Cool Music Video.

This video was made by an artist, Big Vizion, who was a high school classmate of mine. He's played a lot of shows in and around Maryland, but I think he could be headed for even bigger success.
"Oh My Lord" video

Just Do Her. And Her. And Her.

Many questions have been asked and debated regarding the Tiger Woods marital situation. Are his "transgressions", as he calls them, news? Does Tiger deserve less privacy simply because he is a highly-paid product endorser? Will his endorsers stand by him? How will his golf game be affected? Has he given new meaning to "playing in a foursome"? All these questions might make great fodder for sports talk radio, but I'm generally uninterested. I don't buy Gillette products because Tiger plugs them, I prefer my newscast to be filled with news not TMZ infotainment and I couldn't care less whether Tiger and his wife stay together or not. I do, however, have one thing to say to Tiger, who has said that he was "dismayed" by the media reaction- The one sure way to not have to discuss your infidelity in public is to not cheat on your wife.

I don't care if Tiger Woods, David Letterman,the governor of South Carolina or my neighbor down the street want to bang cocktail waitresses all across the globe, I just don't think they should do it while married. I'm tired of hearing guys excuse infidelity because It's biological. I'm innately programmed to spread my seed to further the species. Look, if Tiger wants to dump his multicultural, supercompetitive, ultrafocused DNA in/on/near strip club hostesses then he shouldn't have gotten married. I don't begrudge a billionaire superstar wanting to take advantage of some of the "perks" of fame and fortune, but nobody forced him to make a vow. I mean, how awful for him to be stuck with one gorgeous blond Swedish nanny for the rest of his life. America weeps for him.

I'd Rather Have Coal In My Stocking.

Working in a book store has many great benefits including seeing at least one new book per day that I'd like to read. Of course, you must take the good with the bad. Here are nine current titles that scare the heck out of me:

Thank You and You're Welcome
A self improvement guide from Kanye West.

Little Book of Pandemics:50 of the World's Most Virulent Plagues and Infectious Diseases
A germophobic hypochondriac's worst nightmare. I'm wearing latex gloves while reading it.

Going Rogue
Duh.

Stealth Germs Inside Your Body
I always figured I was allergic to myself.

The Morning Show Murders
Mystery fiction from Al Roker. I understand the first victim was a dozen doughnuts.

Howard Dean's Prescription for Real Healthcare Reform
(Shiver)

New Dawn:Your Favorite Authors on Stephenie Meyer's Twilight Saga
Because not everybody was lucky enough to dream up glittery emo vampires.

The Manga Bible
Thanks, but I'll take my Scripture (not that I've been reading much of it lately) in something other than Japanese comic book style.

The Elf on the Shelf
Use the creepy elf doll to scare your kids straight for the holiday season.

You Betcha!

So, tonight I was able to read a bit of Sarah Palin's Going Rogue (on shelves Tuesday) and it is awesome. And by awesome, I mean so bad that it's good. Sort of like the Arnold Schwarzenegger classic Commando or a stinky fart. This opinion has nothing to do with political leanings or the book's content, it's all about the writing. It's true that I would rather discover that Glenn Beck is my illegitimate half-brother than spend an afternoon with Sarah Palin, but I might read her book cover to cover. The first paragraph alone is filled with enough cheese ("autumn bouquet", "small town America") to lure me in. I also need to say here, despite the fact that I don't personally care for Mrs. Palin, I hope we sell the shit out of this book. I also hope the publisher has contacted Revlon, because we are going to need more lipstick for this pig.

Movie Review Haiku

National Treasure 2:

Okay, As long as
You do not stop to ponder
How preposterous.

Whip It Good!

One of my birthday gifts was babysitting services provided by my in-laws so Amanda and I could hit the movies. With nothing "must-see" currently playing, we decided on the roller derby flick Whip It. While not the greatest movie ever, there is a lot to love: Ellen Page is adorable yet saucy, Kristen Wiig is funny as always, hot chicks in short shorts and roller skates, there are enough recognizable location shots in Austin to make me pine for a return trip there, a Daniel Stern sighting and a tiny, but funny homage to one of my favorite movies, Slapshot. All in all, not a bad way to spend two hours.

Enlarging the Lexicon.

My wife, Amanda, inadvertently helped me coin a phrase last week. Much to her chagrin, mostly because the phrase is crass and juvenile, I haven't stopped using it since. I was watching one of my favorite Food Network shows, Diners, Drive-thrus and Dumps, when apparently I made a sound like I was enjoying the idea of bacon-wrapped meatloaf a little too much. Amanda sarcastically asked me if I had popped a boner and I told her, "Yes, dear. A food boner."

So now I'm out to make "food boner" the preferred measuring stick(so to speak) for rating dishes. Male food critics of the world I implore you to drop the star system in favor of the Food Boner Index. Your sushi was fresh, delicious and perfectly rolled? How about three food boners out four? The food was okay, but the atmosphere was terrible? Perhaps this cafe only merits two food boners. Better yet, since I'm not terribly interested in counting boners, maybe we could make it all or nothing, pass/fail style. If the food and experience rock, you get a Food Boner. If the food and experience stink, you get a "Flaccid" next to your name in the write-up. Help me America, join in the crusade to make "Food Boner" so popular that it joins bling, green-collar and staycation as ridiculous additions to Webster's Dictionary.

And while on the subject of words, I'll hip you to another of my mini-crusades(you'd think I really have nothing important to do)-I want to bring Grass back as the preferred slang term for marijuana. Not pot, weed or dope-grass. As in "Pass the Grass." or the cheesy bumper sticker form decades past, "Ass, gas or grass, nobody rides for free."

Happy Birthday Grace

It seems impossible to me that my daughter is turning one today. To say the least, my life has changed immeasurably in the last year. As I watch her laying stretched out sleeping I can't believe how big she has become. Though she is neither talking or walking, she is far more toddler than baby. It's been awesome to watch her change, seemingly daily, as her temperament, attitude and personality develop. Sure, there have been big milestones and markers this year-rolling over, pulling herself up, recovering from her palate surgery. But I realized that I have measured this past year in many much smaller moments strung together to form our father/daughter bond- bouncing and a happy squeal when I get home from work, her crawling across the living room to knock over every stack of blocks that I build, a headbutt "kiss", her pointing out her head and Mommy's belly button, her grabbing her hairbrush attempting to comb her hair and mine. The past year has been everything people said it would be and more. It's been faster, more difficult, and most importantly, far better than I ever could have imagined. Thanks, Grace. I love you and Happy First Birthday.

Damn You, Victoria!

I've decided that Victoria's Secret must not like men very much. I know that sounds somewhat irrational given that the retailer provides great joy to men who date/marry Victoria's Secret shoppers and provides great "catalogs" for those men that don't. But how else can you explain the BioFit Seven Way Bra ? I was walking through the mall recently when the V.S. window sign advertising the BioFit scared the hell out of me. Apparently, this technological marvel has straps that can be fastened in seven different configurations. There's the Standard, the CrissCross, the Crossback, the ZigZag, the Loopty-Loo, the Flying V and the Cloverleaf. For decades, men have been confounded by ordinary bra straps and clasps, now we have to wrestle something that I need an engineering degree to decipher? Hopefully, the packaging includes a diagram and instructions for removal.

As a married man I know there is a narrow window between "Let's fool around," and "Nevermind, I wonder who's on Letterman,". I can't be wasting crucial seconds staring at blueprints. If Amanda purchases one of these things I may be in real trouble. I'm going to have to dispatch some Bothan spies to steal the plans to this thing or the Rebellion in my pants is going to be short-lived. Of course, even with instructions I'd still need my ham hands to cooperate. I'm not exactly operating with a surgeon's finesse. I'd hoped that as I aged I'd get smoother and more confident, kinda like the Dos Equis Most Interesting Man in the World, but now this bra threatens to make that a "one step forward, two steps back" proposition. Thanks, Victoria's Secret.

Rejected Halloween Costume #2

Amanda has vetoed another Halloween costume for the girl: Grace and I wearing matching white suits. Ah, just as well, she's too young to say "Da plane, Da plane." anyway.

"There was nothing normal about that."

My daughter Grace had surgery five weeks ago to repair a partial cleft of her soft palate. The surgery was successful thanks to the fine docs and staff at Johns Hopkins. While sitting around Grace's room after the surgery I was thinking about how I would describe the whole process. I thought about Tom Petty's lyric, "the waiting is the hardest part". And the waiting was tough-the anxious anticipation in the preceding days, the nervousness during the actual surgery and the boredom in the room after the surgery -but it turns out the waiting was not nearly the hardest part. In the evening following the surgery Grace sent a worrisome father's heart rate skyrocketing, giving me the biggest scare of my life.

As I said, the surgery was a success; we simply had to stay overnight until Grace recuperated enough to start feeding properly. Around dinnertime, Grace, who was acting pretty happy, if a little off from the anesthesia and her big day, decided to throw up. Blood. A lot of blood. One moment she's sitting in her hospital crib looking around. One cough later she's pouring out a coffee colored Niagra Falls. Sissy Spacek had less blood poured on her in Carrie. I don't know how Grace's digestive system housed that much blood. And, of course, her little body decided to do this while the nurse was out of the room.

I have genuinely feared for my safety a handful of times in my life, but I've never been as scared as I was at that instant. In that way that time slows and you can think a thousand things in a millisecond, I was instantly afraid for her, wondered what the hell was going on and felt incredibly helpless. As Amanda ran to Grace's side, I punched the nurse call button and, in what I can only imagine was a squeaky Peter Brady croak, yelled to them to please send someone because my daughter was vomiting blood everywhere. Grace, who has grown into big girl, suddenly looked impossibly tiny sitting in a blood covered hospital gown.

