Do You Really Need That Bazooka?

We spend our bedtimes telling our young children there are no such things as monsters.  I only wish that sentiment were true.  Whether twisted by loneliness, illness or evil, that boy in Connecticut was a monster.  A scarier monster than you'll find under any bed.  As I've thought about the tragic events of last Friday, I have had trouble sorting through my feelings.  And even more difficulty putting my feelings into words.  Journalists are taught to nail down the five Ws (who, what, where, when, why) and How.  Perhaps that's the simplest way for me to sort.

Sadly, the What, Where and When of this case are all too obvious.  The Who is, of course, the saddest piece.  Innocent children and their brave protectors senselessly struck down.  Lives ended nearly before they'd begun.  Too heartbreaking to think about, I don't want to hear the stories of these beautiful little children.  I pray for their peace and for the comfort of their families.  Grief is a helluva thing; a burden that we all bear at some point, just not always in the way this community is forced to endure it.

The Why is an important piece of the puzzle.  I do not care to know much about the darkness that resided inside this punk, but somebody must learn what made him do what he did.  With that knowledge, perhaps the next Newtown/Columbine/Virginia Tech can be thwarted.  If there were less of a stigma attached to mental illness, if there were more understanding of just what can be helped, perhaps these kids would still be alive.  Mental illness is a tricky business involving many complex layers.  There are questions of access, health care and arguments I don't want to make here.

The How of this event is an argument I am ready to take up tonight.  Twenty-seven people were slaughtered last Friday, murdered at close range by gunfire.  Before I wade any further into a debate about gun laws, gun control and gun ownership let me make clear three things: 1. I don't pretend to have all the answers, but a debate in this country about this issue is more than overdue.  2.In theory, I believe anybody should be able to own anything, but something must change because I believe the ease of access to weapons makes these incidents more frequent.  3.  I'm not an idiot, nor am I an inflexible partisan sheep unwilling to have my ideas challenged.  So if all you want to do is call me a liberal weenie or a left wing pu**y instead of talking about the issue then please stow it. 

The short version of my argument is that I personally hate guns but think you have the right to own them.  (Well, certain kinds.) I hate guns because they exist for the sole purpose of destroying things.  I also know that if I owned one I would Barney Fife my way into blowing off a toe or would have it taken from me and used against me in a confrontation.  I don't believe guns are as big a deterrent as people think.  A gun can escalate a situation from dangerous to deadly in an instant.  Then there are the sad stories like the recent tragedy outside Pittsburgh.  A father, by all accounts a trained hunter, killed his own son because he got into his truck with a round still in the chamber.  The gun accidentally fired, hitting the boy.  That's why I don't want to own a gun.

So let's talk about you.  I don't care if you own guns.  I simply wish you would own fewer guns.  I know many responsible, highly-trained gun owners.  With their guns they feed their families and friends all winter long.  I would never advocate taking away that right.  I do, however, think there should be limits on the types of weapons available for purchase by Joe Citizen.  Why does anyone outside the military or police need something like an AK-47?  Seriously?  Please don't talk to me about the zombie apocalypse or that the government might come for your stuff.  News flash:  If the government wants your stuff, they've got bigger guns/missiles/nukes than you do.

Over the last week I have read three bumper-sticker-style arguments over and over again:
-Guns don't kill people. People kill people.
I don't even understand this one. Yes, people kill people. But sometimes it is with something at the end of their arm called a gun.  Therefore, guns do kill people.

-Criminals will always be able to get guns. Besides there are many ways to kill people.  I guess we should just ban beer,knives and toasters that can be thrown into bath tubs.
I agree criminals will have ways to get guns.    I also understand that there are many ways to kill a person.  I too played the board game Clue as a child.    But by reducing the availability of weapons maybe we could limit opportunities.

-Teachers should be armed.
I'm sorry, maybe I am completely naive, but I think this is a really bad idea.  Law enforcement professionals and military personnel are trained, well-practiced individuals who will tell you it is still difficult when the shit goes down.  Are we to believe that teachers, trying to wrangle a room of children, are going to disarm someone bent on destruction and chaos like these previous school shooters?  To me it is an unlikely deterrent at best and a tragedy waiting to happen at worst.  Now if you want to talk to me about posting an officer in every school, I'm listening.  I'm not sure how we'll pay for it, but I'm listening.  Someone had the idea of using military veterans as professional security in schools.  Again, I'm listening. 

