Category Archives: Lucas Oil Stadium

Hot Air

Stadium Suckers

Let’s leave aside for a moment the fact that the Indy Eleven is, hands down, the worst team name in professional sports. Let’s wonder instead why these eleven short-pants wearers can’t play their short pants game in Lucas Oil Stadium.

The reasonably new sports palace just south of Indy’s downtown has a playing field, a bunch of seats, and — most important — beer stands and licensed apparel shops. You drape two thirds of the stadium’s 62,000 seats, allowing for a soccer capacity of 20,000 and there you go. Apparently that’s not good enough for the (ugh!) Eleven. Why it’s not is a mystery.

Lucas Oil Stadium

Not Good Enough

Another mystery is the existence of Lucas Oil Stadium itself, considering the Circle City and the State of Indiana already had a perfectly good, barely 20-year-old monument to sports excess in the Hoosier Dome or the RCA Dome or what in the hell ever they were calling it until the day in 2008 when it was imploded. The Indianapolis Colts (a far superior team name, BTW) had stomped their feet and threatened to hold their collective breath until the taxpayers of Marion County and the state were forced to build them their current three quarters of a billion-dollar sandbox.

And the funny thing was, the same suckers [us] had footed the bill for the, again, barely 20-year-old Hoosier/RCA dome back when the Colts owners agreed to abandon the city of Baltimore if only Hoosiers would gift them the new digs. When the demolition company lit the fuses on the dynamite under the “old” stadium, taxpayers still owed some $75 million on it. This sports arena racket can get awfully slimy, no?

Lucas Oil Stadium cost ten times the amount needed to build the first Indy dome. Ten times! Why, surely, the new joint must be a wonder of modern engineering and sports housing, able to host any game from chess to, well, soccer.

Apparently not.

The Eleven simply can’t play kick-the-ball in Lucas Oil Stadium and so must prevail upon the Indiana state legislature to build them their very own palace. The half-approved new Eleven home (the House has okayed it; the Senate, though, seems a tad less enthusiastic) will cost some $82 million with financing coming from a new tax on certain hotels as well as the putative receipts from future games there. The only prob. is the Eleven (god, I hate even typing the word) are insisting they won’t pay their share of the construction costs if the attendance tax doesn’t cover the bill. That means — yup, you guessed it — you and I would be taxed to retire that debt.

Meanwhile, schools go wanting, veterans live on the street, drug rehab centers are being squeezed, and even the Indiana State Library is being put on a severe austerity footing.

Yet a bunch of ball-kickers who can’t even come up with a decent name for themselves merit a pricey pad.

This 21st Century is really starting to suck.

Users Are Losers

No doubt you’ve caught the news about the conviction and subsequent sentencing to life in prison of that deranged former Marine who mowed down “American Sniper” Chris Kyle and another man.

Eddie Ray Routh’s defense attorneys tried to persuade the jury that their client was driven to madness by to horrors he’d witnessed during his stint in Haiti, where the Marines helped earthquake victims in 2010. Well, further madness: He’d been in and out of mental hospitals, diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. The Erath County, Texas, jury didn’t buy the argument, largely because the prosecutor had told them Routh had gone through a fast-food drive-in after the shootings and, for pity’s sake, how can a psychopath do that? Ergo, he must be sane as pie.

Rather, the prosecutor posited that Routh was simply a homicidal maniac who — horrors! — was a pot smoker. The subtext was You know those pot smokers, they’re capable of anything!

Funny thing is, the movie that started the whole pot-smokers-are-psychos thing, Reefer Madness, came out nearly 80 years ago. And as far back as the late 1960s, the movie has been the object of ridicule among peeps who know better. So it’s a wonder any good prosecutor would reach that far back into her bag of obfuscating tricks to beat an insanity defense.

Lobby Card

Old, Old, Old School

The second funny thing is that the pot-turns-users-into-maniacs strategy would even work in this day and age — in Texas, no less. I can’t imagine there being many folks who haven’t toked up in Texas. I mean, if I were stuck in Texas I’d consider any drug that would make me forget that fact to be as vital as air or water.

