So I’m away on vacation at a place called Club Getaway, which is sort of a Club Med for the northeast. Not totally my cup of tea (I hate smelling like a campfire),  but it’s an excellent spot for the kids. Sports, crafts, games.

Tonight, they had a circus.

Now when I heard about “The Circus,” I assumed it’d be 20 staffers in face paint, balancing balls on their noses and riding pretend horses.  But, no, “The Circus” was actually “The Circus”—a four-person operation known as Circus R Us. A stranger sight I have rarely seen.

It took place in a run-down gymnasium. There were about 200 of us, sitting on a dusty floor, with techno music blasting at unbearable decibels. “Welcome to the circus!” the MC screamed. “Circus R Us!” From behind the stage curtain, three females emerged. One was a kid—probably 12 or 13. The second, Daniella, looked about 18 (turns out she was 15). And then there was the lead woman—a 35-year-old named Anna Jack.

The show was sorta lame. OK for a four-person gymnasium circus, but stale and yawn-inducing. But Anna Jack—dazzling. Spun nine hula-hoops at the same time; balanced this and that, this and that. Just did a ton of stuff that was really impressive. I turned to my sister-in-law and said, “Wow, pretty good for a local circus. She’s got some skills.”

Came back to my laptop, looked up “Circus R Us” and found this. Anna Jack ain’t no joke—she’s performed for absolutely everyone; has appeared on Letterman several times; Olympic ceremonies; etc.

My long-winded point is this: What does it say about the circus business that a great, great, great performer with a lengthy resume is spending her Friday night jumping through hoops for some snot-nosed vacationers at a mid-level retreat in suburban Connecticut?

I can list the handful of writers who have truly inspired me throughout my career in journalism. Steve Buckley. Rick Telander. Steve Rushin. Dick Schaap. Dave Anderson. Mike Freeman. A couple of others. None, however, have had the impact of Greg Orlando, my former co-worker at the University of Delaware student newspaper and one of the best scribes I’ve ever seen.

Greg has worked for a handful of publications, primarily dealing with video games. He conducted the funniest Jason Giambi interview of all time (Question (feeling Giambi’s uniform): Is this thing velvet?), and once wrote an essay, “The Answer Man,” that continues to blow me away. Most important, he’s a good friend, and he’s agreed to contribute to jeffpearlman.com by taking one side in our weekly debate session. Today’s topic (selected by Greg): Teddy Roosevelt vs. Godzilla

GREG: Theodore Roosevelt once took a bullet. A lesser man would have (in no particular order), bled and, likely, died. Theodore Roosevelt responded the only way he knew how: He gave a speech, and you can believe that when the president of the goddamn United States of America gets shot and instead of saying ouch, he reads his prepared remarks people—pardon my boorishness—fucking listened intently. For 90 minutes.

Theodore Roosevelt was, to cop liberally from Predator, a goddamn sexual tyrannosaurus. “Believe you can, and you’re halfway there,” he once said before bedding 27 women at one time. Then he became president. He personally visited every one who hadn’t voted for him, and punched them in the neck.In the matter of Godzilla v. Roosevelt, we can understand the opposition’s apprehension. Godzilla, the so-called “King of Monsters” was defeated by, in recent memory, Matthew Broderick and a giant moth. Its sad, weepy origin as a fatal expression of man’s flirtation with the atom is at once fitting for a misunderstood behemoth, but it can also explain away unfunny prop “comedian” Carrot Top. And, one supposes, Walter Mondale as well.

Roosevelt won a Nobel Peace Prize. He karate-chopped the man who handed him the award. He also singlehandedly defeated Menudo at the Battle of San Juan Hill. And the teddy bear was so named because Theodore used to kill and eat bears—but not necessarily in that order. Blood dripping down his chin and still in a killing frenzy, Roosevelt declared this to be cute, and ordered five million real bears to be exterminated and stuffed with, as he referred to it, “wuvvin’ foam.”

As our president, Roosevelt spent most of his time carving his own image into Mount Rushmore. Then, when World War I came around, Roosevelt offered to go to Germany and “rip the Kaiser’s tits off.” President Woodrow Wilson declined the offer and sent troops over instead. Just like a sucker.

Godzilla? Crunch all you want. They’ll make more. There was, and forever will be, only one Roosevelt.

***

JEFF: What a stupid argument. Teddy Roosevelt vs. Godzilla? So dumb—and not even close. Godzilla kills Teddy Roosevelt. Literally. He could eat him. He could step on him. He could crush him with his left claw. He could crush him with his right claw. He could engulf him in flames, turning the man with a big stick into a literal marshmallow stick. He could drop Teddy Roosevelt into a volcano. He could feed Teddy Roosevelt to a pack of hungry wolves. He could hang Teddy Roosevelt upside down until all the blood lingers in his skull.