Our nurse responded immediately and calmly explained that this occurence was normal post-surgery and that since the blood was not bright red (fresh) we shouldn't be concerned. (I should say here that this was one of the instances that made the Hopkins experience great. The nurse was in no way condascending or dismissive when she explained all this. She understood our concern and anxiety, but her calm kept us calm. Because in my mind all I could think was that this was anything but normal.) So, since the blood looked like barbecue sauce and not bright red Hollywood blood the sutures were probably intact and the blood Grace threw up was old blood that had drained down her throat during and since the surgery. A visit from the Plastics resident confirmed this and set us somewhat at ease. Although, the resident also used the word normal and I maintain there was nothing normal about what I witnessed.

Hopefully, I'll never again experience that combination of fear and helplessness. The good news was that The Puking, though it scared Amanda and I, made Grace feel a whole bunch better. Grace has a check-up next week to see how she is healing. Hopefully, that day I'll hear the word normal and believe it.

Welcome New Readers

Since I may have a few new readers via Facebook (thanks for reading guys) I have decided to post links to some of my favorite posts so that, if so inclined, new readers can check out some of my older stuff without having to read all of the archives. Check out these links to see my thoughts on:profiling potential terrorists, why I despise Coldstone Creamery , my frustrating weed eater ,space travel , how President Bush has lost my respect, the marketing of the human male, flea markets, my fear of foodborne illness, the wussification of America, my raging germophobia, my first solo trip with Grace to the grocery store and my adventures as an amateur orthodontist.

Rejected Halloween Costume.

I'm sure this will not be the last, but I have had my first halloween costume for Grace vetoed by the wife. I thought we should dress Grace like the creature from Alien and then I would wear her in the Baby Bjorn which would be decorated so it looked like she was bursting from my gut just like the movie. Oh well, back to the drawing board.

We Now Return To Regularly Scheduled Programming.

Okay, so that was a much longer hiatus than I anticipated. I haven't blogged since early June because it has been a very busy summer. Since Memorial Day I have: moved (twice, technically), started working at the Big Green Bookstore again (glad to be back working with my buds), stepped down as the Governor of Alaska (You Betcha!), sweated my Dad's five day hospital stay (he's fine), ignored my fantasy baseball team (sorry Warren), learned much (about myself and others), helped remodel our rental house(man, I hate painting), called the President a liar during a joint session of Congress, beamed proudly as Grace learned to crawl and pull herself up (she'll walk soon I think), worried mightily through her cleft surgery and recovery (she recovered great and hasn't missed a beat), memorized a half-dozen Elmo DVDs ("Read, read, read, read, Elmo's a pirate who loves to read."), was eliminated from the AL East race by September 1st (wait, that was the Orioles) and had reaffirmed for me what I already knew (that as long as I have Amanda and Grace, I have everything I need). Now that I've updated, how about a return to snarky, sarcastic, insignificant opinion and nonsense?

Even though I wasn't writing, I spent the summer observing, worrying, cheering, reading, complaining, fretting, watching TV, wallowing in pessimism...well, the usual. I have some notes, on paper and in my head, so hopefully I'll have some rapid fire posts out of the gate. Though, time management is not a strong suit of mine and available time seems ever dwindling. We'll see. Tonight I start with a short post-a few unimportant questions that have been nagging me lately.

Will landscape designers who plan layouts for business properties ever take into consideration how their shrubs/trees/hedges affect a driver's ability to see oncoming traffic? I'm tired of having my front end almost ripped off by a passing vehicle because I've had to inch out into the street to peer around an ill-placed hedge. Or maybe I should just stop going to the mall.

How did it take me this long to discover Chick-Fil-A's chicken mini breakfast sandwiches? A chicken nugget on soft, buttered roll that is the exact size of the opening of the barbecue sauce container, thereby making it perfect for dipping? Brilliant!

Why is it that while plaid shorts are deemed acceptable summer attire, plaid pants are considered ridiculous?

If Dan Brown writes a book, but there's nobody there to buy it, is it still the biggest release of the year?

Should I feel guilty if, while eating the aforementioned chicken mini, I pass a tractor trailer loaded with chickens stuffed into cages?

What will happen to all the Marvel themed rides at Universal Studios theme parks now that Disney has purchased Marvel for $4 billion? Coming in 2010-The Incredible Bulk roller coaster and Slider-man 3D thrill ride!

I understand being required to carry car insurance because I may harm someone else, but why must I be forced to carry health insurance? Of course I have coverage now, but if I was single and healthy I would consider skipping it (if given that option by our heavy-handed President.)

Somewhere, The Colonel Is Pissed.

Kentucky Grilled Chicken? Really? Let's forget the stupid slogan, "Unthink." Let's forget the knuckleheadedness (Hey, if they can make up a word so can I.) of knocking what you do best. Why can't people just stick with what they know? Dammit, there is still a place in this world for artery clogging, deep fried, grease dripping, extra crispy chicken skin. You guys are still going to sell plenty of buckets because, trust me, fat guys everywhere are working very hard to NOT unthink. You want to serve a new product? Keep the chicken and the bones and sell me a bucket of extra crispy skin. KFS!

After weeks of being bombarded with the ads and hearing one positive testimonial from a friend, I caved and bought a ten piece bucket of KGC. My mistake. Well, first, let me list the positive. I expected the grill marks to be painted on, as fake as the yellow cheese color of the mac & cheese. Much to my surprise, the grill marks appear to be real. The negatives? Still greasy (which maybe in this argument I should list as a positive), bland tasting (maybe all the finger-lickin' flavor is in the frying oil) and apparently their new grill shrinks the chicken. Seriously, these were the dinkiest pieces of chicken I have ever been served. Kate Moss, at her coke-addled worst, had more meat on her bones than did any of these ten pieces. The breasts (the chicken's not Kate Moss's) were the size of normal thighs, the thighs were the size of normal wings and I'd prefer the drumsticks be larger than the average drummette you get as buffalo wings. The bucket was half empty. Just like my head must have been when I decided to purchase the stuff in the first place.

Tough Week

It's been a bit of a brutal week here at That's No Moon World Headquarters. Sometime while we were out of town on an overnight trip this past weekend, one of our cats, Bam-Bam, escaped from the house and has been missing since. We've canvassed the neighborhood, put up fliers, contacted the proper authorities and left food out all to no avail. Now that it's been five days, things look pretty bleak. We hoped he was lurking near the house because Bam-Bam is truly a fraidy cat. Having been an inside cat for his entire nine years, he has the street sense of a frozen turkey. In fact, he was voted Least Likely to Survive Outdoors by his high school classmates. Unfortunately, he wasn't just hiding out nearby waiting for us to come home.

So, after nearly a week of futile searching and following a few leads that went nowhere, I am reduced to rooting for the Disney ending. I hope one morning I'll open the door to find him weary from his outdoor adventure. He'll come in and regale us with his tale of the magnificent journey he took, telling us of the help he received from a puckish squirrel and the dim-witted, but hilarious rabbit. Alas, this is no movie and, unless Bam-Bam is better equipped to live outside than I think he is, I fear we've seen the last of him.

I didn't expect his escape to affect me as deeply as it has. Having never had pets as a kid, this is the first real loss of a pet that I've experienced. I know I like to joke about how much I hate the cats and being only an animal tolerator, but this has left me close to devastated. I just have to hope that either he has been scooped up by someone who is now taking good care of him or that he is having a grand time frolicking about the great outdoors. Imagining any other outcome just bums me out.

I probably won't be writing much, if at all, in the short term future because we have some other major business to attend to here shortly. Please don't worry, everyone is well; I'll explain soon enough.

Thud.

So... that was a bummer. But a little perspective is in order. A quick-fire list of thoughts as the Caps season expired.

*Losing in a Game 7 blows. Losing to the Pens in Game 7 is just the worst. I'll take my good natured ribbing from family that are legit Pens fans. What I can't stomach is all the bandwagon asshats whose hockey knowledge is no deeper than the 87 on their jersey. (Sadly, there are plenty of morons wearing Red #8s that fall into that same category.)

*Rarely do Game 7s (Games 7?) live up to the hype. That this series lived up to advance OVERhyping for six games was somewhat surprising. I thought this game might be a dud. Obviously, I was hoping it would be a dud in the other direction.

*Speaking of hype, it will be fun to watch the national media rush to tear down what they rushed to build up. (Ovie, the Caps, The Game That Will Save Hockey)

*Don Cherry must be masturbating into his plaid jacket.

*As much as I can't stand to praise Sidney Crosby, I must. He is many things-a whiny d-bag, a complainer, a mini-Mario and unfortunately, a great player. One thing I can't call him anymore is a pussy. He hangs around the tough parts of the rink and gets hard-nosed, dirty work goals. Having magnificent hands doesn't hurt either. I'm gonna go vomit now.

*I wasn't surprised that the Caps lost tonight, but I sure was surprised by how they lost. It's hard to believe that they played their worst game of the season on a night that required their best. I told Killer earlier today that if they started tonight like they started game 7 against the Rangers, the Caps would get their doors blown off. I don't like it when I'm right. Did they hit the ice flat? I'm not so sure, but it didn't take long to turn into a clunker. Certainly, Fleury's save on the Ovechkin breakaway set a tone. It pumps one bench and deflates another. Then the "8 second" goal just kicks the team in the nuts. Finally, the Guerin goal 30 seconds into the second period really erases any confidence that you can bounce back from a terrible first period.