And funniest of all was Kyle and his pal’s decision to bring the vet to a gun range so he could “deal with” his PTSD.

Huh? I’ve been sitting here for ten minutes trying to think of an analogy that would be as ridiculous as that. Can’t do it.

Well, Texas. Need I say more?

Bristly Brew

Okay, so this whole craft beer thing is going way off the rails now.

Small batch beers have been brewed with ingredients like bananas, oysters, gold, frankincense and myrrh, and bulls’ testicles. All true. A poor sap must really have a great need to get sloshed to drink any beer made from those things. And brewers remain on the lookout for any new kinky item to toss into the vat.

Case in point: I was at the bar upstairs at Finch’s Brasserie Tuesday evening, listening to Kinsey Institute prof & researcher Justin Garcia tell us all about “Evolutionary Perspectives on Human Sexual Behavior and Romantic Love.” It was this month’s Bloomington Science Cafe subject and, natch, drew a packed house since it concerned bonking.

The bartender asked me what I wanted to drink and I said, “A beer, I guess,” pointing in the general direction of the taps. I’m not picky when it comes to beers as long as they aren’t the yellow-tinged water sold at sporting events. No matter; the bartender handed me a dense menu and recommended a brand new brew. ‘This is really good,” he said, pointing at one selection. “Everybody likes it. It’s very good.”

Yeah? I said, not really caring one way or the other.

“Yeah. You know what. It’s made with yeast that’s been cultured from the fungus found in the brewer’s beard.”

Um, what?

“Uh-huh. They took a sample from his beard and then they grew the yeast in the lab.”

He nodded, knowingly, as if this tidbit would be the closer in the sale.

Maier Beard

The Brewmaster’s Beard

“Why the hell,” I asked, “would I want to drink that?”

“It’s good,” he said, a little less confident now. I did, indeed, not drink that.

The question, though, remains. As does What in the holy hell are they gonna make beer out of next?

The Pencil Today:

HotAirLogoFinal Friday


“Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.” — Marilyn Monroe



Dig this: Yesterday, the Electron Pencil attracted its 75,000th hit. Honest!

We’ve been online for almost a year and already we’ve outdrawn Super Bowl XLVI, held at Lucas Oil Stadium in Indianapolis last February.

Super Bowl XLVI

70,000, Hah!

And believe you me, we have yet to ask the State of Indiana and the City of Indy for the +$666 million that the NFL Colts did for their home, although The Loved One and I are putting together a request for $666 so we can paint our garage, in which the world headquarters of this communications colossus is located.

So, whoever Ms. or Mr. 75,000 was, thanks. The rest of you must now work doubly hard to become acknowledged as the 100,000th happy EP reader.


Surfing through senseless interwebs flotsam and jetsam, I came across a rumination on truth and obfuscation on Huffington Post.

Headlined “12 Things You Should Never Lie About,” the piece tells us the average schmo lies three times a day, which makes me — as usual — an outlier. I’m not going to say which side of the average I come down on; that’s your problem.


“Never Lie, You Little Bastards.”

Anyway, number one on the list is never lie about having an orgasm. I’ll proudly state that I’ve never lied about having an orgasm, which I’m certain will be warm comfort to the multitudes of citizens with whom I’ve shared a sheet.

I noticed, though, that the list is meant to be a verisimilitude template for women. Okay.

Quite frankly, I’ve never suspected that any women has ever lied to me about the Big O. This is not meant to be a boast that my technique should warrant a chapter all its own in the latest sex manuals. The roster of females I’ve flexed my muscles in front of haven’t felt a need to stroke my ego, either because the state of my ego wasn’t of great concern to them or, more likely, they weren’t the type who felt a need to playact in their lives.

Which brings us to the obligatory reference in the list: The fake orgasm scene in the deli in the movie, “When Harry Met Sally.”

Scene from "When Harry Met Sally"

You Know, This Scene

I’ve never thought Meg Ryan’s “orgasm” in WHMS was all that realistic. It was, in fact, the orgasm of an actress pretending to have an orgasm.

