included writing stories about a darts tournament, a high-school power-lifting meet and even a tractor pull. But within three years I was at Texas Stadium covering Cowboys games. Was it worth it? You know that answer. When initially commencing your career, nothing is more valuable than sweat equity.

Degrees of Experience – I loved my college years and I wouldn’t trade my UTA education. Obviously I’d recommend working at your college newspaper and earning a degree in Journalism. A degree will open a lot of doors. But, honestly, you can trump that piece of paper with a quality portfolio of your writing. Most of my editors have cherished experience over education.

Pad Your Portfolio – Blogs, websites, magazines, etc. are looking for versatility. You'll open more eyes - and doors - if you can write both copy (scripts, ads, marketing brochures, etc.) and content (blogs, stories, features, etc.). The more topics you can write about, the better your chance of landing a gig. So fill your portfolio with variety: Long-form stories. Short featurettes. Opinion pieces. Poems. Maybe even your favorite Tweet.

Popularity Contest – If you’re a freelancer, it can be difficult to achieve a very important goal en route to becoming a successful writer: Building an audience. These days you can do this via Facebook with some intriguing posts and corresponding “Likes.” But I recommend starting your own blog. I know, but hear me out. It’s cheaper – and easier – than you think. It looks great on a resume. And it’s a way to earn a following of fans that dig what you’re delivering. Don’t go into with grandiose, irrational visions. Just write what you’re passionate about, shove it out via your social media and watch the saplings sprout into Redwoods. Yep, that’s how it starts. Who knows, maybe that blog – at first just a vehicle to tote your writing – will develop and mature into the career you were searching for in the first place.

Dream Of Success, Prepare For Rejection – One of the most important arrows in your quiver is a thick skin. You will get rejected. You will write horrible stories. You will make embarrassing typos. Writing isn’t for the faint of heart or fragile of ego. Learn from your mistakes. Experiment with your style. Stay true to your passion.

Because, after all, the best part about amateur writers?

They grow up to be professional writers.

Whether you're at the end of your coffee, your day, your week or even your rope, welcome to Whitt's end:

*From the Dept. of Too-Little-Too-Late, the Cowboys last night were ... lucky to be playing the hapless Redskins. Washington committed four turnovers, Dez Bryant crawled out of his grave and even a flimsy rookie draft class looked like Pro Bowl players in a 38-14 victory. Ryan Switzer, Taco Charlton and Chidobe Awuzie all produced positive plays. One win won't turn around a season, but it will temporarily warp expectations. With the awful Giants and reeling Raiders next on the schedule and then Zeke Elliott comes back and if they can only ... Stop it. No. Even 10-6 doesn't guarantee a Wild Card berth in this year's NFC, but it is a guarantee that the Cowboys won't win out.

*Dez may have lost a step in speed, but his leaping touchdown catch proved he hasn't lost an inch on his vertical.

*It was only 10 months ago that national NBA pundits were applauding the Mavs for "stealing" center Nerlens Noel from the Sixers in a trade for Justin Anderson, Andrew Bogut and a first-round pick. Noel, the 6th overall pick in '13, is young and wiry and athletic. He was acquired to both protect the rim defensively and attack it on offense, giving Dallas an aggressive alley-oop option it hasn't had since forever. Noel produced 16 points and 11 rebounds in the season opener. Now? Buried deep in Rick Carlisle's doghouse. Noel, who turned down a $70 million contract offer in the offseason, didn't play in Wednesday's loss to the Nets. That's right, the Mavs' center of the future is now behind Maximilian Kleber, Salah Mejri and Jeff Withey in the rotation. This season is officially all about saying goodbye to Dirk Nowitzki, hello to Dennis Smith Jr., and somehow salvaging Noel.

*The Mavericks will make the postseason in 2018. My Mavericks, that is. UTA has two legit stars in Erick Neal and Kevin Hervey and will punch its own ticket March Madness.

*These days I'm semi-retired and - I'll admit - getting real bored, real quick. I mean, I can only play so much golf and tennis. I'm ghostwriting a book. I'm a Senior Consultant at On-Air Media, helping companies launch podcasts with our old radio friend Jagger. But if you have something sorta interesting, then sorta let me know.