*I said before the series began that no matter what happened I would be happy with the season the Caps completed. Once the disappointment of tonight wears off it will be easier to see the progress that was made. The team advanced further than last year. Sometimes there is a steep learning curve. I think the future is very bright for this young team. On the other hand, there are a lot of good young teams that aren't just going to let the rise of Ovechkin and the Caps occur like some kind of coronation. Two of them (the Hawks and the Pens) are still playing, gaining even more experience. There will be many more battles like this series in the coming years.

*I was very happy to see the majority of fans stayed at Verizon Center after the final horn to salute what really was a fantastic season. I'm sure leaving the ice to chants of M-V-P will provide Alex Ovechkin little solace tonight, but hopefully it indicates that this fanbase is growing beyond a bunch of fair-weather bandwagon jumpers.

*I was lucky to have an awesome season watching the Caps in person. It was a great decision to become a 6-game "season ticket holder". Had a blast with my ticket buddies, learning much about seat ettiquette and learning that it is best not to "Drown the Anger" when seat ettiquette has been violated. Through other generosity I was also able to watch two games from the club level including an AO hat trick in February and the turning-point game 5 of the Rangers series. All in all, I was 6-2 in person but unbeaten in the fun department. A truly great season in an awesome atmosphere.

*Finally, tonight is further evidence of what my friends and I have known for a long time-it is hard to be a Caps fan. There are many great joys which are often outweighed by the sting of playoff hardship. I truly believe that all the crap piled on decade after decade will only make the moment that much sweeter as we someday watch the Cup parade down Pennsylvania Ave. Until then, keep Rockin' the Red. Let's Go Caps.

The best goal I never saw.

Last night's David Steckel OT game-winner that propelled the Caps to Game 7 was, what, the 4th biggest goal scored in Caps' playoff history? I'd say number one would be Joe Juneau poking it past Hasek in OT to send Washington to its only trip to the Cup finals. I'd say number two would be Dale Hunter abusing Hextall to finish Game 7 OT versus the Flyers many moons ago. Third is tough, but I'd have to go with Sergei Fedorov ousting the Rangers in round one this year. Then I put Steckel's tip job from last night. I make this list to point out that I watched live half of the four greatest goals in Caps playoff history. I remember Juneau's like it was yesterday and leaped for joy when Fedorov connected a couple weeks ago. Which means...That's right, after years of torment by the Penguins, after seeing not one but two Pens OT winners bounce in off Capital defensemen in the last week, after riding the roller coaster that was regulation of Game 6 including rocking like Leo Mazzone on crystal meth through the final two minute penalty kill, I did not actually see David Steckel's game-winner when it happened.

We had eaten dinner and watched the first three periods of the game at my aunt's house. Had a lovely time, despite the ulcer inducing third period. Once the horn sounded, it was time to pack up and head for home in time to watch OT. Except that now with a seven-month-old, the packing up doesn't quite go as fast as it used to. High chair? Check. Diaper bag, food, toys? Check. Okay, let's hit it. Oh, yes, you're right, we should probably take the girl. Of course, then Mother Nature conspired to slow our ride with some heavy rain.

Finally, we make it home and I pick up the Comcast remote. The goddamn, convoluted, All On-button-that-never-works Comcast remote control. First the sound comes up but I realize the TV is still black. Furiously grabbing the remote, my fat fingers hit every button but the TV power. Finally, the green light on the TV starts flashing, but this TV takes FOREVER to warm up. Then I hear Joe B. shout the word SCORE! It sounds like good news, but after SCORE! I seem to have gone momentarily stupid as my brain races to piece together what it is hearing. Finally, after like ten minutes (or, more likely, four seconds) the color pops up and I am relieved to see the Caps merrily celebrating at center ice. Sweet relief, but instant disappointment as I realize that, though I am ecstatic over the victory, I missed out on the payoff moment. I missed the building tension and antsy feelings of OT leading up to the dramatic conclusion. I missed out on the joy of witnessing, at least with my eyeballs, the moment when enough was enough and Washington got a measure of payback against Pittsburgh. This will sound really corny, but I missed out on the shared experience that my far flung buddies and I have as we watch these games together. I hope the boys in Red have one more magic victory in them tomorrow night. And I hope like hell that destiny lets me hear and see this one. Rock the Red. Keep the Faith. Let's Go Caps.

Who's more the fool, the fool or the fool that follows him?

And there it was. 3:28 into overtime. Barely enough time to settle into the extra session. Had you headed to the arena men's room at the end of regulation you may have still been in the john. Or seen it on a concourse tv monitor as you hustled back to your seat. 3:28 into OT, 1:59 into the killing of a penalty that had to be called, even in playoff OT. Nary half an hour after The Great Eight had seemingly, once again, rescued a season, the Penguins had, somehow, done it again. It was a fluky goal to be sure, but with Pittsburgh fluky is the norm. And, truthfully, whether it was a bad bounce or a sure-eyed laser from the slot, it was a dagger to the heart all the same. A dagger that made the bit of optimism that Ovechkin's goal rekindled seem trivial, silly. A dagger that hushed the crowd and made Monday night win or go home for the Capitals. A dagger that sent me on a cooling off walk up and down my driveway that probably lasted longer than the overtime session.

The goal was so expected that my phone didn't buzz with a single text message from fellow fans after the game. There was no need for communication, we were all thinking the same thing. We are students of history and need no flash cards or pop quizzes to jog our memory. This was just the latest installment in a story of hockey heartbreak. Sure, the driveway walk used to be a ripping of the sweater or the smashing of a remote control. Maybe I'm more mellow, but I'm no less frustrated. Two decades of this frustration leads to a little pessimism, a little paranoia and a whole lot of "Here we go again". I knew this series was over when the Caps took a 2 games to none lead. Pens had 'em right where they wanted them. I knew this series was over when Game 3 went to overtime. I knew the series was over when the shot tipped off Varly's glove and trickled in during Game 4. But see, now I'm not so sure.

I still have an inkling of a sliver of a wisp of hope that the Caps can still pull this off. Make no mistake, hope is all that remains. Common sense, history, statistics, trends and the curse all hopped the midnight shuttle to Pittsburgh. Maybe I'll be made a fool on Monday or Wednesday, but I won't be made a fool until every bit of hope is officially destroyed. Because if there is a chance, then a fan's duty is to believe. This team, over many years, has not reciprocated the love its fans have shown. At least not in terms of playoff success. However, a real fan cheers because they enjoy the team, not solely because the team is good. And I love this team; when on, they play a style that is fun to watch. Maybe these kids, and let's not forget that is what most of them still are, really do need to pushed to the brink to bring out their best. We know they are good enough, now they must show us that they want it bad enough. I'm just dumb enough to think they can, that this year is different. So stow the doom and gloom for at least one more day. Rock The Red. Keep the Faith. Let's Go Caps.

Father of the Year.

Like most parents do with their own kids, I sing silly songs to Grace all the time. Sometimes I make up lyrics and a tune, but since I really have little to no musical talent, I usually sing goofy new lyrics to existing tunes. Lately I've noticed an alarming tendency to sing clean lyrics to the tune of dirty songs that would never ever be appropriate to sing to my six month old daughter.

Examples:when making her bottle- Oh, me so hungry. Oh, oh me so hungry. Me eat for long time.

While she's really jumping in her bouncy seat-She's a very bouncy girl, who really loves her mama. She's Super Grace, Super Grace, She's Super Gracie.

Please, no one call Child Protective Services.

"Welcome to the Circus"

The only thing more improbable than the Caps' Game 7 win over the Rangers was the height of my leap off the couch when Sergei Federov scored the game-winning goal. My fat ass has not jumped that high in a long time. Amanda was afraid I was going to crash into something as I leapt over Grace's play mat(Grace wasn't on it) and took a lap around the kitchen silently screaming (so as to not alarm Grace). Think about it, a Caps fan, weighed on by the memories of past playoff failures, had to be an incurable optomist to think this team could complete the comeback against the Rangers. The Caps have compiled quite the greatest hits album of hope crushers before Tuesday night: Losing six out of seven game 7s. Peter Nedved. The Jagr Experiment. The Easter Epic. Last year's comeback falling short versus the Flyers. Too many blown three games to one leads. Esa Tikkanen. That's why Tuesday's victory, despite being only a first round series victory, feels so important.

The victory allows a fan base to breathe, once again aware that there is such a thing as Round 2. It allows the mind to fill with all the great memories of Caps past that make us love this team in the first place:Hunter "in alone" versus Philly in 1988. Al Iafrate blistering radar guns at the All-Star weekend. Dino. Bonzai hanging five goals on the Lightning. Kono, Dahlen and Halpern working the cycle. Godzilla carrying a team all the way to the Finals. Joe Juneau slipping an OT winner past Hasek that sent grown men shrieking like little girls.

It allows a fan base to dissect and celebrate a wacky series that joins a host of wacky playoff series in the Caps yearbook. The loudest arena I've ever been inside. Avery being such a douche that his own team benches him. Ovie adding to his highlight reel in Game 5. Matt Bradley grinding his way to not one, but two goals. Tortarella melting down and squirting fans when he was the one that needed to cool off. Bruce Boudreau having the balls to hand the helm of The Dissapointment Express to a kid goalie. Simeon Varlamov having the balls to right the ship and make Bruuuuuce look like a genius. A Tom Poti sighting. A Brashear suspension. (Deserved, by the way. Perhaps too severe, but definitely deserved.) Federov bailing out a tight team that was on the verge of a setback to reputation and development.