So take your Nobel Prize … your presidency … your mountain bust. I’ll take the bad-ass MOFO who f—ed up Gamera. Who sent Megalon packing. Who turned King Kong into Little Punk.

You best respect, b—-. You best respect.

This photo was forwarded to me tonight by Dottie Miller, wonderful former resident of 35 Emerald Lane in Mahopac/aka my old neighbor. From left to right, the people are: Dennis Gargano, Gary Miller, me, my brother David, Jon Miller, Richie Miller and Donna Gargano. The year, I’m guessing, was 1979.

If you look closely, my brother and I have our over-sized jeans rolled up to our ankles. I suppose one could make the argument that such a style was in back in the day—only nobody else in the photograph had cuffed jeans. I called my mother tonight to ask about it, and all she could say was “Jeff, please don’t embarrass me again on your blog.”

Ha.

Speaking of embarrassing (I’m in an embarrassing mood), tonight I watched the final 20 minutes of Star Trek: Generations. For those unfortunate few who missed the original back in ‘94, the film unites the two Enterprise captains, Jean-Luc Picard and James T. Kirk, as they fight to stop Malcolm McDowell from ruining everything. Though Shatner was 64 and, well, fat at the time of filming, the directors still thought it plausible that he could film a good fight scene.

The end result is pure lunacy—old, fat Billy Shatner and old, skinny Malcolm McDowell slugging away as the cameras hit every angle to try and avoid showing us anything. In the end, Kirk dies (His final words: “Oh my!”), McDowell dies, too, and Picard returns to the Enterprise.

And I hurl into a bucket.

What with my Nicki Pendleton post, then the tragic passing of Chantay Steptoe-Buford, I’ve been blogging quite a bit about my comically bad Tennessean days. Even though I only worked at the newspaper for slightly less than 2 1/2 years (June 1994 through October 1996), I’m loaded with humiliation from the time period. Here are some beauts …

1. Catherine Mayhew, the features editor, assigned me a piece on a local chef who cooked weird and exotic meats—elk, snake, possum, etc. In the course of our interview, for a reason I’ll never understand, I casually asked the man whether he’d ever cooked human flesh. A few days later Catherine called me into her office and said, “Did you ask someone whether they cooked human flesh?”

2. An editor named Ted Power assigned me to cover a prostitution sting run by the Nashville Police Department. I was an amazing experience—I hid in a cheap motel room bathroom with a handful of cops, then jumped out when a customer arrived with the undercover officer/hooker. When I handed in the story, Ted couldn’t stop laughing. And laughing. And laughing. My lede: “All John Smith wanted was a blow job.”

Oddly, it never made print.

3. In 1995, I was working in The Tennessean features department. I was very close friends with Sheila Jones, our receptionist/office manager. Well, one night I was working late and Sheila had left her computer on. We used to talk shit all the time, so I went on Sheila’s computer and typed EAT SHIT! (or something along those lines) as an IM, and had her send it to herself. The next morning I arrived at work to find everyone in a panic. Turns out Sheila was worried someone was stalking her—especially after she had received a threatening message. Security was called, etc. When I confessed to Sheila, I was sickened. “Do we have to tell Catherine?” I said. We did. Wasn’t pretty.

4. Wrote a feature on a local rock band named Dreaming In English. Huge Sunday piece about a group trying to make it. Lead singer was a charismatic singer named Tyrone Banks. Throughout the entire piece, I IDed him as “Tyrone Brooks.”

5. Maybe my best. Was on the cops beat (as punishment for sloppiness); sent out to the scene of a murder. I arrived at the apartment. Was police tape over the door, absolutely nobody around. I touched the handle, and the door was unlocked. So I called The Tennessean office, where a veteran reporter named Dwight Lewis answered. “Dwight, I’m at the scene, and the apartment is open. Can I open the door and take some notes on the scene?” Dwight told me to wait, and he’d call me back in five minutes. Well, I waited and waited and waited, and finally grew impatient. So I opened the door: Bullet holes in the wall, blood splattered across the couch. I never entered, but I took notes. I close the door to leave, the phone rings. “Jeff,” Dwight says, “whatever you do, don’t open the door. Do not!”

Boy, did I ever get a tongue lashing for that one …

6. Wrote a column for the paper on how private religious schools shouldn’t allow prayers before sporting events. This sorta speaks for itself. The local alt-weekly, The Nashville Scene, called me The Tennessean’s “enfant terrible.” They were right.

