Biggest Loser indeed

Tonight brought the grand finale of the third of my trio of guilty pleasures -- reality TV. First went The Amazing Race, Sunday night Survivor ended, and tonight the Biggest Loser was crowned. I'm pretty pleased with all three outcomes:

--brother-and-sister team Nick and Starr Spangler (she's now dating someone from the show who I hope is surnamed Banner, or that he'll change to it)
--high school physics teacher Bob Crowley became the oldest (and perhaps most genuine) Survivor winner
--and Michelle Aguilar gave Biggest Loser it's biggest misnomer. Michelle is no loser.

Not after patching things up with her mother, who joined her on the show. They hadn't spoken in 5-1/2 years after mom left her daughter and husband for another man, taking Michelle's siblings with her.

Not after nearly leaving the show for the guilt she felt about leaving her dad at home, not to mention many years of pent up guilt and feelings of inadequacy.

Certainly not after sharing the same household as Icky Vicky and Hippo Heba. I know it's a game, but Vicky showed her true colors through her behavior and should have been sent home by Shellay when she had the chance. Heba was her all-too-willing partner in crime.

All's well that ends well though as Michelle won despite not having the highest percentage of weight loss. That distinction falls on Heba, who lost 46.93 percent dropping from 294 pounds to 156 (contestants spend about three months at the ranch for the taped episodes and nearly that long before the live finale).

Michelle "only" lost 45.45 percent, going from 242 to 132. You could always see the beauty in her and her mom, but tonight you could tell they both finally saw it themselves. You have to love a reality show that rewards those that it brings the best out of.

In a perfect twist of the game that restored my faith in the voting public, America got to choose between Heba and her husband Ed to be the third finalist to join Michelle and Vicky. Ed pleaded with viewers to vote for Heba, and both seem to have spent the last three months assuming we'd listen.

Not so fast, my friends. A very pregnant Allison Sweeney revealed that Ed received 84 percent of the vote. Talk about profound rejection!

Heba wound up winning the $100,000 consolation prize, which is probably fair. And Vicky got shut out, finishing third among the finalists. Reality can be harsh.

To his credit, Ed lost 139 pounds (one more than Heba), but started out at 335 (41 pounds higher). Yes, losing weight is easier for men, but in his defense he's a chef. How can you know if it's good if you don't taste it?

Pounds-wise, Phil, who took the most crap from Vicky and Heba -- until he was voted out and they turned their wrath on Shellay -- led with 180 pounds. Can you imagine?

Phil's wife Amy nosed him out for second place in the consolations with 45.85 percent to his 45.62. That couple is nearly half the size it was six months ago!

In conclusion

What else?

Meldrick spans two stellar cop shows

I finally saw the final episode of "The Shield" tonight, thanks to YouTube (sorry for the wiki, but the FX Web site is either bombarded with traffic or already removed the show). My DVR handled the 90 minute finale ok, except for the sound. I knew I couldn't wait until it re-airs on Sunday, and I wasn't disappointed.

"The Shield" is, quite simply, the second greatest cop show on television. By second, I don't mean runner-up. Rather, the second show to earn "greatest cop show" honors. The first? Well that would be "Homicide: Life on the Street."

The common thread? Clark Johnson.

In 1993, Johnson became part of the original cast of Homicide, playing Detective Meldrick Lewis for all seven seasons and the reunion movie, as well as directing several episodes.

Johnson's directing credits include episodes of "The Shield" and he appeared in the finale. He was the guy who delivered Corrine and the kids to their federal witness protection future.

I leave you with this sample, while awaiting the next greatest cop show. I think I'll keep my eye on Clark Johnson.

habit

It's a football Sunday ritual, the quick switch over to CBS to see if Andy Rooney has stopped yammering yet: that's the signal that The Amazing Race is finally about to begin. If the clock is still ticking or there's anything on the screen but that annoying old man, it's back to football, straightaway. Except for tonight, when we happened upon Barack Obama sitting down with Steve Kroft; instead of flipping away, the girl and I waited to see what he had to say, and I marveled a little, again, that we're finally going to have a new president and that, of all people, it's him.

It's been a long, long time since the sight of anyone presidential inspired anything in me but a spike in my blood pressure or a dash in the opposite direction. The notion of listening on purpose? Unthinkable. The result was just too painful. Now this man talks, and I stop to listen, and mostly, I feel better: a new habit, Change number one. This new behavior is going to take some getting used to--I'm kind of a rut girl--but this time I think I can manage.