The danger here is that now, perhaps, the Caps breathe too big a sigh of relief. With a goal of simply improving on last year, which they have now accomplished, they are playing with house money. But they shouldn't be just "happy to be here" in Round 2. This team is good enough to go much deeper. If they don't, I will still be happy with this season. However, it will hurt like hell to go out to the Pens. That's why, instead of feeling like an end, the victory over the Rangers must feel like a beginning. The Caps slayed one Ghost of Playoffs Past by winning a Game 7. Now comes playoff nemesis Pittsburgh, a team that gives every Caps fan the heebie-jeebies. Somebody cue Ray Parker Jr.; there is more work to be done.

Caps, Beard Soldier On.

I honestly haven't been able to put together a cohesive post regarding the Caps' huge win over the Rangers on Tuesday. As a long suffering Caps fan it was almost too much to digest. I am shocked, elated, surprised and generally stunned that the Caps completed the trip back from being down three games to one. It's almost enough to drive the pessimist out of me. (yeah, right) I'll try to write something that makes sense in the coming days; until then enjoy this beautiful photo of my playoff peach fuzz. As you can see, it remains quite sad. Even sadder-this is the fullest, most robust beard I've ever grown. Ready for ZZ Top, I am not.

"The Pig Is a Filthy Animal"

I guess Jules from Pulp Fiction was right to not "dig on swine". The swine flu was pretty easy to ignore when it popped up in Elsewhere, USA. Now that a couple of probable cases have been discovered in Anne Arundel County, however, the hypochondria in me has slipped into overdrive. I know, logically, that if I take the same precautions as I would during a normal cold and flu season that I should be fine. Unfortunately, the hypochondriac doesn't think logically. With the evening news barking in my ear, I'll wonder which of the people I pass in the grocery store is about to give me this new influenza bug. Truthfully, I'm far more worried about Grace than myself. I'd hate for her to be exposed, but a bubble doesn't seem very practical. Do they make Popemobile strollers?

Daddy Blooper.

Have you ever spilled coffee all over the inside of your trunk because you folded and stowed the stroller without remembering that the wife's full cup of joe was still in the cupholder? No? Your car thanks you.

The Beard Lives Another Day.

Through some serious good fortune I watched tonight's game 5 of the Caps-Rangers series from the club level at Verizon Center. I still think I know how this series ends, but I didn't let that stop me from enjoying tonight. What a game.

*Muckers and grinders everywhere are celebrating tonight after watching Matt Bradley pot two goals in the first period. One was a sweet deke and the other a cheapie that found a hole. Both goals gave the Caps some early mo and kept the crowd revved up.

* That was easily the loudest game I've attended. To use the tired expression, the atmosphere was electric. From the opening draw the crowd was nuts; there was a sustained buzz that I had never heard in that building before. The Caps did not need their fake decibel meter tonight; you could barely hear after the first goal. The only hiccup was the dope that apparently poured his beer on Ranger coach John Tortarella. I have no love for Tortarella, however that's just classless. That is the kind of thing that you might expect in NY or Philly. Though it was hilarious watching Jim Schoenfeld wrestle Torts on the bench preventing him from whacking the fan with a stick.

*Speaking of classless, the Rangers scratched Sean Avery tonight. It looked like they missed his edge. I was hoping to see him play so I could see him freighttrained in person. Oh well. Colton Orr kept up the dirty stuff, though, with the his clotheslining of Nick Backstrom. Bruce Boudreau was smart to keep his stars on the bench for the last five minutes of the game. If the score in game 6 gets out of hand it might explode into a bloodbath.

*Alex Ovechkin scored another incredible goal. This video does it no justice, the in-house replay showed just how great it was. He shrugs off one defender (Drury, I think) who tries to hit him, pushes the puck through the moving skates of Derrick Morris, kicks the puck back up to his stick, falls down and pushes it past Lundqvist. Silly stuff. The fans move to the edge of their seats every time he touches the puck. And are rewarded way more often than you would think possible.

*Simeon Varlomov earned his second shutout of the series. He wasn't dominant, but made every play. Even after the game, during the celebration, as someone slid the game puck towards him, he casually flipped it away from the net with his glove. H wasn't going to let any pucks behind him tonight.

So, after all that, as great as it was, the Caps still need two straight wins to win the series. Likely? No. But after what I saw and felt otnight, anything seems possible.

I Know How This Movie Ends.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Not Yet Soured By Playoffs Past.

Gracie and I were Rocking the Red during the third period of the Caps' 4-0 shutout of the Rangers last night. Look how intently she's analyzing the Caps penalty kill unit. Or perhaps she's looking for an escape route. Either way, I was loving it. (Also, for my sanity, I've decided to write no more Caps posts until this series is over.)

New Blog Alert

I've been meaning to post a new link for several weeks now. My beautiful bride is writing again, posting at With Grace. Hopefully you'll enjoy her tales of madcap adventures raising her cute kid and putting up with her incredibly handsome and brainy husband.

Rangers 4-Capitals 3

With two days until Game 2 of the Caps-Rangers, there is plenty of time to stew over game 1 and chew on the possibilties for game 2. In Game 1 there was a nice mix of the good, the bad and the so-so.

THE GOOD
-The Capitals' centers: The Caps centers dominated in the faceoff circle, winning 46 of 64 faceoffs. This helped the power play rack up zone time and led to several quality scoring chances right off of draws.

-The Caps' power play: 2 for 7 doesn't sound great at first glance, but 28% is a better clip than the Caps' PP (which ranked second in the league) operated at all season. Not to mention that the Rangers PK was top ranked by giving up goals at only a 14% rate. One reason the PP was successful was :

-Traffic: Guys went to the net and took the abuse necessary to disrupt Henrik Lundqvist. Tomas Fleischmann's deflection goal was a direct result of setting up in the meat grinder. Brooks Laich clogged the crease on the Caps' third goal, allowing Alex Semin to fire home the juicy rebound. Traffic in front of Lundqvist is a must if the Caps are to solve King Henrik. He's just too good when he can see the puck.

-Ovechkin:What more can be said about this guy? He was everywhere-hitting, earning two assists, firing shots from all over and completely undressing Rangers D-men a couple of times.

THE BAD

-Jose Theodore: Theodore said it perfect himself after the game, "I wasn't good enough." Theodore, or as Washington Post columnist Mike Wise has dubbed him, Jose Threeormore let the supposedly anemic Rangers offense pierce the net four times on only twenty-one shots. The first goal and fourth, game-winning goal are saves he must make. The second and third goals, both on the PK, maybe get a bit of a pass. They were both great, top shelf shots with the defense a man down. However, any goalie that wins in the playoffs makes those kinds of saves; pulling out a big stop when it seems unlikely can bolster the confidence of the entire team. Just as letting in softies can deflate an entire team.

-Jeff Schultz: One goal doesn't lose a game, but Schultz was front and center as he got embarrassingly turned inside-out by Dubinsky on the game-winning goal. Jeff Schultz is a big man who could put guys on their can but won't; in this case all he had to do was stay between Dubinsky and the goal. Instead, he follows the puck fake, steps to the outside and clumsily falls down as Dubinsky rolls by. You know who falls for that fake? I do. An uncoordinated, overweight rec league player who didn't start playing hockey until he was 19 years old falls on his face after biting on a lousy fake, not an NHL quality defenseman. Coach Boudreau on Schultz, "This is the NHL, you get beat one-on-one, you can't hide from that. That's not an error of anything than he didn't get the job done on that play."

-Penalties: Once again, the Caps managed to take two delay of game penalties for shooting the puck off the rink. Then they let a Rangers power play that ranked 28th in the league cash in on 2 of 4 chances.

THE SO-SO

Sergei Federov: He was great in the face-off circle but otherwise looked slow and off-kilter. Maybe he's dinged or maybe he's just showing his age. He also took one of the delay of game penalties.

-The Officiating: The Zebras weren't in top form tonight, missing a lot. On the Ranger's first goal two penalties should have been called on the Rags as they rushed up ice. Nik Antropov interfered with Fleischmann eliminating a back checker and super-douche Sean Avery slewfooted Mike Green at the blue line allowing Gomez to walk in unimpeded on Theodore. The refs also missed a high stick to Federov's mush early in the game and the linesman flat out blew the offsides call on an Ovechkin dash to the middle. The Caps did get a break, however, when the Rangers were whistled for a tripping call late when it looked like it was only Ovie's own momentum that made him fall.

-Flipping the Switch:There has been talk for weeks about whether the Caps could "turn it back on" when the playoffs started after playing meaningless games for a while. I would say that they did successfully turn it back on. They played hard, passionate hockey from the opening draw. They looked pretty sharp and stuck to their puck possession system, eliminating many of the odd-man rushes and general sloppy plays that characterized their last 10-15 games. Unfortunately, that still didn't translate into a win.

-The Playoff Beard: My beard is so-so to begin with, but now it seems extremely pointless. I believe fellow bearder Killer received an online message that simply read, "Shave your shit now, Dude." Hah! It's much too early for that. This a best-of-seven, damnit.