*After a horrible three games and an ugly first quarter, No. 4 suddenly found his Dakuracy.

*Why Whitt's End now? I dunno (see above?). Maybe it's only because Mike Fisher drew me a fancy logo. Is it back for good, on a regular basis? Probably not. Have I missed writing it? Um, ask me again after about 20 bullet points.

*If you're wondering about Wally Lynn and missed my update, it's right here. Be warned, though, it may not be the Christmas-spirit pick-me-up you're looking for.

*Hang in there DFW sports fans, this nightmare year only has one month left. What did the StarsRangersMavsCowboys bring us in 2017? How about a combined record of 151-177 and one - count 'em, 1 - playoff game. And, boy, was it a doozy. On January 15th the Cowboys fell behind 21-3 to the Packers, rallied, but eventually lost 34-31 when Green Bay nailed field goals of 56 and 51 yards in the final 1:33. Otherwise ... hurry 2018.

*Some days you're on top of the world. Some days you can't open your car door without a bloody incident.

*To get an idea of where America is and where it's headed, watch the movie Idiocracy. I know, it's horrible. But also telling. We've forgotten how to reason, while perfecting the art of reaction. Rational decisions have replaced by blind tribal loyalty. And where does the decline start? Lack of reading. With Twitter and Facebook and audio books and Netflix and satellite radio and ... everything, our society has simply run out of time to have time. Our attention spans have shrunk as our options have expanded. The 24-hour news cycle has deteriorated into 24 seconds. Where once writers had a couple paragraphs to hook readers, now they have a couple of characters. I still love long-form, in-depth writing. But I also realize that literary foreplay is about as trendy as head lice. Reading is learning. And learning helps us reason, not merely react. Do it. For the good of our future. Otherwise, we'll someday elect a President that doesn't know the nuance between your and you're. Wait ... oops.

*Hot.

*Not.

*It is Dec. 1. The Cowboys+Mavs have 11 wins. The Eagles+Sixers have 22.

*I'm all for equality for females and it's justice that all these women are now coming forward with their tales of being sexually harassed. I hope it is indeed a tipping point, and that the women with momentum help the men in charge to re-draw the lines of acceptable, civil behavior. The bottom line will be less unwanted touching and decreased penis flashes. But - you knew that was coming didn't you? - I fear the reverse chill. The unintended consequence. The sex drives in male CEOs, politicians, Hollywood stars and lower-level employers will not decrease, but their releases will be re-directed. Don't get me wrong. It's a good thing. A great thing. But somewhere soon, if it hasn't already happened, an attractive female will be denied a promotion - or perhaps even an internship - because of her looks. Because of what will be perceived as her danger factor. Attractive females are now Kryptonite to lazy men still in power. To the men, it'll be easier to remove the temptation rather than refuse it. In other words, buy stock in companies that provide escort services. Business will soon be booming.

*I like blondes. And curves. And fish. And calendars. But I do not want this for Christmas. Because it's weird AF.

*My better half (Sybil Summers) is twice as good-looking as me and way more than half the writer I am. Add it all up and I win. By losing.

*Tiger Woods shot a 3-under round. Roger Federer won two Grand Slam tournaments and is No. 2 in the world. Gregg Popovich and Tom Brady are at the top of their professions. 2017 sure looks a lot like 2007.

*Feel like these days there's more traffic on the roads and less room for your elbows? Here's why: Every day on this planet there are 360,000 births ... and only 151,000 deaths. Every. Single. Day. Scooch a bit, will ya?

*I babbled earlier about our shrinking free time, but is it just an excuse? If you have a typical 9-5 job you work 40 hours a week, or 2,080 hours a year. Add an hour commute and your "work" load increases to 2,340 hours annually. Sleep eight hours a night? You're up to 5,260 of committed time. Bewildering, right? But, there are 8,760 hours in a year. That leaves you 3,500 hours of totally free time per year. Sooo get to gettin'. By the way, you've wasted about six minutes reading down this far.

*LaVar Ball deserves Donald Trump. And vice-versa. Watching them Twittfight is like watching the Eagles play the Redskins. You hope it ends in a scoreless tie with numerous injuries.

*In six years since leaving the Big 12, Texas A&M is 25-23 in the SEC. It has had only one season with a winning conference record and has yet to play in a SEC title game, much less win a conference championship. My question is, therefore, where are all the riled-up Aggies that promised I'd eat crow for writing this?

