When Michael Johnson set the 200 meter world record in Atlanta in 1996 (running a blazing quick 19.32) track and field gurus said that was a benchmark that would stand for generations. Conventional wisdom had it that anybody alive to have watched that event would go to their graves with the record still intact.

So much for long term prognostications.

Usain Bolt obliterated the field in Beijing. Sprints, especially those involving the most elite athletes in the world, are usually photo finishes. But Bolt was lengths ahead of the second place finisher. To put his feat in perspective, covering the distance he did in the time he ran (especially the back half--the second 100 meters) means he was moving at close to 25 miles per hour. That's nearly top speed for a Yugo.

The frightening this is that he's not yet reached his peak. See you in London, pal.

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That seems to be the premise of a Slate piece today by the insightful Troy Patterson, who argues that, above all else, she has a sense of humor with regard to herself. Witness, as exhibit one, her self-satirization in Borat. All of this may be true, but the line that stopped me short was this one:

This is not a bimbo: Wherever else the woman's tongue may have been, it is often found in her cheek.

It's a swell piece of writing, to be sure. And it also offers a terse summary of his premise. My problem with it are the visuals it conjures. I prefer to live my life without thinking about Tommy Lee or Kid Rock in any circumstances whatsoever (as do, I believe, most sentient human beings). Needless to say, that wasn't possible as I tried to enjoy my first cup of coffee this morning, while reading this story.

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On this, the nation's 232nd birthday, I celebrate my independence from the tyranny of technology. That's right, my Motorola RAZR V3 has finally been retired from active duty, after more than two years of service. The praises of the elegant first-gen RAZR have been sung far and wide. And with more than 50 million units sold worldwide since its introduction in the fall of 2005, it's one of the top selling phones of all time. I certainly had no complaints. Nor do I fault the device for finally succumbing to a lifetime of being dropped on hardwood floors, concrete sidewalks and charming cobblestone streets. It was durable, to a point. And then it wasn't, as you can see in the graphic photo above (I call the final result "cellular division").

So, for the past two days I've been without a cell phone. And to tell you the truth, I'm happy to be relatively unreachable. I'm not that popular, mind you, but the silence has been refreshing. So refreshing, in fact, that I've decided take a vow of Ludditism....until I break down and buy a new 3G Apple iPhone, which quietly rolls out at the end of next week.

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The TSA is rolling out its latest tool in the ongoing effort to make airport security more time consuming and increasingly pervy: Scanners that see through clothing. Hmm. Sounds suspiciously like those old X-Ray Spex that used to be advertised in the back of Richie Rich comics, along with onion-flavored prank gum and sea monkeys.

Will those noble souls who operate the scanners be able to see their subject's junk? In a word, yes. But, the TSA cautions in a press release, the "passengers face will be blurred." Phew. All of this raises the inevitable question of whether there will now be a rash of "hotness profiling" at airports across this great nation.

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I've long pondered the reasons why hockey is relegated to a lowly position as America's fourth sport (in terms of fan interest, media coverage and player salaries), behind football, basketball and baseball. Part of this lies with the fact that if you didn't grow up with the sport, it's "hard" to grasp as an adult. Too much speed, too small an object to try to follow with the naked eye, too many European names. It doesn't draw a huge fan base, so the money just doesn't follow.

But for those of us who come from an Original Six town, where hockey is a lifeblood and where pond versions of the sport formed an integral part of our wintertime activities, there is no better spectacle of sport than the Stanley Cup finals, especially when your team wins. So we take a moment here to hail the Detroit Red Wings, who captured their fourth Cup in eleven years. If ever there was a broken down city that needed the civic boost that comes with a world championship, it is present day Detroit.

Bless you, boys.

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