So, what does this all mean for Game 2? The obvious question is whether or not Boudreau should bench Theodore in favor of 21 year old rookie goalie Simeon Vharlamov. If you believe that playing Theodore means you are going to be in an 0-2 hole then you may as well give Vharlamov a shot. I prefer to think that Theo can bounce back. I also don't think throwing a kid with only 5 games of NHL experience into the Stanley Cup playoff frying pan is the best idea for his long term growth. Everybody must remain calm and let this thing play out. Nobody thought the Caps were going to sweep this series. Besides, if I may rationalize this loss away for a moment, the Caps are 6-13 all time in playoff series in which they one the first game. (I'm trying to ignore that they are 4-6 alltime when losing the first game). I said it weeks ago and I'll say it again- This team is good enough to win the Cup and has enough flaws (goaltending, defense,stupid penalties) to go out in the first round. I will root like hell, but I will not believe they will win this series until I see them shaking hands with dissapointed Rangers. Until then, I watch the series the way I always do-expext the worst, hope for the best.

Drool All Over 'Em, Let 'Em Know You're There.

Grace's teething stage has hit overdrive. Lots of gnawing, drooling, crying, drooling, sore gums and more drooling, yet only two teeth have popped through. I think one of these days she's going to wake up with five new ones at once. In the meantime, she's drooling so much that Jim Cantore is in my front yard setting up a live remote. I'd consider building an Ark, but I think Grace would gnaw through it faster than the termites.

In other awesome baby developments, Grace has started laughing. Not just grinning, cooing and squealing; she has delivered some full-on, cute as hell, HAHAHA belly laughs. Just not for me. I can earn the coos/smiles/squeals of delights, but no belly laughs. Amanda's the goddamn Richard Pryor of the family apparently, while Grace gets as stonefaced as Buckingham Palace guards at a Jim Belushi show when I try to make her laugh. Then, the other day, it got worse. Upon hearing some serious baby laughter I peeked around the corner to see Grace laughing at the cat. THE CAT. My nemesis, the cat, elicits hysterical laughter from my daughter where I cannot. I guess pooping in potted plants and pissing outside the litter box passes for funny these days. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go try to work up a hairball.

Maybe the World Isn't Such a Bad Place After All.

I think it is no secret that I am a skeptical, cynical, curmudgeonly pessimist. I've been known to utter the phrase "I hate people." because, well, I sometimes hate people in general. However, a small, but impactful event recently reminded that not everyone out there is a jackass.

Friday night found the family and a friend hanging out at the Barnes and Noble in Bowie, MD. We were feeding Grace at the Cafe (she just loves her mocha lattes) and she was being a little fussy. I try to be aware when the girl is loud (especially in a bookstore) because I am sensitive to the other patrons who don't necessarily find a wailing baby to be the perfect accompaniment to their coffee break. When Grace calmed down and completed her feeding I left her with mom and started browsing. I'll paraphrase the exchange I had with another customer because, though I've tried, I can't remember exactly what he said:

Older Gentleman: "Are you the dad?"
Me: (Immediately thinking he's going to give me a hard time about the noise.) "Yes."
OG: (Handing me a Barnes and Noble bag.) "Then consider this a gift from a stranger. You have a lovely family. Enjoy your baby."
Me: barely able to get out a stunned "Thank You."

After showing Amanda the gift, which was a small gift set from the book Guess How Much I Love You, we both went over and thanked him again and spoke with him (and his wife and granddaughter) for a bit. He simply said he was a grandfather who loved kids and that having babies around brought great joy (or something like that). I told him that gestures like his helped restore my faith in people. A brief exchange to be sure, but one that will stick with me for a long time. And one that hopefully I can use as a teaching moment with Grace one day. Sometimes, no matter how many amazing people you have in your life, it takes a stranger to shine a light on what's really important. Thank you, Sir.

Everybody Grow a Weirdo Beardo.

It's time for my annual exercise in futility:the playoff beard. Futile on one hand because the superstition has never helped the Caps advance beyond round one. Futile on the other hand because I can't grow a beard any better than your average eighth grader. But this year my ratty, patchy, peach fuzz could actually help people. The Caps are having a beard-a-thon to raise money for Capitals Charities. So good luck and happy growing! If you want to sponsor me go here .

Bowling Alley-Enemy of the Germophobe #2

Thanks to the cringe inducing feedback I received (some in the comments, but mostly talking to people) after my post on filthy hotel rooms I have decided to make The Enemy of the Germophobe a recurring series. I have no shortage of places and things that gross me out, so stay tuned.

Today's installment is that house of horrors known as the bowling alley. Let's start with the obvious-the shoes. Foot funk is gross. Community foot funk is really gross. Maybe when ordering shoes I need to specify that I want the size 13 pair not just turned in by the guy with trenchfoot. And don't tell me about the anti-bacterial spray they keep on the counter. That stuff is about as effective as the Orioles bullpen. One squirt in the heel is no match for the germs that lurk in the toejam neighborhood. And the guy half-spraying them wants to be holding those shoes about as much as I want to be wearing them. The sweet odiferous cocktail of foot sweat and pleather is more than enough to turn your stomach. If I want to smell old cheese at the bowling alley I will head for the snack bar.

Which, because I'm a dope, is exactly what I did last night because we were bowling around dinner time. There's a good chance (I hope) that this snack bar is cleaner than most drive-thrus I seem unable to avoid. However, at the drive-thru I can't see what goes on with my food. Which you would think would drive me nuts, except that my overwhelming need for saturated fat usually pushes the fear out of my brain. Anyway, back at the bowling alley's E. Coli Cafe I first get to witness the lack of hand washing after money handling. Then I hear "Ooh, good save!" and look up in time to see my frozen burger patty picked up off a shelf under the counter where it had landed after slipping out of the cook's hand on the way to the grill. I'm glad it didn't hit the floor, but I'm pretty sure that dark shelf must be where all the cockroaches hang out while the lights are on. "Excuse me, Mam, maybe you could sprinkle a few tainted peanuts and pistachios on the roll for good measure."

Finally, beware the dreaded finger holes looming on every ball. These havens of disease force the germophobe to weigh the pros and cons of wearing a latex glove when he bowls. Only the embarrassment of looking ridiculous keeps the gloves at home. Though, wearing one glove Michael Jackson-style really wouldn't look much sillier than those crazy wrist supports the serious bowlers wear. Think about it- how many nose picks, crotch scratches and wedgie pulls grace bowler fingertips just prior to picking up the ball? Nasty, right? Forget the ball polisher, I want my bowling alley to have an autoclave.

I love to bowl; the bowling alley, like the liquor store and the back room at the video store, is one of America's great melting pots. I just wish that I didn't feel the need to shower when I'm finished.

Hold the Swagger, Please.

LET'S GO! I'M READY TO KICK SOME ASS! I'M READY TO RUN THROUGH A WALL! THESE GUYS ARE DEAD MEAT!

Oh, hi. Sorry, I'm just a little too jacked up on testosterone thanks to my new deodorant-Old Spice Gameday. I don't see what naming something Gameday has to do with how it smells either, but this is where I ended up. You see, normally I try to find a deodorant that does not have an overpowering scent, like Old Spice Original. However, lately, at least in Annapolis and my shopping radius (though it is still listed on the website), I have been unable to find the Original scent of anti-perspirant/deodorant. (Hey, you got your anti-perspirant in my deodorant! No, you got deodorant in my anti-perspirant!) I have found the Original scent deodorant alone, but this sweat machine I call a body needs heavy anti-perspirant reinforcements in the battle against B.O. Some people think B.O. is rugged and manly; I do not.

Dissapointed that the Original scent anti-perspirant was nowhere to be found I set out to find the least obtrusive scent available. Unfortunately for me, the chemists and the creative folks at Old Spice think it's necessary for guys to have 42 deodorant flavors to choose from. Then they assign them some of the dumbest names. Scanning the shelf presents the same problem I have when trying to buy handsoap, Gatorade or a slushie-What do all these cheesy names actually smell/taste like? I'm popping off lids, sniffing away, trying to sort through Arctic Blast, After Hours, Showtime, Pure Sport, Pacific Surge and Mountain Rush. What no Boom-Boom Berry Blast or Coniferous Breeze ? Finally, despite the fact that after a game I sometimes smell like three day old garbage, I settle on the Gameday flavor. It has the least overpowering scent and, not that I really care, sounds a little manly. At least more so than Ski Slope or Foaming Surf.

So I get home, apply a few swipes of the new stuff and relay my tale to my wife who proceeds to snicker and tell me I smell like a woman. Thanks Old Spice!

Four Out Of Five Babies Enjoy Rice Cereal. Guess Who Does Not.

As the photo might suggest, Day One of the "Introduce Rice Cereal to Grace via the Spoonful Experiment" didn't go so well. While I'm sure she'll grow to love it and certainly will master the art of eating from a spoon, she was less than thrilled with the first attempt. This "Dude, get that camera outta my face." moment came between the "Why do you keep shoving that gruel-covered plastic thing at me?" moment and the "Just bring me the damn bottle like we usually do because now I'm really hungry!" scream. Good times.

Other notes from the baby battlefront:
*Now a few days in, the rice cereal seems to have increased the frequency, ferocity and volume of the poo. Yesterday as I was changing her, I swear I could hear Jeff Goldblum behind me saying, "That's one big pile of shit."

*Grace refuses to crap in a wet diaper. I know she holds it so she can purposely soil a fresh one and drive me up the wall. When she poos it is usually not five to ten minutes after she has been changed. I worry that my daughter will be singularly responsible for filling the world's landfills just because she enjoys tweaking her parents.