*We have a pussy grabber in the White House and we'll soon having a crotch grabber winning the Heisman Trophy. 2017 can't get outta here fast enough.

*One of the paintings below cost $200 at Pier One. One was done by Sybil and hangs in our dining room. One recently sold for $46 million. Quick, tell me which is which. In a related story, we all chose the wrong profession.

*You can have one wreck and not be a bad driver. You can be momentarily reprehensible with a woman without being a predator. And you can blurt out a flippant racial comment without being a racist. It's habits and patterns, people. Not one-offs. America has totally lost the art of "context."

*As I mentioned earlier, On-Air Media is our new media production company. Over by Love Field. 3 studios, complete with 4k cameras, state-of-the-art audio, green-screen backgrounds and A-to-Z podcasting/webcasting. If you or your company wants some attention, hit me up.

*Recently moved from McKinney to the White Rock Lake area of Dallas. Best thing about it: Lack of traffic. You get accustomed - see: numb - to stop-and-go commutes. But once your 49-minute drive turns into a 9-minute drive, you realize how bad it sucked.

*If the Tryptophan in your Thanksgiving turkey makes you sleepy, why don't we use turkey pills as sleeping aides? It's as though turkey is a healthy choice for a vibrant lifestyle ... every day of the year except for the third Thursday in November.

*Similarly to how I feel about Jeff Heath and the Cowboys, I just don't think the Mavs will ever be a legit contender while giving quality playing time to Yogi Ferrell. Both are great guys and try-hard players, but ... no. Just no.

*I'll never understand ~~our~~ your fascination with British royalty, in particular royal weddings. I think it's the female fantasy of An Officer and a Gentleman, on Molly.

*Re: Artwork, Sybil's gem is on the left and the middle mishmash - "Ketchup on Canvas" - sold for almost $50 million.Without knowing the value, I wouldn't trade. You?

*This weekend? Maybe a bike ride around the lake. Maybe put up a Christmas tree. ~~Maybe I'll~~ No way I'm going to pen another Whitt's End. Don't be a stranger.

Three opponents' touchdowns nullified by penalty or replay.

A missed 39-yard field goal.

A game-losing touchdown transformed into a game-winning touchback via the opposing quarterback's fumble inches from the goal line.

And, of course, the NFL's first ever 1st-'n-10 decided by a 3x5.

You can root for a sports team an entire season - a decade? even a lifetime? - and never benefit from all of the above. But on an unprecedented, unforgettable night Oakland, the Cowboys were gift-wrapped all of them in one of the wildest wins in franchise history.

10. Cowboys 34, at Rams 31 (9.18.14) - You know you've had a frenetic ride when the largest comeback in franchise history barely makes the list. Dallas trails in St. Louis, 21-0, before Bruce Carter's interception return for a touchdown with 5:58 remaining seals the deal.

9. Cowboys 31, at Redskins 30 (9.15.83) - Trailing 23-3 at halftime, Danny White rallies Dallas to an electrifying season-opening win at old RFK Stadium behind three second-half touchdown passes, two to Tony Hill and the game-winner to Doug Cosbie with 1:49 remaining.

8. at Cowboys 35, Redskins 34 (12.17.79) - Down 17-0 early and 34-21 late, the Cowboys and Roger Staubach stage a rally that gives them the NFC East title and knocks their bitter rivals out of the playoffs. Ignited by a critical third-down tackle of John Riggins by Larry Cole, Staubach throws two touchdowns in the final 2:20 and completes the comeback with a score to Hill with :39 remaining.

7. at Cowboys 24, Redskins 23 (11.29.74) - All but eliminated from the playoffs, the Cowboys trail 16-3 and are suddenly without an injured Staubach on a bleak Thanksgiving at Texas Stadium. Enter Abilene Christian rookie Clint Longley, making his first regular-season appearance in an NFL game. Down six points with :28 remaining, he finds an inexplicably wide-open Drew Pearson for a 50-yard touchdown that literally nobody saw coming.