Lovemaking in general on the screen bears as much similarity to reality as fistfights, gun battles, and, well, everything else that Hollywood spends hundreds of millions of dollars on trying to convince you is the real deal.

Ask yourself this: Have you ever kissed anyone the way, say, Bella and that goofball she costars with in the “Twilight” family of TV shows and movies do?

Bella and the Goofball

Screen Kiss

Has anyone ever kissed you the way Angelina Jolie has kissed Antonio Banderas?

Try as I might to have been a Herculean lover in my day, no woman I was ever with raised such a racket as Meg Ryan did in that deli scene. In fact, if any woman had, I probably would have had second thoughts about a second helping. I mean, I’ve never had the desire to be faked to or lied to.

After all, I’m not a Republican.

Now, this: After that iconic scene, how can anyone who exposes his underwear to Meg Ryan ever trust her when she does have an orgasm?

No matter how fab the romp has been, no matter the toys, positions, incantations, substances, and prayers employed, whenever Meg Ryan hoots and hollers with the lights out could her lover ever be certain she wasn’t doing a Sally on him?

I hope John Mellencamp doesn’t read this. I’d hate to ruin things for him.


Speaking of sex, The IDS today reports that an orgy went screwy in a room at the Motel 6 on North Walnut Street.

It seems a randy fellow from Alabama came to Bloomington for the festivities after being recruited through a Craig’s List ad. Apparently, the man and his special gal made the trip here so that the woman could, well, explore bisexual themes with the special gal of another man. The men, per agreement, were only to serve as an audience as the sizzling scene took place.

Motel 6, Bloomingon

Field Of Screams

Problems arose when the local man couldn’t restrain himself and, shall we say, ran onto the field of play. The Alabama man’s standards of fair play were violated, it is presumed, and he attempted to convey his displeasure by beating the hell out of the other man as well as his own special gal who, it must be noted, is his fiancé.

Bloomington cops slapped the bracelets on the Alabama man after guests in neighboring rooms phoned to report sounds of the scuffle. The local man and his special gal had hot-footed it out of the motel before the cops arrived.

The Alabama man is expected to be charged with domestic assault and strangulation. His fiancé told the cops he’d tried to strangle her and she sported a swollen face and scrapes. She has since recanted her story and now says she suffered her injuries in an accident.

The story did not include details about the gift registry for the upcoming nuptials.

The Pencil Today:


“Pride makes us artificial and humility makes us real.” — Thomas Merton


I played hooky from these precincts yesterday. It felt deliciously bad to be irresponsible.

On the other hand, it wasn’t as though I lolled on a beach. The Loved One had invited a pal over to watch movies last night and had asked me to clean the house. So I had a perfect excuse for not posting.

Cleaning the house reminds me: when I become King of the United States (a position last held by Garfield Goose), I will issue an edict that everybody must scrub their own toilets.


This isn’t as fatuous as you might think. I know of no sane human being who enjoys scrubbing the toilet but it’s a task that must be done. It’s one of the most humbling chores we have to do. Maybe the only thing more humbling is emptying bedpans at a hospital or nursing home. I did that when I was in and out of college in the late ’70s. It took me months to learn how to eat dinner without mentally flashing on what I’d done at work that day.

Anyway, emptying bedpans and scrubbing toilets remind us that, honestly, we as a species ain’t anything special, kids.

Now, we have to assume people like Donald Trump and Oprah do not scrub their own toilets. They have, after all, far more important things to do.

“I Certainly Will Not Scrub My Own Toilet!”

But the truth is there’s very little in life more important than scrubbing the toilet. On a practical level, we have to do it or else our bathrooms will essentially become oversized Petri dishes for the cultivation of dangerous microbes. And psychologically, it makes us feel invigorated to do our business in a relatively clean cube.

Perhaps most important of all, though, the simple but awkward task of sprinkling cleanser, brushing, and rinsing reminds us we’re no better than any other human being on this planet.