*As Grace has discovered that her hands are more than just things that hang at the end of her arms and that she can grasp, pull and push with them, she has turned into Sylvester Stallone at feeding time. When drinking from the bottle she'll throw some Over the Top move at me, jerking the bottle out of her mouth and nearly out of my hand. A strong little bugger that one is. The first few times it was cute and funny; now it has become a constant battle for bottle control supremacy. Unfortunately, due to her cleft I can't just cede control and let her hold the bottle. (I still have to squeeze the formula into her mouth.) There is probably some metaphor about fathers and daughters and never again having the upper hand floating around in the situation but I really don't feel like thinking about that right now.

With Spring, Comes Our Pasttime.

In preparation for his upcoming baseball season, I have been playing catch with and pitching batting practice to Z for the better part of the week. It has reminded me why I love baseball so much. Not the game of millionaires and steroid fueled meatheads (though I don't begrudge any of them their paychecks and Camden Yards is still one of my favorite places on the planet); no, I've been enjoying the simple game of baseball that can as easy as tossing catch in the front yard. Zipping the ball back and forth requires no thought, no words, no analysis. You can lose yourself in the sunshine, the smell of the glove, the snap of cowhide smacking webbing, in the repetitive, but beautiful simplicity of stepping and throwing.

Steve McQueen bouncing a baseball off the wall to while away his time in the prison camp cooler in The Great Escape is just one example of baseball symbolizing America. Whether Abner Doubleday truly invented the game on American soil is irrelevant. The game was cultivated here- on vacant lots and pristine green grass, by spending hours bouncing tennis balls off the front steps and by feeding tokens into the batting cage, by making wiffleballs dance on the breeze and by marveling at the majestic sleight-of-hand of a well turned 6-4-3 double play. And, often, just by fathers and children, teammates and buddies, coaches and players, havin' a catch in the yard.

That's More Like It.

I've been bashing the Washington Capitals pretty hard the last couple weeks, however, I'm happy to say I don't feel like doing that this morning. Even though Nashville drew first blood, figuratively and literally, the Caps played the way we all know they are capable and ended their four game losing streak with a hard fought victory. For the first time in a long time, the Caps put together a complete performance. Backchecking forwards helped the defense. Puck chasing forecheckers played the cycle game, grinding down the Nashville defense. And, miracle of miracles, the Caps' big defensemen actually hit someone. There were some big collisions all night, but none was bigger than Shoane Morrisson decking Jason Arnott square in the chest with his shoulder. The hit put Arnott on his ass and out of the game.

This game was fun to watch because it included everything that makes hockey great: a playoff intensity (Nashville desperate to make the playoffs, Washington desperate to break out of their funk), amazing goaltending (Theodore was good, Ellis was outstanding), two beautiful, tic tac toe goals from the Caps and three fun fights. Donald Brashear took a rare beating from Wade Belak and Matt Bradley looked like he'd been bobbing for razor blades after getting wailed on by Jordan Tootoo, but the fights seemed to energize the Caps. Washington outworked Nashville from end to end and solved Ellis just often enough to earn two points. Hopefully, they can put together another solid effort Thursday in Philly. I'm not ready to declare the Caps back, but man were they fun to watch last night.

Aging Hotel-Enemy of the Germophobe

I had the occasion to spend Saturday night in a respected but aging hotel in Ocean City. As a hypochondriac germophobe I'm not a huge fan of hotels to begin with, but when the room looks like it hasn't been updated since I was in junior high school I'm even more wary. (Which is pretty ridiculous because a newer, shinier, cleaner "looking" hotel can be dirtier than an old hotel, but whatever.) To the germophobe, a hotel room is a hazard zone fraught with peril. Thanks to Dateline NBC (bedbugs, blacklights and moldy carpet, oh my!) and my subscription to Staphylococcus Illustrated, I know what dangers await in the hotel room. I can take a shower in a hotel bath and not feel clean. Once, because I was staying by myself for the week on a work trip, I wiped nearly every hard surface in the room (including the tv remote) with antibacterial wipes. Upon entering a hotel room my OCD senses start tingling as my good sense does battle with the hat trick of unknowns-Who stayed here last, what godawful things did they do while here, and how well was it really cleaned by the housekeeper that makes five bucks an hour?

The first step, and I think all my germophobe counterparts hiding behind their surgical masks out there will agree, is always to remove the bed spread and toss it in the corner because I will have no use for that filth ridden rag for the duration of my stay. I only had to be told once that many hotels don't change the bedspreads between guests. I don't even know if it's true or not, but I don't take any chances. They are lucky I don't set fire to it upon arrival. One thing's for sure, I refuse to share a bed cover with Johnny SpankIt who just spent the down time on his business trip watching porn with the hand lotion nearby.

Once I disposed of the bedspread, a quick survey of the room netted a few other sights that immediately triggered the psychosomatic itching. Is that crusty red stain dribbling down the front of the nightstand drawer old pizza sauce...or dried blood? The stains on the exposed side of the boxspring guarantee that I won't be looking under the sheets at what other treats have been left on the actual mattress. And let's not even speak of the faded couch that was spotted enough that I didn't sit on it for fear that it might actually be sticky. I had to bite my tongue the next morning when my mother-in-law sat my infant daughter on the armrest to play. Good thing Amanda waited until we were on our way home to tell me that my mother-in-law had also dropped Grace's bib on the couch and then used it wipe the drool from Grace's mouth.

Maybe it's time to purchase an RV.

Again?

I made a vow to myself that my next post would be about something other than hockey or complaining about the Capitals. Consider the promise broken. The Caps' shitstink performances Sunday against Florida and tonight versus Carolina, plus the looming trade deadline, has pushed me into writing about them. Forget trades, GM George McPhee should be concerned with one thing tomorrow- How long is the heart transplant list? McPhee needs to be on standby with his little white and red cooler, ready to hop a chopper to whatever hospital fields an accident victim who doesn't pull through. Because if the Caps don't start playing with more heart they are the ones who aren't going to pull through. Standing around in your own zone while opponents bounce around like carnival acrobats is no longer acceptable. Giving up two shorthanded goals in one period is no longer acceptable. Leaving your inexperienced goalie hanging is no longer acceptable. Please George, prep the OR before this team flatlines in April.

Full Speed Ahead

And I thought watching $132 million man Alex Ovechkin try to freight train every opponent was scary. If you are a Caps fan this video is cringe-worthy and hilarious at the same time. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YMlJCb9XdeE

Maybe I Was Wearing Beer Goggles.

A tease. A flirt. That's exactly what the Washington Capitals ice hockey club is these days. Washington is the hot girl in a bar-all sexy, exciting and alluring-right until she breaks your heart by not giving you the time of day. Sunday she made eyes at me from across the bar when she dismantled the Pittsburgh Penguins and punked uber-crybaby Sidney Crosby. (I'm not going to really wail on Crosby here, but I will just say that Crosby calling anyone, let alone Alex Ovechkin, a "pu**y", as he did on Sunday, is the height of irony.) So, last night, emboldened by years of flirting and Sunday's eye contact, I made my move and tried buying her a drink. My reward? Washington through the drink in my face; her third period meltdown was as ugly as it gets. Now I will not trust her again. Oh sure, I'll keep my eyes on her, checking her out from across the room, but if she wants to dance she'll have to ask me; I'm tired of being rejected. Translating my mangled metaphor- I'm through believing the Caps will have any real success in the playoffs until I actually see it.

The Caps were outclassed by a superior opponent last night in a game in which Philly was missing one their best scorers and one of their best shut-down defensemen. The Caps' deficiencies have turned chronic. Their defensemen refuse to put a body on an opposing forward. On the Flyers' third and fourth goals (in a 4-2 victory, don't forget) Jeff Schultz could have disrupted the play by putting a shoulder into someone. The fourth goal was especially poor. The Flyer forward (I'm too lazy to look up which fourth line hack it was) skated across the face of the goal as Schultz flailed his stick at the puck. Schultz-For Christ sake, you are a huge man. Put your shoulder into his chest and dislodge him from the puck. You are allowed to do that. I would rather you step up and miss the check than weakly attempt to stick check him.

The Caps were again whistled for nine penalties and could have been called for a few more. Apparently, somebody on the team is getting tired of it. Brooks Laich, via the Washington Post-"...we just seem to take lazy, undisciplined, sometimes they can be criticized as selfish penalties. Every game we shoot the puck in our own zone over the glass. We've got to limit that. We spent basically [the second period] shorthanded." So Brooks' grammar wasn't perfect in that quote, but you get the idea. I wish I could find text of his quote that I heard on the radio this morning. He was harsher and relayed that the players are all grown-ups and should be responsible for taking care of this problem themselves. Coach Boudreau seemed less sure about that saying benchings could be imminent.

These penalties and a boatload of missed chances (three shorthanded breakaways!) cost the Caps last night and will continue to plague them if not corrected. I want so badly to believe they can do it, but maybe it was the beer goggles tricking me all these years, because the Caps sure looked ugly last night compared to that chick from Philly. (Who, for the record, I wouldn't go home with if it was closing time on Armageddon Day.)

No Hat, No Cattle

On Friday night I was the most powerful man in Washington D.C. I pushed through no stimulus packages, nor did I admonish CEOs from my Congressionial high horse. No, unfortunately, I controlled the entire outcome of a professional sporting event. A couple of weeks ago I threw my lucky Capitals hat onto the ice following an Alex Ovechkin hat trick. I feared that the undefeated (4-0) hat was the key to me witnessing Caps victories in person. Now that it was gone I am doomed to see the Caps lose in person for the rest of the year. Friday night's dismal loss to the Colorado Avalanche seems to have confirmed my neurotic suspicions. My departed hat has to be the only explanation for such an awful defeat. Or does it?