6. at Cowboys 27, Giants 26 (9.13.15) - Can't get much more desperate than trailing by three, out of timeouts and your opponent at your 1-yard line with 1:43 remaining. The Giants deliver a huge assist by stopping the clock with a third-down pass, and settling for a field goal and a 26-20 lead. But the Cowboys - without a timeout or spike or injured Dez Bryant - drive 72 yards in six plays and win when Tony Romo (after corralling a bad, bouncing shotgun snap) finds Jason Witten at the goal line with :07. It's the latest game-winning touchdown pass in franchise history.

5. Cowboys 30, at 49ers 28 (12.23.72) - This playoff game at Candlestick Park is the unveiling of Captain America. The Cowboys trail 28-13 after three quarters (it could be worse had San Francisco not missed two field goals inside of 40 yards), prompting head coach Tom Landry to replace veteran quarterback Craig Morton with Staubach. He responds with two late touchdown passes in a span of :43, sandwiched around an onside-kick recovered by Mel Renfro. Staubach sets up the final score with a 21-yard scramble and hits Ron Sellers with a 10-yard post pass for the unlikely game winner.

4. Cowboys 25, at Bills 24 (10.8.07) - The first MNF game in Buffalo in 13 years is impossibly unscripted. The Cowboys trail 24-13 entering the 4th quarter because of six Romo turnovers (1 fumble and 5 interceptions, 2 returned for touchdowns). Romo hits Patrick Crayton for a short touchdown, but Terrell Owens is stripped of a 2-point conversion pass to leave Dallas trailing 24-22 with :20 remaining. After a carom off of Sam Hurd, Cowboys’ tight end Tony Curtis then recovers the onside kick. Rookie Nick Folk boots a 53-yard field goal at the gun for a dramatic win, only to have Buffalo call the last-millisecond timeout. But on the second attempt, Folk is good again. Nine points in :20 will get any heartbeat racing.

3. at Cowboys 21, Eagles 20 (9.15.97) - Inarguably the luckiest win in team history, Dallas survives when Philadelphia holder Tom Hutton bobbles the snap and aborts what would have been Chris Boniol's chip-shot, game-winning field from the 12-yard line with :04 remaining.

2. Cowboys 20, at Raiders 17 (12.17.17) - It isn't just the three Raiders' negated touchdowns and the fake punt and the dropped interception by Anthony Brown and the 55-yard interference penalty and the dramatic, folded-card first down. The thing that makes Sunday night so dazzling is that even after all those wacky plays the Cowboys need Derek Carr to fumble into - and out of - the end zone to survive.

1. Cowboys 17, at Vikings 14 (12.28.75) - Staubach's "Hail Mary" 50-yard touchdown pass to Pearson with :24 remaining won the game, but it was only possible after an improbable series of events in the epic playoff game. Leading, 14-10, with 2:00 remaining the Vikings seemed destined to run out the clock at midfield but instead attempt a pass on 3rd-and-2 and fail when Charlie Waters sacks Fran Tarkenton. The ensuing punt leaves Dallas at its 15 with 1:51 remaining. At that point, Pearson had not caught a pass in the game. On a 4th-and-16, Pearson leaps and catches Staubach's 25-yard pass on the sideline, his feet clearly landing out of bounds. However, in 1975 there is a "force out" rule in play, which gives an automatic reception to any receiver who is shoved out of bounds while his feet are in the air. In today's NFL, the Hail Mary would have never even had a chance to be thrown. Two plays later Pearson catches history. He punctuates the touchdown by throwing the ball over the scoreboard, out of the stadium and into the parking lot. The ball - one of the most iconic plays in NFL history - has never been accounted for.

Last time Walso was seen: McKinney motel room Aug. 28, 2017

I've been attempting to help my long-time friend Wally Lynn for the past decade, and chronicling those mostly failed efforts for the last three years.
The latest, comprehensive chapter in his sad saga appears on the cover in this week's Dallas Observer.
As an addendum, I'm offering tidbits, anecdotes and quotes that hit the DO cutting-room floor, but are important in piecing together the puzzle of how talented he really was, and how terrible it really is:

*After graduating from Lake Highlands High School in 1979 Lynn goes with best friend Jeff Coats to Southwest Texas State in San Marcos. There, fueled by a love of girls and partying but a rabid disgust for rules and formality, they spearhead an infamous anti-social social club: “Spivs”. Light-hearted and self-deprecating, the group revels in cutting corners and bending rules. The Spivs win a campus chili cook-off, only to be disqualified when organizers discover they sneaked into the competition to avoid filing proper paperwork and paying registration fees.