I love Keith

In case you missed it

I picked a bad night to miss David Letterman. If you're lame too, here's what we missed.

Media whores

I've been out of the news business a dozen years now, but I still have friends at the locally owned daily newspaper. I have a great appreciation for their plight, though I'm not often kind about their product.

One of these friends blogged about last night's gotcha debate on ABC. This is admirable when you consider that the newspaper company also owns a television station, in fact they occupy the same downtown block. KCRG is an ABC affiliate.

It does my liberal media bias good to see journalists still willing to fight the good fight.

Biggest Loser

For the first time in "Biggest Loser" history, a woman won. I didn't used to pay the show much attention, even when a former Iowa wrestler was a contestant. This year, however, it has been my constant companion as I've waged my own battle of the bulge.

When I next weigh in on Monday, I'll be something more than 35 pounds lighter than I was Jan. 14. That pales in comparison to the totals posted by contestants on the "reality" show, as does my prize, but I take just as much satisfaction in the accomplishment. And I didn't have to make a fool of myself on national TV.

The faculty/staff competition put together by a student fitness organization couldn't have come at a more opportune moment. A slowing metabolism coupled with an increasingly sedentary lifestyle and the daily caloric intake of a teenager is not a healthy combination. By December, I was sufficiently dissatisfied with my appearance and concerned for my health that I decided to do something about it.

Exactly what wasn't clear until the "New Year, New You" faculty and staff competition was announced. I teamed up with two co-workers and we recruited a volleyball player/athletic trainer to be our coach.

My 30-pound goal became an obsession. It was as if my life depended on it. The day the body fat scale said I was no longer classified as "obese", I knew that it did.

I'm the last one to spew health advice, but there's no magic to weight loss. Burn more calories than you consume and you'll lose weight. Consume more calories than you burn and you'll gain. It's really that simple.

I did learn some things about helping my body work for me -- breakfast, for instance, isn't just a good idea, it's the law -- and I've learned to make smart choices about what I put in my mouth. I've learned I really can fit exercise in to my daily routine.

I'll be proud next week to be crowned "biggest loser" in our little competition, but -- just like the reality show -- the real prize is the ego boost that comes with feeling good and looking good. Even as grilling season nears, I know I didn't go on a diet -- I changed my life.

What's on tonight? Closure.

Whether it's a tribute to the writers' talents or my own literal mindedness, in my head there exists a place called Dillon, Texas and sooner or later (thank baby Jesus) I'll again be privy to what goes on there. That community isn't entirely realistic, especially lately, but then again that line about stranger-than-fiction bears the weight of my experience, so I tend to be forgiving. And, you know, Riggins. I'm so looking forward to picking up those threads and following as long as they run.

Baltimore, on the other hand, can be located in any Rand-McNally, and the stories that I've been watching there in five season of The Wire are rooted in truth. But they're stories, and after tonight, they will stop. Those cops and drug dealers, dock workers, reporters, and teachers never exactly existed--not all of them, anyway--though I kind of choose to believe they did. In that I'm not really alone; even Newsweek ran an obit for Omar, best anti-hero ever, in a space normally reserved for passing artists or politicians or athletes. True dat.

This season of The Wire has not been what I hoped for--somehow I think David Simon's hatred for The Sun got in the way--but it's getting there, finally, and at least there will be some closure, and not the Sopranos' black screen of cop-out death. Every week there's been a call-back, a glimpse at a character from seasons one, two, three, and four. Something that answers the questions, "Where are they going? Where are they now?" The Wire being The Wire, at least as real as reality, the answers are heartbreaking most of the time. But at least there are answers. I don't want to make up my own story; I want to know what happened. What really happened. In their worlds, which, when I'm lucky, intersect with mine.

Friday Night Lights renewed

Brett Favre called it quits today at a teary news conference, extending a personal funk that is nearing a week long. My mood was boosted considerably though by the news that "Friday Night Lights" has been saved. Thank you one and all who participated in the effort to save the best show no one watches.

Sportscasting genius Kenny Mayne

Understatement

The Pack wins.
The Cowboys lose.
That shrew Jennifer is eliminated from the Race.

Life is good.