Perhaps the Caps crappy performance was not some paranormal event related to one fan's hat, but instead was a performance indicative of the flaws this team possesses that threaten to derail what should be a deep playoff run. For weeks the Caps have played with fire; they lack one trait- toughness. Hockey toughness can manifest itself in several ways and, fortunately, the Caps display it in some ways. They have the league's toughest fighter, Donald Brashear, a talented crop of grinding forecheckers and superstar Alex Ovechkin backs down from no one. Dig a little deeper, however, and you'll find that this team is severely lacking in two other toughness departments- mental toughness and defensive toughness.

Mentally the Caps don't show up every night. This team plays to the level of its opponent on a consistent basis. They have some remarkable wins against the Devils, Bruins, Habs and Red Wings, but have lost badly to the Kings, Avs and others. It is good to play up against the big guys, but championship teams pile up points by winning the games they are supposed to win. Lose focus against these teams and you cost yourself valuable standings points. A handful of extra victories against bad teams would have put the division away already. I'm not panicking by any stretch, but the Caps need a killer instinct against the weaker teams. Fortunately, in the playoffs there are no bad teams and hopefully nobody for this team to look past.

The other mental deficiency the Caps have is discipline. They take way too many penalties. You would think a team that has a penalty kill ranked in the bottom third of the league would do its best to stay out of the box. These players take some of the dumbest penalties. Penalties in the offensive zone, lazy hooks that wouldn't be necessary with a little skating, hauling a guy down because you are out of position or make a careless pass-it's enough to drive a fan nuts. It just doesn't make any sense when you see one of the fastest, most talented players in the league(Ahem, Alex Semin) hook a guy in the neutral zone instead of skating with him. As I was stuck in bed ill all last weekend, I was able to watch both weekend Caps games in their entirety. In two games they took three delay of game penalties for shooting the puck over the glass. In neither case was the player pressured by an opponent. That shouldn't happen three times in a season, let alone in back-to-back games. The longer your team is shorthanded, the less time your amazing offensive talent can be on display. In the playoffs, good opponents will cash in regularly if the Caps constantly parade to the penalty box. I don't think this team has that kind of margin of error.

Finally, and this flaw was glaringly apparent in person Friday night, this team lacks defensive toughness. I know Scott Stevenses don't grow on trees, but this team has no one on the blueline that intimidates opposing forwards. Teams skate into the offensive zone without fear and are rarely impeded. This puts pressure on the goaltenders and pressure on the offense to score. Then chances are taken to score which leads to defensive breakdowns which continues the vicious cycle. I love Bruce Boudreau's aggressive puck possession system; he simply needs defensmen that aren't too wimpy to hit somebody at the blue line or lay lumber on a forward who takes one too many swipes at the goaltender.

This post has been terribly gloomy, but I feel that the forecast is much sunnier than I've written here. The Caps' strengths, in my opinion, far outweigh these weakness. However, these weaknesses loom large enough to take down, what I believe is, a Stanley Cup contender. I hope they address these flaws soon. The trading deadline nears, but it would be even better if they started today when Pittsburgh comes to town. If not, it won't matter what hat I'm wearing on my next trip to Verizon Center.

Is Mommy Home Yet?

Being a part-time stay at home dad has been terrific so far. Z is out of town this week so I haven't had the usual Manny/Mentor assignment, which has left even more QT for Grace and I. She usually has a delightful demeanor and is a joy to play with. As she grows older, having just turned 4 four months, she requires a lot more interaction and entertaining. This is fine by me, but some days it seems I empty my entire bag of tricks and she still isn't satisfied.

Fortunately, Grace is learning to entertain herself (Hey look, I have hands!) and loves to play on her activity mat. I also love the mat because after spending some time on the floor with her I can sneak away to do some nearby chores while she talks to the lights and animals that hang overhead. Every once in a while, though, I place her on the mat and get a look that says "Are you serious, this same mat again? Do I look stupid?". So, now, not wanting my daughter to think that I think she is stupid(there will plenty of time for that when she is a teenager), I scoop her up and grab the next weapon in my arsenal. However, it is crushing when, after singing, reading poem after story after poem, dancing(don't ask), voicing finger puppets, playing in the mirror and walking around the house doing any of the above, she still is fussing. It's a double kick in the nuts when you look at the clock and your hours of entertaining have actually only taken like three minutes. I feel like a magician who reaches into his hat only to remember he didn't pack the rabbit. Maybe I should have gone to clown college.

A-Rod Takes His Medicine (Legally This Time)

"A-Rod is not a douchebag." With this statement, my wife nearly caused me to run off the road, for I do indeed think A-Rod is a douchebag and was surprised to hear a defense of him come from the passenger seat. She had heard a portion of A-Fraud's press conference on the radio and thought he came off sounding pretty good. I watched the entire thing on tv and couldn't disagree with her more.

Let the record show that I can't stand Alex Rodriguez for many reasons that long pre-date his steroid revelations. I give him credit for standing up, admitting he used banned substances and taking some lumps for it. That alone is far more than Mark "I'm not here to talk about the past" McGwire has done. And Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens have clung so tightly to their lies that they are in jeopardy of serving time for perjury. (However, I really feel the Feds must surely have better things to investigate than whether overgrown boys were on the juice. I know, I know-they are being accused of lying to Congress, a big no-no. But, in my opinion, it was a foolish waste of time and taxpayer dollars to haul them in front of Congress in the first place.) As for A-Roid, had he given more open answers today, I would have been even more impressed. Instead, he was trying to do some image polishing with a wink and a nod; just like his PR army instructed, no doubt.

To me, there is no halfway here; if he went this far, then we need full disclosure. I don't mean that I need to know which ass cheek he got his injections in, but tell us what you were using. Playing coy, using steroid nicknames, and saying he didn't even know if he was using them correctly doesn't really wash with me. He must think I am young and naive if he thinks I believe, as he said, that he was too young, stupid and naive to know better. First of all he wasn't that young when he rocked the juice. He was age 25,26 and 27 during the seasons he juiced. He kept saying he was a stupid kid,23,at the time, but anybody with a brain can calculate what age he actually was at the time. Not that that distinction even matters. Age 23 isn't a kid and I know plenty of 23-year-olds who are mature, intelligent people capable of making the right decision. Rodriguez's transgressions were no silly youthful indiscretions and his claims to that effect just make him even less genuine. Here is a man blessed with more athletic ability than most humans and he still feels the need to cheat. I believe every world class athlete knows exactly what they are putting in their bodies. Don't insult my intelligence by telling me that well, "We knew they weren't tic tacs." Ha, ha, ha. No shit, Dr. Dummy.

It was just this casual "fakeness" that really upset me. He wants to get out in front of this story, but doesn't want to do the heavy lifting. There were too many quotes and examples of this to list them all, so here are only a few. He said God put him in a position to help "make the world a better place" by spreading the anti-steroid message. Please, that one doesn't even need analysis. Then he said he just wanted to be judged from this day forward. That's exactly the tone the entire press conference had for me. Let me throw the reporters a few bones, sound as contrite as a cardboard cutout possibly can and then I can sweep this entire mess under the rug. It's not that easy. Truthfully, I don't give a damn what these guys do to their bodies. Not my liver, not my balls. However, many people do care so there is no way this story is going away. The last straw for me, though, was when a reporter asked A-Rod if injecting the steroids like he had, was cheating. Alex would have gained an enormous amount of respect from me had he simply looked into the camera and said yes. Instead, he dodged the question. Nice honesty, douchebag.

Something's Fishy.

From the Insubstantial, But Annoying Dept:Riddle me this-Why would Cheesecake Factory put cole slaw on their fish tacos? Was it to cover up the fact that the "grilled" tuna on the tacos appeared to have the flavor boiled right out of it? Or is because carrots and cabbage are things you usually find on tacos? And if one is going to put coleslaw on tacos shouldn't one include that on the list of ingredients (that included every other thing on the plate) in the menu? Have I now asked so many unimportant questions that I have become insubstantial and annoying?

Fast Forward Five Years

Dad Gone Mad is a blog that I regularly read and enjoy. Reading today's post was like hopping in a time machine heading five years into the future when Grace is five.

America the Stupid.

I know making sweeping generalizations is often a dangerous way to give an opinion. It allows no wiggle room for details and can unintentionally insult people. But I'm not going to let that stop me from criticizing two things that I recently noticed.

This is the part where my wife usually tells me that I am being judgmental and condescending, reminding me that I have tried neither of the two things that I am about to rip. She often punctuates this admonishing with an all too accurate impersonation of me huffing and puffing about how stupid something is. I acknowledge that she is usually correct and that I often enjoy, with the exceptions of roller coasters and waiting in line at Coldstone Creamery , the things I choose to negatively prejudge. However, like the General Lee through a "Bridge is Out" sign, I will gleefully proceed down this dangerous road.

So why am I calling you out, America? Exhibit A of your common stupidity is Paul Blart, Mall Cop. How on earth was this movie the top grossing movie in America for consecutive weeks? Kevin James in a porn moustache? Hilarious. (As an aside, hasn't the whole "moustaches are funny just because they are moustaches" joke run its course? When retro gags become dated themselves it is time to quit.) I'm not sure what Blart was playing against the weeks it finished number one. That it was the only movie showing that week seems like the only reasonable answer. If a fat guy in a security uniform doing slapstick pratfalls is all you need to make a blockbuster, then sign me up. Somebody get me a plastic badge, I'm gonna be rich! Sheesh.