“We studied hard and did our work, but when it came to fun we weren’t above being a little bit mischievous, a little shady,” Coats recalls, “Before you know it we grew into this fraternity of 40 guys who all had in common a hatred of fraternities. Wally was a driving force of that. When he put his mind to something, it got done.”

*Lynn’s creativity is never more on display than one summer night in 1999 at Dallas Cowboys’ training camp in Wichita Falls. On the way to the local honkytonk, he wears mismatched shoes – one boot and one sneaker.

“I don’t know,” Lynn shrugs when a friend quizzes him. “Might be fun to see if people notice, and then see where my story goes from there.”

In the span of an hour he spins yarns about being “chemically imbalanced”, “fatally forgetful”, a “shoe sales intern”, the “Cowboys’ tryout kicker” and an “alien”. After being met at the club with a combination of skepticism, flirtation and laughs, he then transforms his late-night meal into a one-man comedy. At Whataburger, Lynn pulls from his jeans pockets two miniature Cowboys bobbleheads – because of course he does – and helps himself behind the counter. Ducking down to leave only the toys visible, for the next 20 minutes over the restaurant’s speakers he holds a running dialogue between Irvin and Cowboys’ safety Bill Bates. The two trade barbs, compare condiments, greet guests and abruptly and hilariously become annoyed when forced to pause their sparring to announce, “Customer No. 27, stop interrupting our show and come get your damn burger before we spit in it!”

By the time he leaves, Lynn prompts a round of applause, $8.50 in tips and an invitation from the manager to perform any time in exchange for a free meal.

During the drive to his Midwestern State University media dorm, Lynn exclaims, “It’s great to be a dork!”

*Youngest son, Mitchell: “He was so charismatic. He would walk into a room full of strangers and instantly put everyone at ease and make them laugh. To this day I have an appreciation of people and relationships because of him."

*In February 2000 Lynn and three close friends – including Dallas millionaire entrepreneur John Eckerd – charter a private jet to the Daytona 500. At their rented mansion, they brazenly toast their lofty status. The quartet tears a $100 bill into four pieces and proceeds to wash it down with four difficult, definitive gulps of champagne.

The toast: “Here’s to never needing this $100!”

*Mike Fisher, long-time Lynn friend and radio co-host for 18 months on KLIF 570 AM: “Anyone could listen to Wally for five minutes and realize he was uniquely talented; funny man, anchorman, impersonator, smart. But even though he was on the radio, you also knew that like lots of us in this business, there is an ego – in Wally's case, one that made it seem like every day he was starring in his own personal TV show.”

*Elementary-school friend Anecia Drake: "We visited at his mom’s memorial and it was again like we were peas and carrots. But something was a little off. For one, it’s the first time he smelled like alcohol.”

*Now all but isolated from friends and family, Lynn continues to deteriorate. During brief interactions he declines job leads, claiming he has money “stashed away” and a job at Google.

“At one point he said he had a job at a radio station in Tyler and was going to move in with dad in Athens,” says Ben. “No one in the family believed it. We just wondered what he was doing for money.”

*Coats: "Kim kept the steady job, kept the books. Wally was the creative spirit always swinging for the fences.”

*Throughout the next couple of years, Coats regularly checks on his friend. He can, after all, see Lynn’s apartment across the Cul-de-sac from his Plano back porch.

“I mean, he was okay. Surviving,” says Coats. “He had no motivation. No get-up-and-go. I’d see him shuffling slowly to the Tom Thumb across the street. He was like a zombie.”

Says Mitchell, who visits the apartment during stints home from college, “It was just dark and sad. I’d drag him out to a movie or to get crawfish and he’d just beg to leave as soon as we got there.”

*Flabbergasted, those around him have a better chance of explaining Net Neutrality to a gnat than of understanding Lynn’s morose mindset.

*He became a human needle in a homeless haystack.