Four Seasons in Four Minutes

When it comes to The Wire, I have that true-believer problem: I cannot explain why lovers of cop shows should watch it without going rapturously off the deep end, and convey what it's about? Well, it's complicated. "Just trust me," I end up saying, "and give it some time. It's the best show ever."

HBO, being bereft of the New Jersey mobsters, seems to have finally noticed its show about crime (and so much more) down the coast in Baltimore, now that it's 9 episodes from over forever. Among the ways they're promoting it is this video that does at least scratch the surface of the plot* thus far (while necessarily leaving out everything that makes The Wire, The Wire). If you have HBO and have considered watching The Wire, I can't decide if you should click play or not, though you should most definitely watch The Wire. All five seasons (1-4 on DVD). Since it's the best show ever. Just trust me.

*and contain at least two mistakes. does no one pay attention?

Two dead in Iowa

Well, not in the literal sense, but Chris Dodd and Joe Biden have dropped out of the race for the Democratic nomination following tonight’s Iowa Caucuses. Whatever made them think America would vote for someone named Chris or Joe anyway? I wonder how long the lease is on the house Dodd rented in Des Moines?

My guy John Edwards finished second and there’s no shame in that. At least he topped Hillary. And Iowa launched a rock star in Barack Obama. Let’s just hope he doesn’t go screaming into microphones like the last guy.

I’ve mentioned before how out of perspective the Caucuses are, and tonight’s experience didn’t disappoint. Record turnouts for both the Democrats and Republicans were the ultimate test of the quirky caucus process. Somehow it worked, but it wasn’t anything like the folksy neighborhood gatherings the MSM likes to portray.

I walked to the elementary school that serves as the polling place in my precinct, taking a survey of neighbors who don’t clear their sidewalks. Upon arrival promptly at 6:30 we were at the end of the line that stretched out the door. By 7, we were in the gym.

You remember elementary school gyms don’t you? There may or may not be a regulation sized basketball court, but there are walls where bleachers go in high school. I found myself wondering about the capacity rating until it was finally announced, about 7:30, that there were 335 registered voters in the room. Of course, that didn’t count “observers” and children.

I’m all for teachable moments, but all those kids learned tonight was it was too damn hot in that gym with that many people in it.

We clustered for our candidates – although it was difficult to distinguish one group of sardines from another – and everyone was counted. Results were announced and supporters of unviable candidates – those with less than 15 percent -- were initially given 30 minutes to realign. Cooler heads prevailed and the game of musical chairs was reduced to 15 minutes.

It was around 8 when they finished the recounting. The results were fairly predictable for my precinct. Obama had around 200 supporters, Edwards had 71 and Clinton trailed with 60.

I’m not convinced the results would have been any different if, say, the polling place had been open all day and you could walk in at your convenience and cast your ballot in five minutes instead of two hours. But that’s just me.

The Iowa Caucus system pre-dates statehood, so I wouldn’t think to challenge it. But this first-in-the-nation stuff has to go. It’s one thing to have to put up with all of the phone calls and commercials. But when you interrupt the season premier of "The Apprentice" you’ve crossed the line.

Thanks for coming though.

Keith unglued: the Revolution starts NOW

Fight or Flight?

It’s a character flaw, I suppose, that my instinctual reaction to danger is to get the heck out of Dodge. You’ll never catch me standing ground against Mother Nature. When disaster strikes, I’m outta here.

I have nothing but respect and admiration for Hurricane Katrina survivors – and all those poor victims – who, by choice or circumstance, chose to ride the storm out. But those mislabeled folks who fled for higher ground are my soul mates. I guess that’s what Tom Petty meant by, “you don’t have to live like a refugee.”

Anyway, this “fight or flight” conundrum took hold of me around noon, when I learned the college – administrative offices at least; final exams would go on as scheduled at the predominately residential institution of uncommon sense – was shutting down in the midst of an ice storm. The dean of the faculty, bless her heart, vowed to man her post in her office in a locked administrative building until the threat had passed – or four o’clock, whichever came first.

After a quick lunch at the cafeteria – you never know where your next meal is going to come from, right? – I polled the local hotel market for available rooms and alternative energy sources, just as I had when a similar storm hit last February. I should have taken notes.

