As in play, which my youngest nephew informed me he doesn’t get to do during recess P.L.A., Post-Lunch Activity.

No hoops.

No hopscotch.

I learned this as we were going to get ice on Thanksgiving morning.  (It’s a Brooks family tradition called “The Getting Of The Ice.”)

“So what’s your favorite subject, recess?”

“We don’t have recess.”

“You don’t have recess?”

“No.  We have P.L.A.  Post-lunch activity.  They think we’re too old for recess.”

“What grade are you again?”

“Sixth.”

“So what do you do at P.L.A.?”

“Walk in line in a big circle.”

“You gotta be shi kidding me.”

“Nope.”

As it turns out, they made sixth a middle school grade and apparently recess would be very uncool for middle schoolers.

I would like to challenge his principal.

Dodgeball.  Best 2 out of 3.  See you on the playground, pal.

I woke up to the smell of the Dearly Beloved cooking for Thanksgiving.

I will come home from work to a full house of family.  (Asleep.)

Tomorrow we will add friends to the mix.  We will enjoy each other’s company, eat well, and toast another Thanksgiving spent together.  And toast anything else worth toasting.

And speaking of toasts, here’s to you.  Thanks for checking in.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I was at Corbins Corner in West Hartford the other day with a few minutes to kill, so I dropped into the Verizon store to find out when I was due for a new phone on the “New Every Two” plan.

“January, 2008.”

“Really.”

“You were notified.”

“I’m sure I was.”

I don’t use my cell phone much.  I’m on the 300-minute plan, which is way more than enough.  But there it was.  The Droid.  And the voice in my head.

“You want a new toy.”

“But I don’t need it.”

“New toy.  Apps.  You want it.”

“I’d barely use it.”

“So what?  You want it.”

The next day, I went to hit golf balls for a while.  No one else was on the range.  Then I played nine holes by myself.  Two balls on every hole.  No one else around.  I reveled in my solitude.

And it was there that “I don’t need it” took a commanding lead over “You want it.” I couldn’t imagine a phone call or an email disrupting the tranquility. (For the record, I never take the phone on the course.)

Still, the inner battle continues.  I think it’s the apps.

Art Lake (from WJAR)

Art Lake, one of the originals at WJAR, NBC10 in Providence, died Sunday.  He was 85.

I didn’t know Art, but I came across this in his obit in the Providence Journal, and it blew me away.

The TV station WJAR arrived in July 1949, and the first newscasts were anchored by Lake and Russ Van Arsdale.

In those days, Lake told The Providence Journal in 2004, he and Van Arsdale had to drink Knickerbocker Beer, one of the station’s sponsors, throughout the show. They stopped because they were burping through the broadcast.

This reminded me of my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Edward Convery.  Mr. Convery was a proud Irishman who would stand at the head of the classroom at Memorial School in beautiful Framingham, Massachusetts, and tell Irish jokes.

One day, he professed his love of Knickerbocker beer to the class.  This seemed perfectly OK, because in our little minds we were the upperclassmen in the context of a grades 1-6 elementary school.

He had the class repeat after him:  “Nicka-bocka-beeah.  Nicka-bocka-beeah.  Nicka-bocka-beeah!” Go ahead, try it.  It’s catchy.  And when 25 sixth graders did it in unison, it was downright fun.

Of course, drinking Knickerbocker during a newscast and having a bunch of sixth graders say the name of a beer in unison would be completely unacceptable now.

But just for fun, repeat after me…

While NBC served up the Eagles and Bears  Sunday night, ABC had on the American Music Awards at the same time.  It’s called counter-programming.

I had my manly man eyes on the football game, while Mmes. Keisha Grant and P.J. DeCordova-Boyd, our crack production assistant, were checking out the music.  Or what the musicians were wearing.  Or in the case of several women, not wearing.

Kate Hudson. Really?

The cue to look up at the monitor was every time I heard “What is she thinking?” coming from Keisha and P.J.

Kate Hudson (presenter) comes immediately to mind.