Tips lead to the Union Gospel Mission, the Dallas Public Library, an encampment under I-30, random convenience stores and an abandoned building on Cadiz Street. It is gut-wrenching, fruitless stuff, providing no signs of Lynn but instead a pathetic peek into an uncivilization of blank stares, methodical meandering, babbling about nothing to no one and the ambiance of suicide so thick it feels like hot air breathing on the back of your neck. His brother Ben, Coats and a handful of friends find depression and despair, but no Lynn.

*Lynn refuses to talk about the details about his homelessness or the incidents that led him there. Asked by a friend if he had a nickname on the street, he rolls his eyes.

“No, that’s stupid,” he says without a hint of subtlety, changing the subject. “Can you believe the Rangers blew another one?”

During a pause in the conversation, Lynn offers, “I’ll talk about it all someday. I just need some time.”

*As giddy as it was at the relocation of Lynn and his signs of sober life, the family exudes mixed responses about his time in jail and the corresponding revelations of stealing trust-fund money.

“I never in a million years thought that man could sink that low,” says his wife, Kim.

Counters Mitchell, “I wasn’t shocked at all. After he lied to me about what was in his cup, it was clear he was just a stranger in survival mode.”

*Upon his release from jail, an upbeat Lynn is asked whether he’d rather spend a night in the gutter or a night in the slammer.

“Thanks for the appealing choices,” he jokes. “Give me the gutter any time.”

*His post-jail residence is equipped with a pool, hot tub, game room and only two other roommates to share the five-bedroom, six-bathroom, 7,900-square feet of ostentatious space. For $0 rent, Lynn has the run of the house and the luxury of an upstairs bedroom, complete with big-screen TV and private bath.

*Upon hearing that Lynn is about to wear out his lavish welcome, Drake attempts to re-boot his focus via a June road trip. She drives him to Athens to see his father, making a detour at the Jacksonville Tomato Festival. Though the two semi-sync through light laughter and shallow small-talk, Drake spots troubling signs. Lynn draws a blank about their long, shared, passionate disdain for cheesy songs such as “Billy, Don’t Be A Hero.” During a pit stop at a roadside restaurant, he veers from his stated trip to the restroom ... straight to the bar.

“I caught him just staring at the rows of alcohol, like he was salivating,” Drake says. “When he finally came back to the table I asked him what he was doing at the bar. He said he was getting some napkins. But that didn’t make sense. We had napkins at our table. Plus, he was just in the bathroom. Something just wasn’t right with him. Not the same old Wally.”

Drake informs Lynn’s sister about his erratic demeanor and behavior. The two reasons that his previous drinking episodes have prompted a neurological disorder that impedes his ability to perform even the most basic of tasks. And to accept consequences for his actions.

“He’s like a 14-year-old,” says Drake. “He can’t – or won’t – multitask. Simple things like unloading the car was a major ordeal because he had to carry one item at a time.”

Drake and Lynn's sister briefly consider an attempt to have the State of Texas declare him mentally incompetent in order to get him a guardian to help manage his affairs. It’s an expensive, complex and heart-breaking process. One especially daunting when Drake isn’t fully convinced Lynn’s aptitude is being mitigated by his attitude.

*As Ben, and a group of Lynn’s friends prepare one last crutch in the form of housing, money and a plan, they take inventory. Lynn never responded to the invitations from Ralph Strangis, J.D. Ryan or Kevin McCarthy. They surmise he never read the 300 pages of supportive missives. He blew his golden gig with Eckerd. And as he’s chauffeured around McKinney to look for his next address, he recoils at the sight of unsavory, low-income options.

“I think he’s beyond help,” says Ben. “He won’t lower himself to his reality. Despite all he’s been through and all he’s wasted, he still has this attitude about him.”

It’s a stiff upper lip, now adopted by many of Lynn’s injured inner circle.

“I’m pleasantly surprised that he’s still alive, because to me he’s just taking the long road to suicide,” says Leslie. “I hope they find him. He should pay what he can to make it right with our family. That said, it’s not like I’m going looking for him.”

Says Mitchell, “Even if he found a way to stay sober the rest of his life, he won’t be a part of my life whatsoever. The severe damage he’s done to himself physically and psychologically is irreversible.”

*Ben continues his successful insurance company. Same with Coats and his real estate business. Leslie works as a CPA in Dallas. Kim moved to Alabama to live with her mom and stepfather. Jake is in restaurant management in Austin. Mitchell lives in Houston, and is deciding between law school at Columbia, Northwestern and NYU. Griff just turned 20. Mae Grace is 17.

