by Adam Jones

There are entirely too many electronic devices in my family room. It's overwhelming. The Jonesfamily is now a TiVo family, which means I have had multiple conversations this week about connectivity with A/V receivers, cable converter boxes, HD compatibility and whether the 51 minutes Mrs. JonesTop Ten spent on hold with Time Warner would send us directly to marriage counseling. Our friend, Holly, summed up this exercise in futility when we asked her if she had undergone the same survival exercise through the electronic wilderness when she upgraded her television viewing environment.

by Adam Jones

A quiet family room suggests danger lurks beyond all comprehension. After making the Sunday morning coffee, I figured I needed to investigate, for that's what any above-average parent would do. I found C, the one-year old, perched on the brick hearth next to two Chinese terra cotta soldiers my mother-in-law gave me. C had the same stoic expression as his ancient comrades-in-arms. Not one of contrition-no-more like: "Yeah, I know I'm on the hearth, but if you try and remove me, my boys Po and Lin here are going to have something to say about it." Knowing the relative immobility of Po and Lin and that I outweigh C by about 165 pounds, I was not intimidated and removed him from harm's way.

September 24, 2006

by Adam Jones

My wife does not understand my affinity for color weather radar. Quite simply, I love it. She does not. I could sit for hours and watch the greens turn orange and red and slowly envelope my town in a fantastic barrage of rain and thunder and lightning. When he was a very young boy, Z and I once stayed up long into the night-or I did anyway-watching a thunderstorm roll in on channel 44 with the upstairs windows open to let in the real time sound effects.

Where I grew up, there was no need for this technological marvel. The Texas Panhandle sits on the High Plains-accent on High. It is about 3600 feet from sea level to the top of the Caprock Escarpment to a flat piece of land the Spanish explorer Coronado called the Llano Estacado. Land so flat that you can see the weather long before it hits you. The squall lines almost always start from the northwest, coming off the Rockies, and they build and spread and darken the sky so predictably that you have a great sense for when to get inside. You don't need television. There is a great book, probably long out of print, titled The Desert Smells Like Rain, which tells of the Indians of Southern Arizona who schedule their crop cycles, and thus their entire livelihood, around the two times a year it rains in their desert homeland. The farmers and ranchers of the Texas Panhandle have these same instincts, although the Ogallala aquifer gives them a somewhat larger margin for error.

September 17, 2006

by Adam Jones

Oh baby don't it feel like heaven right now?
Don't it feel like something from a dream?
Yeah, I've never known nothing quite like this,
Don't it feel like tonight might never be again?
We know better than to try and pretend,
Baby no one could have ever told me 'bout this...

The waiting is the hardest part,
Every day you see one more card,
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart,
The waiting is the hardest part.

-Tom Petty, The Waiting

September 11, 2006

by Adam Jones

Juan was not allowed in the house without the Lone Star. We sent him back out into the traffic and noise. His task wasn't easy-three different places before he found a supplier. Who knew? But it had to be done. We were not about to trust the Longhorn fate to a freshman quarterback against a top-flight opponent. We needed the Lone Star.

That and a couple of big time plays that the Longhorns never made. The two biggest plays in the first half were both turned in by Buckeyes-one forced fumble at the goal line that constituted a fourteen-point swing against the home team and one perfect strike to Ted Ginn to break a deadlock going into halftime.

September 5th, 2006

Written by Adam Jones

Opening day delivers us a number of traditions. We pine away for that first kickoff for a very long seven months, redeemed only by recruiting season, the major golf championships and the NBA Finals-and many of us ceased caring about professional basketball years ago. Where I grew up, opening day was accompanied by road trips and dove season, not necessarily in that order. The dove provides a symbol of peace to humanity during these troubled times. Of course, I am one who believes God wants his children to be truly happy, which is why the gentle creatures taste so freaking good wrapped in bacon and jalapenos. If it were up to me no one would enjoy this delicacy-a dove in close proximity to me and a shotgun is about as safe as the career prospects of a bail bondsman in Tallahassee or Coral Gables. But I digress (the first time this season if you are keeping score at home).

Written by Adam Jones

August 15th, 2006?

Forty. That's what I will be in February. B, the three year-old, reminds me of this daily. When his smartass mother asks him: 'How old is Daddy?' He gleefully responds: 'Almost forty.' ?B executes this line right on cue because his mother has trained him to do so. Everyone thinks this is funny.