Throughout my years following politics, there are few Republicans I’ve loathed more than Orrin Hatch, the arch-conservative from Utah.

Issue to issue, I agree with Hatch on almost nothing. Abortion. Guns. Iraq. Iran. The Supreme Court. He is a Republican Mormon from Utah (well, originally Pennsylvania), I am a Democratic Jew from New York. Like David and Max Basner, we have nothing in common.

Tonight, however, I am an enormous Orrin Hatch fan. While working out at the gym, I watched Hatch’s incredibly moving speech about Ted Kennedy, his political foil/dear friend. From John McCain to John Kerry to Deval Patrick, all the odes I heard were wonderful. Yet something about Hatch’s words struck me. He described a relationship with a man whose record he literally ran against. When Hatch was first elected, it was largely on the promise that he would take on Ted Kennedy. Yet with time, and exposure, he came to love the Massachusetts senator like a brother. I beg of you—watch the speech. It’s outstanding.

For me, it also resonated personally. Too often on this blog, and in my personal life, I forget that people are people are people. Someone can reject health care reform and not be the devil. Someone can be against, say, Affirmative Action and not hate blacks. Like too many of us, I get caught up in the fever, and it can wind up extremely ugly.

In fact, I’d say it’s a problem this country faces more than ever before. From Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck on the right to Mike Augustyniak and Randi Rhodes on the left, all this screaming, screaming, screaming has taken a terrible toll. We (and be ‘We,’ I include myself) never listen anymore. It’s all about yelling to make the loudest point, without considering the origin and experiences of the opposition. Maybe someone is pro-life because she had an abortion and always regretted it. Maybe someone is pro-choice because she had an abortion and always regretted it. Maybe those supporting the Iraq war lost loved ones on the battlefields. Maybe those against the Iraq war lost loved ones on the battlefields. There’s so little talking in 2009. All yelling.

I’m going to make a concerted effort to tone it down a bit.

Maybe I won’t be alone.

My daughter Casey is sick with a lung infection, so I stayed home today and we just baked a pie. I believe it’s my first—ever.

Got the recipe from the back of a book, Boom Town. Only in Boom Town, the pie is filled with gooseberries and it’s made in the 1800s over a fire in a skillet. Mine is filled with apples, and it looks like it’s gonna turn out really, really, really bad.

To be frank, I’m a bad cook. I’ve tried and tried, but it never really works out. My wife says the low-point came while we were dating, and I invented my own recipe, “Banana chicken.”

“Wait,” she said. “What are you making me?”

“Banana chicken,” I said. “Chicken with a banana glaze.”

“No,” she said. “No, no, no.”

Since that time, Catherine has done most of the cooking, and I take out the garbage, do the laundry and the dishes. It’s a fairly decent arrangement, though I hate coming home to a sink overloaded with dirty forks and such. She is, however, a dazzling cook. While I turn to a book for 6-year olds for recipes.

Mmm … banana chicken.

Did anyone else see Mike Tyson on Conan last night?

Man, what a fascinating guy.

My life in sports has sort of paralleled Tyson’s, as far as the years involved. When I was a kid/teen, Tyson was coming up through the ranks, battering the Marvis Fraziers and Tyrell Biggses of the world.

I was riveted.

Then there was Tyson’s downfall—losing to Buster, going to jail, the various women stories, altercations, etc.

I was repulsed.

That was followed by the downfall. The two Evander fights. The tin cans. The disinterest.

I was saddened.

Now, Tyson is back. New documentary that’s earned rave reviews. A killer cameo in The Hangover. He’s left boxing behind, and is in the midst of this cultural comeback that one has to love. The thing I’ve always felt about Tyson is that, as far as athletes go, he’s extremely bright and well thought-out. He expressed himself with an uncommon depth and insight. You hear Evander Holyfield speak, it’s pure idiocy. He sounds, to be crass, like a boxer. But Tyson always seemed to grasp his own flaws. He conveyed who he was and what he was feeling. Sometimes, he was a caged animal. Other times, he was a dignified man trying to escape. I’m convinced, beyond a doubt, that Tyson is a victim of his environs. Had he been raised with two loving parents in a stable home, he’s a college graduate doing impressive things.

I know … I know—hard to imagine. Especially with the eye tattoo.

But there’s something unique about the man.

Something we all can finally enjoy. And embrace.

When I started at The Tennessean in 1994, I was largely shunned by co-workers who (rightly) found me to be cocky, annoying, bombastic and immature. It was a very lonely time in my life. I was 22 and straight out of college. My nights were spent on my own, walking the streets of downtown Nashville in search of … anything.