*As for Wally, he's recently called Coats and other college friends asking for money. Texts a friend that he is “Alive. Not in jail yet.” Makes a lunch date with Ben, only to no-show. Randomly sends private messages via Facebook, where his profile features a black header and a youth baseball photo of Mitchell. As we speak, he is - somewhere - simultaneously avoiding his in-laws and running from the law.

In case you wanna read my last two cover stories for your free, friendly Dallas Observer, I'll make it easy:

*The sad saga of former DFW media star Wally Lynn.

*Why is the NFL is scared of this quirky Dallas entrepreneur?

Erosion commenced at exactly 11:57 a.m. on Jan. 21, 2017.

On his first official day on the job, Donald Trump simultaneously tweeted his arrival in The White House and signaled his attack on the English language:

I am honered to serve you, the great American People, as your 45^thPresident of the United States!

After 2+ years of being insulted by his fundamental misspellings, grammatical gaffes and unfathomable voids of common sense, I have come to this undeniable conclusion:

Donald J. Trump couldn’t pass the SAT.

On the Scholastic Assessment Test there are 96 questions pertaining to writing, language and reading comprehension, punctuated by a written essay. From what we’ve been subjected to, there is zero evidence to suggest the President has anything firmer than a 5^th-grade grasp of his country’s prominent communication system.

After being mocked for his salutatory tweet, he attempted to correct honored … but instead compounded the problem and exposed his intellectual impotence by editing into honoured. Since that episode, the bar has been steadily, sadly lowered toward the movie, Idiocracy. Today, 58 million people rely on Trump’s Twitter feed for the leader of the free world’s thoughts, feelings and actions.

Frightening because, politics and policies aside, he is unfit to represent the smartest country on Earth. Left may be right and right might be wrong, but correct is bipartisan.

Trump is Trumb.

He doesn’t know “there” from “their”, “to” from “too”, “weather” from “whether” or even how to spell his biggest nemesis: collussion. Call me a Grammar Nazi, please. It’s a compliment. I’ve always been amused at how being accused of inflexibility toward proper spelling is intended to come off as genuine criticism. Do those same folks attempt to camouflage their own inadequacies by mocking people with perfect credit, unblemished criminal histories and undefeated records?

We all make mistakes. I’ve had my share. Usually typos made in haste, rather than blunders fueled by a lack of intelligence. Sloppy and stupid may be related, but they are not identical twins.

Sloppy: Friend shows up 30 minutes late to Cowboys game.

Stupid: Friend shows up 30 minutes late to Cowboys game, wearing a Rangers cap and baseball glove.

I won’t hire a company that has “Your No. 1 With Us!” painted on its van, or eat at a restaurant whose menu boasts “locally sorced ingredients”. Likewise, I’ve declined writing jobs from companies that tried to recruit me in an email that misspelled my name as “Ritchie.”

If you don’t have enough integrity to get the small stuff right, how am I to trust you with the big stuff?

Granted, grammar isn’t the top priority for a President. But in screwing it up, Trumb has diluted and dumbed-down his message. His reign of error is a reflection of core values. America’s tone comes from the top. Is it too much to ask that the most powerful man in the world is at least as smart as I am?

Wrote the influential poet Ralph Waldo Emerson, “The institution of the office is lengthened by the shadow of one man.”

Yikes.

Trump’s legacy – and America’s persona – is trending toward a regression to cavemen inarticulately grunting at each other. While his 35-percent(ish) base of supporters revel in Trump being unbothered by “elitist” priorities such as spelling, the most listened to man in the world is – via an unvarnished blend of insanity and stupidity – putting the art of eloquent communication in a sleeper hold.

Said Trump on the campaign trail, “I love the poorly educated!”

(Insert light bulb emoji.)

Again, we can excuse infrequent sloppiness. But we can’t stomach ingrained stupidity, especially when it’s adorned with arrogance. Our current toxic combo: One of the dumbest people in a position of power constantly boasts about being one of the smartest people on the planet.

Among Trumb’s not-so-humble brags:

I qualify as not smart, but genius … and a very stable genius at that!

