Haulin' Oates.

I think I have finally figured out the method to Capitals GM George McPhee's madness.  Picking Adam Oates as his fifth straight head coach to be hired without previous head coaching experience is less about controlling a newbie and more about...fashion.  McPhee, who often seems more interested in acquiring new scarves than quality centremen, must love that Oates rocks the three-piece suits, making him the best dressed Caps coach in a long time.  Bruce Boudreau, who I think admitted his wife dressed him, couldn't be bothered to wipe the ketchup off his face before sitting down for interviews with HBO.  And Dale Hunter claimed to own one suit and tie.  I just hope Oates will be able to accessorize.  With rings.  Big, shiny, gaudy Stanley Cup Champion rings.

Despite his inexperience in the top spot, I love the hire of Adam Oates.  I think he helps the Caps organization in four key areas: communication, handling Alex Ovechkin, improving the power play and bolstering the coaching staff.

By all accounts, Oates is a strong communicator.  He was a captain for many years and played alongside the never-shy Brett Hull for some of his best seasons.  Oates should be able to relate to star players because he was one.  He has already spoken of treating players like he wanted to be treated.  I think most players want to know where they stand.  It is okay to have a dog house, but I think coaches should tell a player why they are marooned there.  Dale Hunter used the dog house/bench (to some degree of success, mind you) without explanation.  Scratched players, according to multiple reports, were left to figure out on their own why they weren't playing.  I'm okay with tough love and accountability, but why not communicate?  That can work at the junior level, but wears quickly with the big boys.

Speaking of the big boys, is there a player that Oates can (and needs) to nurture more than Alex Ovechkin?   I wrote in March that unless you possess a flux capacitor and a stash of plutonium you have likely seen the best of Alexander Ovechkin.  Well, it might be time to watch the streets for flaming tire tracks.  Oates has been a star, a captain and a proven leader.  He is credited with helping Devils' Russian sniper (and Ovechkin pal) Ilya Kovalchuk develop his two-way game to become a better all-around player.  Sound good so far?  Ovechkin showed a willingness, albeit begrudgingly, to adapt his game last year.  Imagine the growth he can achieve when guided by a more deft hand.  The word is Oates' system is up-tempo while remaining defensively responsible.  Not  Boudreau's wide open, if-you-keep-the-puck-in-the-offensive-zone-forever-you-don't-have-to-play-defense system, nor Hunter's attempt-to-win-every-game-1 to 0 effort.  Ovechkin can grow defensively, becoming a more complete player yet still get out and run some.  Though, that won't always be the best idea.

I have long told friends that Ovechkin and Backstrom should strive to be Hull and Oates II:Electric Boogaloo.  Now that Oates is actually here, maybe he can show the kids how it's done.  Ovechkin needs to stop carrying the puck into the zone full-speed attempting to blow by the defense.  Hull made a pretty sweet living by prowling the offensive zone, finding a soft spot in the D, waiting for a nifty pass from Oates and pounding  it past the goalie.  Ovie must possess the puck less to score more.  His arsenal of blistering shots would that much more dangerous when accepting a smooth Backstrom saucer than when trying to shoot through the defense on the fly. Maybe this "hockey sense"  is not only innate, but able to be cultivated.  Jeff Halpern, a former Oates teammate and pupil, said Oates has the "most elite hockey mind I’ve ever come across".  Hopefully, the professor can get through to Ovechkin.

If he can get through to Ovechkin, then Adam Oates will have gone a long way towards achieving my (armchair GM that I am) third objective-improving the power play.  The Caps power play, once a Top-5 ranked nuclear device feared by opponents, has become stagnant and less effective the last two seasons.  Oates was  instrumental in improving the Devils' power play, making it more dynamic and productive.  Maybe opponents will once again feel shame when going to the box against the Caps.

Finally, Oates may prove it is what you know and who you know.  There are tons of rumors flying about who (players and coaches, alike) would like to follow Oates to D.C.  Free agent Zach Parise would look great in red, white and blue, however, I'm not holding my breath.  Larry Robinson could improve the defense a tad.  Scott Stevens could instill a little toughness, I'm guessing.  And Steve Konowalchuk, my all-time favorite Capital, could bring a giant ice box full of heart to transplant into the too-cool cats skating at Verizon Center.  More importantly, if Stevens and Kono rounded out Oates' bench staff, then I could constantly paraphrase one of my favorite Letterman sketches.  The Strong Guy, The Bug-Eye, The Genius!