Truth be told, there was only one place that felt like home; one place where I could relax, be myself and shoot the shit.

The Tennessean library.

Inside that relatively small room, lined with yellowed newspapers and clips upon clips upon clips, I was adopted. One of my southern mothers was short, opinionated and Jewish. Her name was Nancy St. Cyr. My other southern mother was short, opinionated and African-American. Her name was Chantay Steptoe-Buford.

Whenever I was lonely, frustrated, excited, angry, agitated, hurt, thrilled … whatever, I would stroll down to the library, open the door, pull up a chair and talk. Nancy and Chantay would offer me advice on women; on career; on writing. They would listen to my seemingly insignificant complaints and, usually, laugh. “Oh Jeff, now you know that’s nothing,” Chantay would say with a dismissive laugh. “Everything passes.”

I am writing this because, right now, I am crushed. Beyond crushed. I have just learned that Chantay—amazing, intelligent, lovely Chantay—has died after a long, gutsy, nine-year battle with cancer and kidney problems.

Crap.

It’s late, and I’m tired, and my words don’t seem to be working well. But Chantay was a beautiful, sparkling, glittering light of a woman. People always write this stuff when they learn someone dies, but here, it’s 100-percent true. She was one of those people you always wanted to see; someone who radiated joy and love and compassion. Chantay always had time to talk to me; I’d walk through the door and she’d say something like, “Jeff Pearlman! What do you know?”

But she was more than that. We all intend to do good things. We all plan on making a difference. But Chantay—she did. In a recent column Dwight Lewis, my former Tennessean colleague, published a letter Chantay had written shortly after his wife had been diagnosed with MS:

Dwight:

I know exactly what your challenges are during this time and truly the Lord has led me to ask you to let me help.

I am willing to come and sit with your wife, help her with her hair, cleaning, laundry or running errands for you. I know you are capable of doing it all yourself. But … that will get old soon. Most of the time it’s just pride that won’t allow us to accept help.

We don’t want strangers in our home of knowing our business too closely. I suffered from the syndrome last year, until I saw how damaging it was to my husband and his spirit. You have a lot of responsibility with your wife, your job and then trying to get your book published.

This is a time God has set aside for you to get close to your wife and be blessed by your friends. Maybe you didn’t know we were your friends, but God always has a ram in the bush for you. Beverly (a Tennessean colleague) and I will do anything we can for you and your wife. No, I don’t have any money to give you. But me, my husband and Beverly are willing to work and serve the two of you in your time of need.

This does not have to be anything people have to know about. As a matter of fact, I cleaned (former Tennessean editorial writer) Ellen Dahnke’s house, did laundry and took away her trash every two weeks for a year before she died (in December 2006). My husband did odd jobs like fixing things, and changing light bulbs.

Nobody knew this except Anne Paine (another Tennessean colleague) who took complete care of her for years until she died.

I know you said your wife is a private person and she doesn’t know me from Adam; she has been dependent on herself and you to take care of her all these years but … ‘As a family, we are gifts from God to each other.’

The weekend is coming and I won’t be here on Friday. If you need someone before or after she is released from the hospital, we are available to you.

Chantay Buford

The other day I was reading a piece on ESPN.com about an athlete whose career never panned out.

It was very well-written; done by someone I respect and know quite well.

However, it got me to thinking about sports profiles, and how so much of what goes into the especially noteworthy ones is, to be frank, crap.

Let’s put it this way. As I’m writing this post, I’m sitting here in the Panera in Yonkers. I’m wearing a T-shirt, baggy shorts and beach sandals. I often look up at my computer to see what’s going on. If I were writing a lede about the scene, I might go with something like, “The writer sits alone, lost in his thoughts and his past and the scent of sweet bread that oozes throughout the room. Jeff Pearlman comes here often—a search for food, sure. But, really, a search for inspiration. For life.”

I mean, I’ve literally written that sort of lede, oh, 50 times. Was I trying my best? Sure. Was I trying to be sincere? Unquestionably. But is it sincere? Fact: It can’t be. I’ve found that, 99 percent of the time, when a man is sitting alone is a restaurant, he’s not searching for inspiration or motivation or any-ation. No, he’s usually either:

• Checking out the babe in the skirt.

• Wondering whether his fantasy team is OK.

• Picking out a wedgie.

• Thinking about picking out a wedgie.

• Wishing his boss would drop dead.

As writers, we are asked—ordered, by some unwritten doctrine—to delve into another’s mindset. But it’s a pretty monumental crapshoot, because even if someone literally tells you what’s on his mind, he’s lying half the time. So we guess or research or guess and research, then hope for the best.

Just babbling.