Figure Skaters, Tony Danza and Other ‘Normal’ Things

There is good news, too. You just have to look extra hard.

In the sports section, they report that women’s wrestling has been added to the Olympic games. My hope is that many of the figure skaters will participate, but the story doesn’t go into that much detail.

“In addition, the [Olympic] board told boxing to cut one of its weight divisions,” the story says, adding another small dose of good news.

Here’s more good news. Because a week of games was canceled, baseball’s World Series may carry over into November, and the Super Bowl may be played in May, though that’s still under negotiation. We all know sports seasons don’t last long enough. So this is, indeed, good news.

In addition, they’re discussing holding the Super Bowl in L.A., which seems so unfathomable that it’s almost funny. (Doesn’t anybody remember “Black Sunday”?)

In related good news, a letter writer to the sports section bemoans the recent whining of pro athletes after the terrorist attacks.

“Please, spare us the stories about how tough it is to play your games when you are not 100% mentally,” writes Ken Krug. “Get a real job ... then you’ll have it tough.”

Good point. I know for a fact that, troubled as they were, my friends were able to go back to work. Doug to his auto shop. Hank to the school district. Bruce to his Glendale dental office.

Sometimes, you think you’re the only person who feels a certain way, then you read something like that in a newspaper that gives you hope, that makes you say, “Yes, there are two of us!”

OK, that’s it for the good news. Let’s turn to the mediocre news, the normal stuff. Everyone’s talking about a return to “normalcy,” which like Democracy itself, can be a very hard concept to nail down.

Frankly, I don’t think there’s such a thing as “normalcy,” just a bunch of weird stuff that happens so repeatedly that we think of it as normal.

“On Saturday, I’m sleeping in, having beer for lunch and then going to my kid’s ballgame,” my buddy Mike says.

See? Normalcy.

In the morning, I sleep late, too, then take the dog for a long walk, looking for normalcy, elusive as it is in our little town. Last week, there were two more divorces. And 300 kids escaped to college.

“Come on,” I tell the dog, and slap a leash around my best buddy’s neck.

We stroll down the boulevard, the dog and I, past the dusty cars and all the flags on every light post.

As we walk, I’m thinking how amazing it is that I can still spot a pretty face through the windshield of an oncoming car from a quarter-mile away.

“You see that black lab?” I ask the dog as an SUV zooms past. “She was hot.”

Which gets me to wondering: Could the Army’s fine Delta Force use a 44-year-old guy with eyes like a hawk, who walks like Tim Conway and prefers deli sandwiches with three kinds of meat. Fights like Stallone. Types 30 words a minute.

Don’t you suppose the Delta Force needs commandos with a variety of talents?

And I don’t care if you’re a guy of 24 or 74, if in the last two weeks you haven’t wanted five minutes alone in a room with one of these Al Qaeda creeps, raise your right hand.

Thanks. Just what I thought.

“Autumn’s supposed to arrive next week,” my wife says when I return.

“Where, Norway?” I ask.

Because on TV, UCLA is playing on a blistering afternoon in the Rose Bowl, which turns into a gigantic wok on hot days like this.

Ruddy-cheeked Ohio State fans sit baking in the Pasadena sun, sweating off 20 pounds by halftime. Before it is over, they’ll promise themselves never to leave Columbus or Sandusky for a hellhole like this. At least not in September.

“I don’t think fall’s coming yet,” I warn my wife.

“That’s what the guy on TV said,” she answers curtly.

It’s pretty much a 50-50 shot these days that my wife will soon leave me, the chances increasing on weekends and major holidays.

When she does leave, it’ll probably be for one of these TV weather studs she’s always watching. She believes everything they say.

“In St. Louis, they’re predicting rain,” I tell her, trying to sound like a weather stud.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says.

“In St. Louis,” I whisper in her ear. “Rain.”

Nothing. If some weather stud had told her that, she’d have pinned him to the couch, like those women Olympic wrestlers. Me, nothing.

Later in the day, my spouse clicks through the cable channels looking for weather studs, landing instead on an old Jack Lemmon movie and, eventually, the Miss America Pageant.

I watch patiently for a few minutes, thinking to myself “if Miss Tennessee doesn’t win this thing, the entire pageant is a giant sham and injustice and corruption will soon run rampant through our great land.”

Honestly, Miss Tennessee is an amazing sight, her evening gown fitting her lovely frame tight as a cheetah’s skin. Her eyes, Dodger blue. But I guess that’s not enough to win the Miss America contest anymore, not in these bewildering times.

Miss Tennessee finishes third in a pageant that has devolved into an elitist, character-oriented decathlon hosted by Tony Danza.

I seek solace in the kitchen, in a sandwich with three kinds of meat and four types of cheese. Pickles. Mustard. Normalcy.

“Miss Oregon won,” my wife reports when I return.

“The one with the bony shoulders?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says.

“Did Tony Danza sing the Miss America theme?”

“Yes,” she says. “He did pretty well.”

I shrug. Nothing surprises me anymore.