faulker009

My morning ritual hasn’t changed in six months. Get up, stumble downstairs, make a b-line for my iPhone and immediately check to see who emailed Sir Bacon. More times than not, it is a some “stranger” from somewhere in the world passing along warm pleasantries about my most recent blog. And thank you for that.  Keep 'em coming.  It never gets old. However recently I have noticed a growing trend of phony emails. I guess you could say -- my Sir Bacon inbox has seen more Spam lately than a Hawaiian Grocery Store. Rim shot anyone? I’ve won the Irish lottery more times than I can count. There is an African Prince who is dying to give me his money. And yesterday, I got an email from “Bill Gates” offering me like $12 Million. How bout if you just fix my printer and we call it even. I get a fair amount of email forwarded to me from my real friends too, but they are usually either sports related or just plain quirky. But a few days ago, I got an email from my cousin that I thought...

Yesterday I completed my seven-week freelance job. The first real job I’ve had in over a year. What’s nice is it brought in a couple of bucks. It gave me a chance to make TV again. But most of all, it reminded me that I STILL GOT IT. The shows I produced are the best I’ve produced in the last 20 months. Ok, they are the only shows I’ve produced in the last 20 months. But all jokes aside, I’m really proud of what I just did. While the subject matter didn’t really interest me, I rolled up my boots (if that is possible) and put together some very entertaining TV. Self-confidence has never been an issue with me. And neither has over-confidence. I know what I can do, I know what I do well, but you won’t ever see me struttin around like Vinnie Barbarino. Confidence is such a weird thing. If you don’t have enough, that’s a problem. If you have too much, that’s a real problem. The challenge is finding that perfect bowl of porridge. When I was working, at the peak of my day, there was nothing t...

Growing up in the late 70’s, there was nobody cooler than Arthur Fonzarelli. The leather jacket.  The comb.  The juke box. The comb. Every young boy wanted to be The Fonz. Every young girl wanted to do something with The Fonz. They just didn’t know what. A couple of years ago I got a chance to meet Arthur.   The real Arthur, Henry Winkler. It was a a brief meeting, make that a VERY brief meeting. But I shook the right hand of THE FONZ. Aaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyy! My two older kids, then probably 10 and 8, were with me, but as hard as I tried to explain, they couldn’t help but think… …why is my dad so excited about seeing that gray haired old Jewish guy? What can I say, he’s the Fonz. Unfortunately my Happy Days trivia knowledge has disappeared like Richie’s older brother, but I can still remember some episodes like they were thirty years ago. Richie and Potsie going to the stag party. Richie and the Fonz double dating with Laverne and Shirley.  Fonzie jumping garbage...

Today was a very sad day for me. My little girl is no longer little. She now has her first cell phone. Ok, she is 13.  And she is taller than her mom. But her own personal cell phone? WHY? What did I do to deserve this! Do you know how much texting she is going to do? Do you know how many friends she is going to talk to? What's next, Boys? You can tell by the grays on my head that I am no longer young, but now... I am officially old! My daughter has her own phone number. Just because EVERY other child, ten and over, has their cell phone doesn't mean we have to do it. Right? If every other child were to jump off the high dive, would you? Does this mean she doesn't have to eat her vegetables any more, "because we said so"? Or put away that pile of dirty clothes in her room... Or pickup the dog poop... This decision was a long time in coming, but somehow we held her off. Until today. Today we went to get my daughter her first phone AND trade in my wife’s dinosaur of ...

It’s not every day that you get a phone call from the bleachers at Wrigley Field. But that’s what happened to me today. The call came from my son’s baseball coach who was in the middle of an 11-day baseball tour with his 11-year old. About a month ago the coach told me about his plans and with each detail I became more and more envious. The nine games they were going to see. The trip to the real Field of Dreams. Eleven consecutive days with just father and son. Every detail was more perfect than the previous one. Their trip began nearly a week ago when they hopped in the car and headed east. One of the first stops was a minor league game in Cedar Rapids, at Perfect Game Field. Unfortunately Mother Nature didn’t cooperate, but everything else was… perfect. Well nearly perfect. Cedar Rapids pitcher Stephen Locke, the 681 st player selected in the 2009 draft, walked one hitter, but didn’t allow any hits to treat the coach and his son to history. There’s an old baseball saying that eve...

It’s not everyday that you can see a musical legend in concert. In fact it’s not ANY day that you can see the Swedish hit machine ABBA perform live. They haven’t played together in nearly 25 years. But don’t tell that to the advertisement in my local newspaper. The other day I saw an ad that said in big bold letters: ABBA, The Concert Followed by the words, “Arrival from Sweden, Live in Concert.” Tickets are $27 (plus service charges). At NO place on the ad does it mention that it’s not ABBA you would be spending $27 (plus service charges) on, it would be Arrival, the ABBA tribute band. That’s where my journalistic blood-sniffing technique kicked in. I hunted down the official website for Arrival, where it said, “this is the closest to ABBA you’ll ever get” AND it’s a “stunning look-alike show they put on.” Put on is right. The tribute band, formed in 1996, has done close to 1000 shows in more than 25 countries. And I thought those little zhu-zhu pets were stealing money. False adverti...

George Steinbrenner was known as “The Boss.” To my dad, George Steinbrenner really was the boss. For a couple of years. In the early 1980’s, the heyday of the Steinbrenner World Domination Tour, my father worked in the front office for the New York Yankees. My dad grew up as a fan of the pinstripes, across the river in Jersey City, New Jersey, so working for the Yankees was a dream come true. Working for George Steinbrenner, well that’s another story. Mr. Steinbrenner, as I called him the one time I answered the phone at our apartment and he was on the other line, passed away Tuesday at the age of 80. George and I didn’t have too many one-to-one’s when my dad was with the team.  He was too busy firing managers. So unfortunately I don’t have any of those juicy first hand George Steinbrenner stories that best selling books are made of. But I do have some stories about me. (I guess that’s like, Michael Crawford won’t be here tonight.  So playing the role of The Phantom is Shecky ...