Sorry losers and haters, but my I.Q. is one of the highest!

I’m very highly educated. I know words. I know the best words.

We all have friends and/or family like this. In small doses, their combination of folly, hubris and hyperbole might be entertaining, even endearing. But you wouldn’t put them in charge of a running a Lemonade stand, much less America.

Forget obstruction and collusion, the President is guilty of heinous crimes against grammar, literacy and common sense. Ironically, today Trumb tweeted at the U.S. intel chiefs that diametrically disagree with his warped world view:

Perhaps Intelligence should go back to school!

Gold help us. Because Trump’s “school” produced this …

*Referring to Robert Mueller’s Special Counsel as “council”, “councel” and “counsle”.

*Respecting the “Marine Core”.

*Criticizing a foe for being “shadey”.

*In touting his “ability to write”, chastising the media for liking to “pour over my tweets”.

*Tweeting his visit to “Oxen” Hill. Oxon Hill is, of course, the home of the National Spelling Bee.

*Promising to “promote the possibility of lasting peach”.

*Claiming he invented the phrase “prime the pump”, which has been around since 1933.

*Tweeting that an opponent got off “Scott Free”.

*Butchering hereby into “hear by”, “herebye” and “hearby”.

*Claiming a certain decision played no “roll” in the outcome.

*Tweeting that Barack Obama had the audacity to “tapp” his phones.

*Confusing “weather” and “whether”.

*Confusing “their” and “there”.

*Same with “too” and “to”.

*And again with “loose” and “lose”.

*Tweeting that a first-time occurrence was “unpresidented”.

*Claiming that a wall would solve America’s “Boarder” security.

*Inaccurately calling British Prime Minister Theresa May “Teresa”, who is actually a porn actress.

*Promising – twice in the same tweet – that our great nation will “heel”.

*Boasting – twice in the same sentence – that there is no “smocking” gun.

*Bragging that he fed the Clemson football team by paying for “1000 hamberders”.

*Stating that a “hurricane is coming … a big, wet hurricane”.

*Depicting Puerto Rico as “an island, surrounded by water … big water … ocean water”.

*“covfefe”.

*Claiming “If you buy a box of cereal at the grocery store, you have a voter ID”.

*Misinterpreting “Climate Change” as today’s temperature rather than decades of increased averages. Tweeting it as “Global Waming”.

*Fumbling, before giving up, on how to operate an umbrella.

*Walking up the steps to Air Force One with toilet paper stuck to his shoe.

*Signing his name wholly ineligibly, like a Richter scale having a seizure.

*Looking directly at a solar eclipse.

*Keeping the ends of his abnormally long ties together with Scotch tape.

*Believing that America’s F-35 “Stealth” fighter jet is literally invisible, saying “It wins every time because the enemy cannot see it. Even if it’s right next to it, it can’t see it.”

*Continually referring to an investigation that has produced the arrests of six close associates as a “Witch Hunt”.

*Claiming he is a devout “Christian” that has never felt the need to ask God for forgiveness. “I think if I do something wrong, I think, I just try and make it right. I don’t bring God into that picture. I don’t.”

*Expecting us to believe he is “6-foot-3 and 239 pounds”. Or, exactly the same size as Cowboys’ running back Rod Smith.

*Saying he needs “an anti-Viagra … I’m not bragging. I’m just lucky.”

*Disliking pets in general, and dogs in specific.

*Stating that baldness is a weakness, shaking hands is dangerous, “email is for wimps” and “environmentally friendly light bulbs cause cancer”.

*Estimating that the cost of health insurance for a 21-year-old to be “12 dollars a year”.

*Tweeting “wind turbines are killing millions of birds”.

*Long ago stopping any exercise out of a belief that the human body is born – like a battery – with a finite amount of energy.

Presented anonymously, I would judge those bullet-point traits to belong to a middle-schooler, a pathological liar or a mythical villain soon to be portrayed in a movie. Someone, for certain, that I wouldn't want to spend any amount of time listening to or hanging around.

But a President? Our current President?! Get outta here!!!

Evidenced by his random capitalization, idiocy with idioms and irrational, illogical beliefs, Trumb needs help. I am hereby volunteering to be his editor.

First lesson: No hyphen. One word.

Resign.

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