Adam Oates may or may not be the answer.  He should be easy to root for, though.  Is it October yet?  I'm ready to find out if Adam Oates can help find the pot of Cups at the end of the rainbow.

  

We're Gonna Need A Bigger Boat.

It started out as another fine beach day in Ocean City, Maryland.  We lucked into free on-street parking two spots from the sand, unexpectedly ran into friends on the same block of beach and had awesome weather and water temps.  We were basking in the sun, reveling in the restorative powers of the sea.  Then It showed up.  I was knee deep in the surf when I first caught a glimpse of It out the corner of my eye, a flicker across my fear radar.  Ba-Dum.  I wasn't sure at first exactly what It was.  Ba-Dum.  As It drew ever closer, It was recognizable, unmistakable even.  Ba-Dum, Ba-Dum, Ba-Dum.  I stood paralyzed, not by fear, but by sheer gross-outedness.  For floating just a few feet away was a rubber.  Not a rubber raft, not a rubber inner tube, but a giant used rubber.  Condom.  Prophylactic.  Love Glove.  Jimmie Hat.

Now, I'm no rube; I understand that people and sea creatures pee, crap and decay in the ocean every day.  I mean, who hasn't stood up after finishing a 32 oz soda (Ha!  Take that Michael Bloomberg.) and realized that the ocean is a whole lot closer than the nearest restroom.  I know that beaches as near as New Jersey get closed because medical waste washes up.  As a card-carrying germophobe, I know that I shouldn't go near the water thanks to all the invisible disease poisoning the high seas.  But this was tangible, concrete, ribbed-for-her-pleasure evidence that I was standing in a giant toilet.

So, what to do next?  I didn't want to be done swimming.  I'd have a hard time explaining to my three-year-old why we were leaving suddenly.  I know I'm not fishing the condom out of the surf.  I look towards the life guard but guess he doesn't get paid enough as it is.  Nor do I know how to say, "Hey buddy, I know this used Trojan is not likely yours, but  can you clean up the beach?  And, by the way, if you need a condom that big, well, good for you." with two orange flags.  I settle on grabbing the girl, moving further down the beach and hoping for the best.

Grace is getting brave enough that she wants to do more than just jump waves so we head for deeper water.  We are having a blast riding the waves, letting them lift us up and over as they roll through because she doesn't yet do well with going under. (She won't close her mouth to keep water out.)  Only one wave all afternoon started breaking too far out for us float over the crest.  As I clutched Grace tight to me preparing to dive through the wave, what do I see?  Of course, it was the used rubber riding the wave like Kelly Slater winging his way to another Hawaiian Tropic title.  (Hang One, Brah!)  I had no choice but to duck under and hope for the best.  In that split second I was convinced I would break the surface with the condom wrapped around my ear or, worse yet, Grace would have it clutched between her teeth like a bear catching a salmon.  Alas, the condom was not seen again.  Unfortunate, perhaps, because a few minutes later I saw a sanitary napkin float by.  They would have made a helluva synchronized swim team.

Hey, you got your bacon in my chocolate. No, you got your chocolate on my bacon.

This past weekend, thanks to my awesome aunt, I found a new snack treat - Chocolate Covered Bacon.  I'm not sure why it took me so long to discover this fistful of candy-dipped amazingness.  Chocolate Covered Bacon.  It tastes as good as it sounds.  And it sounds like a song Beethoven and Mozart composed together for Jimi Hendrix to play on a magic guitar.  If you don't think it sounds good then I'm not sure I want to be your friend.  Because if you don't think it sounds good, you are ignoring a couple of undeniable truths:that Bacon is delicious and that Bacon is the most versatile food on Earth.  No other food comes close.  Think about it.  Breakfast, lunch, dinner.  Condiment, dessert, sex toy. 

Bacon makes everything better.  No food packs the culinary variety of Bacon.  Maybe cheese.  Maybe.  Some will say bread; I'm not buying it.  Sure there is fresh bread, bread pudding, garlic bread, but it doesn't stack up to bacon.  What do they call the straightest, most boring, least rhythmic honkey in the neighborhood?  Whitebread.  What used to be standard prison fare?  Bread and water.  If they served prisoners Bacon and water, people would be lining up for their stripes and ankle chains.

And the noble Bacon is humble in its versatility.  It is content being the star (Nobody has ever called it an LTB.), a co-star (Bacon and eggs!) or a sidekick (crumbled over anything, thereby making that thing even tastier).  Jules Winnfield may be a Bad MF-er, but he is flat wrong about the pig (and hairstyle choice).  Pound for pound, Bacon is the king of all foods.  And a pound of it sounds great right about now.