A lesson, I’m sure, that might benefit someone like Donald Trump.


Lousy news the other day about the Susan G Komen gang and Planned Parenthood, no?

(An update: the Susan G. Komen for the Cure organization has reversed its earlier decision to cut off Planned Parenthood funding.)

I have a confession to make. I became sick of the color pink long ago. In fact, this whole breast cancer thing is getting to me.

Pink Baseball Bats At The Louisville Slugger Factory

Now don’t get me wrong — I realize breast cancer is a horrible problem and I hope nobody gets it and all the rest. I know a number of women who’ve suffered from it. For them I hope a cure is found by five this afternoon.

Early Detection

But years ago it occurred to me that the “battle” against the disease was becoming more of a cottage industry than something people wanted to see won and finished.

The cure walks and the swathing of everything up to and including the Sears/Willis Tower in pink seem more like in-group partying than anything else. Perhaps I’m wrong, wrong, wrong but I suspect that if breast cancer were suddenly and magically wiped off the face of the earth tomorrow morning, a lot of people whose livelihoods depend on “battling” it would be, well, bummed.

Anyway, if the Komen mob’s decision to cut off funding PP is any indication, preventing and curing breast cancer is less important than making sure women stop their nasty habit of having sex.

For a brief moment I was hesitant to write this screed. Surely, I thought, somebody’s gonna rake me over the coals for not genuflecting in the direction of those who walk or race for the cure. But then last night I caught a Facebook post from sexologist Susie Bright and I decided, hell, I’m gonna go with it.

Susie Bright wrote: “Am I the only one who’s thought Komen is full of shit since day one? They’ve always been nauseating, a pink GOP branding machine.” Bright then links to a fascinating bring-down of the Komen myth that ran on a website called Butter Believer.

Susie Bright Reading From Her Book, “Big Sex, Little Death”

The article’s author looked over Komen’s annual report and discovered that the organization spends fully 60 percent of its money on public health education, fund-raising costs, and administrative costs. And while that public education line might seem noble, it’s really mostly the tab for their pink-washing and self-congratulatory events.

Those things are, for all intents and purposes, advertising.

The author also charges that only a penny of every dollar spent on Komen’s licensed pink products actually goes to research to find a cure for breast cancer.

And, by the way, don’t try to start any kind of charitable organization using the word “cure” in its title. The Komen-ites likely will sue your ass off. “Did you know,” the author writes, “that Susan G. Komen for the Cure spends nearly a million dollars annually suing small charities over the use of the word ‘cure’…?”

The Real Cure

There is a silver lining to this story. Donations to Planned Parenthood have gone through the roof since the Komen cut-off was announced.


What’s the worst crime you can commit in these United States? Arson? Kidnapping a child for nefarious purposes? Robbing a bank?

Nope. The answer is messing with the Super Bowl.

WRTV Channel 6 in Indy breathlessly reported Thursday that union members unhappy over the Indiana State Legislature’s passing of its union-busting bill are threatening to disrupt the Super Bowl Sunday.

Sunday Service

The Super Bowl, of course, is this holy land’s holiest event. I’ve long endorsed the idea that Super Bowl Sunday should be declared a national holiday. Football is a game that is run by men, involves violence, employs strippers disguised as cheerleaders, and rakes in literally billions of dollars a year for teams, television, bookies, athletes, anthem singers, halftime entertainers, orthopedic surgeons, criminal defense attorneys, and many more.

What’s more American than that?

Game day coverage of the Super Bowl this year begins at eight o’clock in the morning — kickoff is scheduled for ten and a half hours later.

Guaranteed, more people know the name of the starting quarterback for the New England Patriots than can identify the current Secretary of State of the United States.

As for the aggrieved unionistas, they’ve been overruled by their higher-ups. Indiana AFL-CIO chief Nancy Guyott promised union members will not blaspheme Sunday’s sacred rite at the Lucas Oil cathedral.

House Of God

She probably figures union membership has suffered enough in recent years and Super Bowl security forces likely will shoot to kill anyone who messes with the event.