With all of the other schools in town shut down for the day, my kids were at home and/or a neighbor’s house, neither of which had power. The steady morning rain had the potential to cause widespread damage, which I witnessed first-hand while driving from work to the movie rental store. Sewers overflowing, tree limbs scattered about or leaning menacingly over the road, ice-covered power lines hanging dangerously low… and here I am driving past the grocery store to rent movies I could only hope to watch if power was restored. Fittingly, “Superbad” was out.

Our power was restored shortly after I got home, sparing me the dilemma of opening the garage door manually. Though I typically opt to wait until it’s over before clearing the walks, early removal was the key to success this day. Then, after a previously scheduled telephone interview didn’t pan out and the predicted confounding snowfall didn’t materialize, we ventured out to get the family Christmas tree.

Schedules and circumstance had prevented us from completing this important tradition yet and our windows of opportunity were few. So, as neighbors and fellow residents were chopping ice and sawing trees, we went from store to store seeking out our holiday bush. Isn’t it ironic?

I’d be a poor prospect for a bomb shelter salesman. It’s not that I throw caution to the wind so much as I find the whole idea of emergency preparedness to be as overblown as the local news. Knock on wood, rub a rabbit’s foot and wish upon a star, I’ve never had to endure a prolonged power outage like my blog partner did just about a year ago. And I never would.

I’d be out of town before finishing the first of that three-day supply of water and non-perishable food the emergency management folks recommend you keep on hand. Theoretically, of course, since I maintain no such emergency supply kit. The only three-day supply I know of is a trip to the grocery store. And the only response I know to danger is flight… and, it occurs to me after rereading this post, denial.

Who needs writers when there's football?

A so-called "street" free agent four years removed from Division III Coe College (not exactly what you'd call a football factory) starts at running back for the Buffalo Bills. In his debut as an NFL starter, he goes off for 151 yards and leads his team to a comeback victory over the Washington Redskins.

You can't make this stuff up.

His name is Fred Jackson and I'm damn proud to know him. He sent me a text message Thursday saying he was going to make the Coe family proud. On Sunday he went out and did it. Now he's the toast of the town in Buffalo and Cedar Rapids, not to mention a hot property in fantasy football circles.

Stories like this are the reason I love sports of all sorts, but football in particular. It's not "the thrill of victory... and the agony of defeat" (as the sports world of my youth asserted), it's the imperfection, the randomness, the any-given-Sunday nature of it.

I don't care how much the Patriots were favored by last night, I like that the Ravens damn near beat them. I'm sorry that the Bills' first round pick and his backup got hurt, but I'm thrilled Fred got to show his stuff in a real game. I'll concede the NFL MVP award to Tom Brady, but Sports Illustrated couldn't have made a better choice for its "Sportsman of the Year" than Brett Lorenzo Favre.

And at the moment, I don't particularly mind that the writers are on strike. I'm on their side, of course, but I don't miss them yet. So far, I've been able to get my fixes of "Friday Night Lights," "The Amazing Race" and "Survivor." I miss "The Office" most of all, but so long as Kenny Mayne is on ESPN, I can live without Dwight Schrute.

And so long as it's football season, I can live without the striking writers. Now after the Super Bowl, and the halftime show by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, when the NBA takes the spotlight, we're gonna have a problem.

R.I.P. Evel Knievel

Long before there was ESPN, there was the Wide World of Sports. And long before guys like Brett Favre were role models for our nation's youth, there was Evel Knievel. Evel died today, but memories of his death-defying jumps (or attempts) over the fountain at Caesar's Palace or Snake River Canyon live on the minds of my generation. Of all my childhood toys -- from Rock 'em Sock 'em Robots to electric football -- the one I wish I had saved is the Evel Kneivel stunt cycle. It wouldn't compete with today's video games and electronic gizmos, but boy was it cool. It was also Ideal!

Race partner wanted

Turns out the "Amazing Race" is coming to Cedar Rapids. On open casting call will be held Dec. 6. I need a partner.

After completing RAGBRAI from start to finish, the son would be the logical choice. But the rules require applicants be at least 21. The wife and I can't get across town, much less the world, without conflict, so she's out. My BFF would surely rather continue playing the lottery than miss work for such an opportunity. So I'm left to appeal to our readers.

This may be your best shot at wealth. Certainly the adventure of a lifetime. The only catch, you must be present to apply. Applications will be taken until the position is filled.