Issue number two is less about being stupid than it is unnecessary. I give you, as seen on tv, the Snuggie. Never mind that it sounds like something I'd have to pay a hooker extra for, do I really need a blanket with sleeves? I think I've seen that somewhere before, oh yeah, hanging in my closet. It's called a robe. Mine comes in flannel; I didn't see that possiblity offered in your infomercial. Those poor helpless people in the commercial who can't hold a phone and stay warm at the same time, whose hands are "trapped" underneath a blanket-God forbid they have real problems. The only practical application I could see for the Snuggie is using them in place of hospital gowns. Then my giant ass might actually be covered while I wait for Dr. Coldhands. Though, I'd probably still manage to put it on backwards.

I'm sure with this post I have offended at least one friend or reader who can't wait until Blart comes out on DVD so they can wrap themselves in their Snuggie and watch from their couch. And if history is any indicator, my wife and I will be right there with them, me wearing my Snuggie and my Wife wearing her "I told you so" face.

Boudreau Off The Top Rope!

As if I needed one more reason to love Caps coach Bruce Boudreau. He's candid, funny, creative, appeared in Slapshot and now this. I don't even like wrestling, but for nostalgia's sake alone this is good stuff.

What Have I Wrought?

A couple of Sundays ago, thanks to the generosity of my cousin and people she knows, I found myself sitting in the Club level at Verizon Center for the Caps-Senators game. The story that follows serves as a portal to look into my sad, superstitious little mind.

As Alex Ovechkin scored his second goal early in the second period against a Sens defense that was imploding before my very eyes, I had two related thoughts-there is plenty of time for Ovie to notch a hat trick and, if he does put up that third goal, I am close enough to consider tossing my hat to the ice as tradition dictates. Sure enough, midway through the period, Ovechkin fires a laser through the defenseman's skates and past the goalie for his hat trick goal. The crowd explodes from its seats (something I can't do as easily in the cheaper, narrower "Fat Guys Should Not Sit Here" seats that I'm normally relegated to in the upper deck). High fives are slapping, the foghorn is blaring and the music is wailing. Swept up in the moment I decide, for the first time in my hockey fan career, to toss my hat towards the ice. Great game, great moment to celebrate, right? Not exactly.

You see, the hat I casually tossed away was undefeated. (Here's where the sad, superstitious part comes in.) As soon as the hat left my hand I cursed myself for casting it aside in such a fleeting moment. Prior to this season, I hadn't seen the Caps win in person in a long time, maybe since the lockout. This season, however, I've been to four games and witnessed four victories. Never mind that the Caps have stunk for a couple seasons and this year they are one of the best home teams in the league, surely it is something my friends and I are doing to assure victory. After two victories I thought maybe it was my new Caps hat purchased in the off-season. After three victories I really started searching for common denominators. St4rbux, of Name Your Fear, had been to all three games, but wasn't at this fourth, Ottawa victory. Maybe, if I'm lucky, it is the jersey- t shirt combo that I "happen" to have worn to all four victories. Or maybe it's just me, lucky ol' me. No, that can't be right.

So, possibly, by tossing the hat I have doomed myself to see no more Caps victories in person this season. The first test will be two Fridays from now when I visit Verizon next. I apologize in advance to my seatmates. Unfortunately, if it was the hat, I have broken the victory spell. If they do win, I'll remain a slave to my other superstitions.

Two perhaps karmic sidenotes to the game:
1)My hat did not reach the ice from the club level, instead it clipped a little girl in the arm. She was not bothered in the least and her dad tossed the hat onward, but I felt about "this big". In terms of bothering a child at a Caps game it is only surpassed by my inadvertent insulting of Bobby Carpenter's son back in the 1990's.
2)I found out after the game that the hats scooped from the ice after hat tricks are left ,for a brief time, at a lost-and-found spot in the arena so the owners may reclaim them. This info would have been more useful were I not already off the Metro and in my car when I received it. Damn it.

Gracie Goes To Washington.

Grace's first trip into D.C. (If you don't count in Mommy's belly.)

Grab Bag

A hastily cobbled-together collection of what's been on my radar lately. (It's quite possible you'll be dumber after having read this.)

- I think the new Castrol Think with your dipstick! commercial is hilarious. Everything time that Scottish dude shouts it, I laugh my ass off. The Super Bowl Castrol grease monkey ad wasn't too bad either.

-The Angry Whopper is not that angry. Tasty, but dissapointingly, not angry.

-Great thing about our newly aquired HDtv-Hockey in HD. Best thing about HDtv-The Food Network's Giada DeLaurentis working with her melons in HD.

-Went ice skating tonight for the first time in nearly two years. First time on an outdoor rink. Damn, that was fun.

-Thanks to my friend Jack who led me to this hilarious infomercial that I'm still not convinced isn't a spoof: http://www.tiddybearcomfortstrap.com/. Watch, listen and enjoy.

25 Random Facts About Me.

This survey has been sweeping Facebook, so I caved and filled it out. Thought I would crosspost it here.
1. I'm proud to be a dork.
2. I love New Orleans. I couldn't live there, but I could visit for about two weeks every year.
3. I don't drink coffee and I don't put milk on my cereal.
4. I am neither an animal lover nor an animal hater. I'm more like an animal tolerator.(Though I hate to see any animal in distress.
5. I kind of miss going to mass, but I have some issues with the Catholic Church.
6. Hockey is my favorite sport to play, but baseball is the best sport to follow religiously.
7. I'm not an "idea" guy. However, I enjoy helping others hone their's.
8. Dying of a food-borne illness is among my top five fears.
9. I think Richard Dawson may still be the coolest dude in America.
10. Working at Barnes and Noble was great- except for the customers.
11. I have an amazing wife and beautiful daughter. Each of them makes me a better person.
12. Random rap lyric that I'm glad is NOT true about me: "I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom."
13. I do a piss poor job of keeping in touch with people, especially my faraway friends.
14. It's possible I would eat anything if it was deep-fried.
15. I wish I had more time to blog.
16. If being a Weitzel's busboy was lucratrive I could have done it forever.
17. I wish I could grow a real beard, not one that is patchy and lame.
18. Ii's amazing how many things you thought were important no longer are once you have a child.
19. I'm 34 and still don't know what I'll do when I grow up.
20. I'm thankful that others volunteer for military duty so that I don't have to serve.
21. These pretzels are making me thirsty.
22. Bryan Evans and I were convinced that we could share hosting duties and top billing of a successful late night talk show. It's just crazy enough to work. Why? Because Bryans rule.
23. I'm a Republican that voted for Obama.
24. Managing a glass shop mostly sucked, but I'm proud to possess a a fairly rare trade skill.
25. If I had to choose one make-believe career it would be a toss-up between between Captain of the Millenium Falcon and a Ghostbuster. I love Star Wars, but bustin' makes me feel good.

Make Way, Baby on Board.

Playing manny/stay-at-home dad has gone pretty well so far, so inch by inch I've been getting bolder with my activities with Grace. A few days ago we tackled a trip to the grocery store together for the first time. Why I picked the Glen "When did so many people move to Glen Burnie?"Burnie Wal-Mart Super Center at 3pm on a Friday afternoon is beyond me. Probably because our lives have become an ever-changing quadratic equation of feeding times and spare minutes and I thought I could squeeze the trip into my limited window. With an hour to an hour-and-a-half until probable feeding time I bundled the girl up and ventured forth without any formula or milk. Like a bomb squad hearing the ticking, I had one eye on the clock and one eye on the sweat beading on my forehead from the moment we left the driveway.

With carseat safely in cart and diaper bag slung over my shoulder I entered the store and immediately started using what has become my go-to move when in crowded public places with Grace. I put on the harried dad face, look a little frazzled (neither expression faked or exaggerated, of course) and wait for the seas to part. It's amazing the looks I get just pushing my little pumpkin around. Grandmothers nod knowingly, clerks smile and even other dads with older kids make way for my rolling circus. I've gotten so accustomed to this treatment that when somebody doesn't immediately cede their aisle space (which obviously they have every right not to) I catch myself getting exasperated. Hello, did you not see the red carpet unrolling before me as I walk? For crying out loud I have a BAY-BEE in the cart! Grace, for the most part, doesn't interfere with my plan, sleeping away as I use her cuteness to manipulate my fellow shoppers.

On this day, however, the store was so packed and the aisles so clogged that even my diabolical scheming wasn't getting me through fast enough. I'm checking my watch knowing that, though she is sleeping peacefully now, I could be moments away from a full scale Grace Hunger Wail. Running out of time I do the only thing I can - I turn into the goddamn Jack Bauer of grocery shoppers. I'm sending the cart careening around corners, diving for cans on endcaps. I toss a grenade to blow through a blockade of carts and shoppers in the freezer section (Cleanup on Aisle 4!). I even shoot a mouthy deli clerk in the leg for taking too long with the Meunster cheese. My urgency pays off (or so I think) as I arrive at the car with Grace awake but smiling.

Fifteen minutes shy of the house, however, my Princess Jekyll turns into Ms. Hyde. With the flip of a switch my smiling, laughing baby girl is wailing, screaming what I'm sure are tiny baby insults at me. Of course, in accordance with Baby Law #37, the decibel level of Grace's screams was inversely proportional to the speed of the drivers in front of me. Alas, I have no Jack Bauer left in me; there will be no super driving. I am left to suffer in traffic learning a very valuable lesson that deep down I knew all along. Never be a daredevil. Always take the formula with you.