Beau & Me

I generally shy away from crying at movie theaters. I'll look up at the ceiling, pinch myself, shove a fistful of Sour Patch Kids in my mouth - anything to avoid making a scene.

I saw Marley & Me today and that all changed. I spent the final 20 minutes of the movie in near hysterics, trying to shield my teary eyes from my 7 and 10 year-old cousins.

Going into it, I knew that Marley, the incorrigible, but lovable yellow lab died. But Marley's demise mirrored that of my beloved yellow lab, Beau (renamed "The King" by yours truly during his elder years).

Seeing it on the big screen conjured up some very happy and very painful memories.

After his near-death expeirence, The King came back like Tony Soprano after Uncle Junior shot him in the stomach. Sure, he was a little weak at first. But by the summer, he was back in stride, enjoying the mild Seattle sun and the freshly cut grass.

The King was just shy of his eleventh birthday - still relatively young, even for a lab. But he lived a full life and touched nearly everyone he met (I still have old friends ask me about him).

There's a great line at the end of Marley & Me where Owen Wilson says, "A dog doesn't care if you are rich or poor. Give him your heart, and he'll give you his." That's the absolute truth. My wish is that everyone can experience that love.

I miss The King.

I miss my best friend.

Everybody Is A Star

Remember that ex-boyfriend or girlfriend who just won't let it go? You know, the one who's probably fixated upon your Facebook profile right now, hitting refresh every 15 seconds in a self pitying attempt to figure out what you're doing and who you're doing it with. The very same one who sends you text messages at 2:30 AM saying they're at the same resort in Cabo you both went to the year before, and they're walking on the beach. Alone.

Well, the New York Knicks have a crazy ex too. His name is Stephon Marbury. And he has taken it upon himself to go all Glenn Close, ala Fatal Attraction on the Knicks (can't you hear Starbury telling Knicks brass, "I'm not gonna be ignored").

On Tuesday, Starbury, he of the $20,840,625 salary and face of the $14.98 and under Starbury shoe line, decided to stalk his ex at the Staples Center to watch them take on the Lakers.

Earlier this month, the Knicks banned Starbury from team functions. This came as a result of Starbury refusing to go into a game when the team was shorthanded due to injuries and pending trades.

But Starbury wasn't attending the Knicks/Lakers game as a player. He paid for his ticket and took the game in as a "fan".

At halftime, Starbury told reporters, "All I've got to do is get free. Once I get free, the team I'm going to go to, I think a lot of people will be shocked."

Really, Steph? What team could that be? Maybe the Minnesota Timberwolves? That would be a real treat for NBA fans as Starbury could partner with his cousin, Sebastian Telfair, to form the biggest punk backcourt in NBA history. Telfair can be in charge of concealing firearms aboard the team plane and Starbury will monitor the T-Wolves internship program.

The Starbury Saga serves as yet another reminder about what's wrong with the NBA. Guaranteed contracts seemingly guarantee one thing - prima donnas. How someone not affiliated with a golden parachute or AIG can earn $20 million for doing absolutely nothing is a disgrace to humanity.

Countless Americans are struggling like never before and Starbury is prancing around the sidelines, flaunting the fact that he's earning a paycheck to not work.

If David Stern can destroy professional basketball in Seattle, then he surely can step in to this matter, void the remainder of Marbury's contract, and slap him with permanent expulsion for being a punk.

Athlete Behavior 101

Remember the TV show, "Kids Say the Darndest Things"?

I'm thinking about pitching a spin-off called, "Athletes Do the Stupidest Things". The pilot episode will feature embattled New York Giants wide receiver, Plaxico Burress, who thought he needed to pack some heat into a NYC night club, and accidentally popped himself in the leg.

I wish I could make this stuff up. But this actually happened. After all the brilliant crimes committed by not only NFL players, but a gaggle of other professional athletes (i.e. Ugie Urbina and Kobe), one would think that some logic would enter the minds of these highly paid pros.

Apparently not. In many ways, Burress deserves everything headed his way (NYC mayor Michael Bloomberg is angrier than a GM shareholder). If you're stupid enough to bring a gun into a club, then it's only fitting that you shoot yourself in the leg. Life would be far too cruel if Burress had accidentally shot another person.

Of course, there's the argument that the large majority of professional athletes are actually good, law abiding citizens. It's just the select few morons who get all the pub for drowning dogs and brandishing weapons. If anything, pro sports is a microcosm for American life.

But athletes should be held to a higher standard. I don't buy the Charles Barkley "I Am Not A Role Model" credo. These guys are not only role models, but their actions are highly impressionable on kids (I remember screaming like Larry Johnson once after I rejected some kid who was at least half a foot shorter than me).

Wouldn't it be great if we could get through a professional sports season without a domestic abuse charge, weed bust, or a murder?

Hopefully it will happen sooner than later. Because the Michael Vick's and Plaxico Burress' should stand for something aside from sheer stupidity.

They should stand as cautionary tales.