Fergie. Really!

When the Black Eyed Peas came on, the sound was turned up, and for good reason.  They’re good.  Especially Fergie.  She’s gooooood. They were singing their current hit “Meet Me Halfway,” when I mentioned to Keisha and P.J. that I had recently bought the song on iTunes.

“You did?” [Incredulous looks on faces.]

“Yup, and it’s on heavy rotation (radio term) on my iPod.” [Look of smug pleasure I'm very good at.]

“You are one hip dude.” [Smiles all around.]

Made my night.

Big Sean is apparently some kind of Notre Dame cult figure who posts his thoughts on N.D. football on YouTube.

Here’s his take on the UConn game.  Enjoy.

Listening to the radio on Thursday, I heard someone mention the Houston Texans of the NFL.

Lacking any truly meaningful thoughts at that moment, I wondered how many states would make acceptable nicknames for sports teams.

All I could come up with were the Virginians, the Mainers, and the New Yorkers (which is what Chrysler once called its top-of-the-line model that a family of five could live in comfortably).

Reading the paper Friday, I noticed the Courant devoted a fair amount of space to what we should be called. (See “lacking any truly meaningful thoughts” above.)

The Courant’s list:  Nutmeggers, Connecticuters, Connecticutites, Connecticutarianites, Connecticutians, Connecticans,  or Connecticutites (yes, a second time, so they must really like that one.)

While you ponder a choice, consider that (to me) it sounds OK to say Alaskan. But Minnesotan? Nah.  Hawaiian and Georgian?  Definitely.  Dakotan and Tennessean?  Not so much.  Oklahoma, OK!  But Oklahoman?  Get in line with Pennsylvanian.  Floridian?  Meh.  But then there’s Californian.  Who’s to argue with Californian?

As for Connecticut, it’s just one of those states that has a name that shouldn’t be twisted.

Take it from a native Massachutonian.  We’re not  Connecticutarianites.  We’re “from Connecticut.”

Period.

“Chief Teale is an outstanding role model and an excellent example of homegrown talent.” (Hartford Mayor Eddie Perez to Hartford Courant)

But will Mayor Perez feel the same way if and when departing fire chief Charles Teale announces he wants his job?

Teale is retiring in April.  Perez goes on trial in May on corruption charges.

Go figure.

I finally have a name to attach to The Voice.

I hear The Voice on Monday nights as I’m driving home from work.  He’s the announcer on Westwood One’s radio coverage of Monday Night Football.  Not the play-by-play guy or the analyst.  The announcer.  As in, “Monday Night Football on Westwood One, brought to you by…”

The Voice is Barry White times two.  The Voice won’t shatter glass, but it might cause foundations to crumble.  The Voice won’t scare babies, but it might cause grown men to tremble.

Listen.  To The Voice.

The Voice comes out of the mouth of a man named David Lee.

There is a 35 year old case of jealousy working here.   At my first full-time radio job at WAVZ-AM, New Haven (The Lucky 13!), an L.A.-based consultant had to approve my news shift change from overnights to mornings.  I knew my voice wouldn’t pass muster.  But disc jockey/techno-wizard Pete (Stone) Salant took one of my tapes, ran it through a magic machine (I never understood the technical stuff) which knocked the voice down a few octaves, and I was morning-drive bound.  Pete now does this for a living.

My own voice has sufficed since then.

But there is no voice like The Voice.

What’s going on in girls’/women’s soccer?  Opponents are beating the crap out of each other.

In Rhode Island this week, suspensions were handed out for a brawl during a high school game.

Two weeks ago, University of New Mexico player Elizabeth Lambert commandeered Sportscenter with a style of play that qualified her for the WWE Hall of Fame.

The Lambert makeover has already begun.  Yesterday, there was a national mea culpa in the New York Times.   It was accompanied by this photo.   This would appear the be the work of a very good public relations professional.

Rick Scibelli Jr. for the New York Times

Makeup to make up.  Nice touch.