I like to think our kids don't have to learn their ABCs in bunkers to guarantee their safety, but, as I said, I don't have all the answers.  Tragedies such as Sandy Hook are all too common.  Only through the considerate, reasoned exchange of ideas can we begin to take steps to make them a thing of the past.

Giving Thanks.

To the ridiculous couple that brought their one year-old child to the theater to watch "Skyfall", I say: Thank you.

Thank you for reminding me that the world is still full of selfish assholes.
Thank you for setting up your baby station/refugee camp across four seats in my row.
Thank you for being impervious to my glares.
Thank you for reminding me I have work to do if I plan on winning Idiot Parent of the Year 2012.
Thank you for teaching me restraint.  I limited myself to a simple "Are you for real?" when I really
     wanted to punch your lights out.
Thank you for teaching your child to pipe up during every quiet moment of important conversation
     or dramatic tension.  That is real skill in a one year-old.
Thank you for not realizing that it may be difficult to wrestle a stroller up stadium theater stairs
     because YOU SHOULD NOT BRING A BABY IN A STROLLER TO THE MOVIES.
Thank you for not thinking there was a chance your baby would cry as soon as the lights went down.
Thank you for making even more noise trying to shush the baby than the child was actually making
      on its own.  "Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba" is neither quiet, nor soothing.
Thank you for muttering in your native tongue while you loudly rustled through every bag you
     brought.  I don't speak your language, but even I know you can't find the bottle either.
Thank you for making my first child-free date night in a loooong time anything but child-free.
And by "Thank you" I, of course, mean "Screw you."

O-R-I-O-L-E-S!

I have rooted for the Dallas Cowboys since I was a little boy and during the winter I eat, sleep, and breathe Washington Capitals hockey, but the Baltimore Orioles are my first and one true sports love.  The O's have always held a special place in my fan heart, that cartoon bird a constant presence in my fan soul.  The battle with the Brewers in 1982 and the World Series season in 1983 are among my earliest sports memories.  My grandfather was a great baseball fan and thankfully my mother carried on the tradition by introducing me to the joy a baseball season can bring.  I took it from there, acquiring baseball cards (caring little about value, more about picking up O's), ripping open the morning paper to scour box scores and hanging on every word broadcast by Chuck Thompson, and later, Jon Miller.  I have enjoyed many an hour watching games with friends, talking O's with my father-in-law, debating rivalries, analyzing statistics and discussing our Birds with anybody who wants to chat.  Orioles baseball is a link, bonding community and family, connecting past and present.

Sunday night, when the Orioles clinched a playoff berth for the first time in fifteen years, I was covered in goosebumps and flooded with warm memories dating back to childhood: Imitating Eddie Murray's exaggerated leaned-back batting stance, being lucky enough to win a contest to throw out a ceremonial first pitch, Camden Yards $5 center field bleacher seats, firing tennis balls off the front steps pretending to be Brooks and Cal, the '93 All-Star festivities, the 1989 'Why Not ?' season (Bob Melvin!), walking the seemingly unending ramps up to Memorial Stadium's upper deck, Eddie Murray answering our relentless chants of "Eddie-Eddie-Eddie" with a mammoth blast to center field, Wild Bill Hagy, getting an early sneak peek of Camden Yards as a student journalist, skipping class to watch playoff games, The Streak, getting misty-eyed during the final game on 33rd Street, Grace eagerly tracking the Oriole Bird through the stands, the greenest grass you'll ever see, the simple joy of sharing cold beers and batting practice with your best friends...

Of course, there have been plenty of dark times.  Most of the Angelos Era. Tony F-ing Fernandez.  Jeffrey Maier.  0-21 to start 1988.  (For which I feel totally responsible.  I jinxed the team by attending my first Opening Day that year, a 12-0 shellacking at the hands of the Brewers.)  Albert Belle.  Fifteen years of season-submarining, spirit-crushing eight game losing streaks, sometimes in May, sometimes in August, but always present.  Despite all the lean times, true fans have loyally donned the orange and black of our heroes, cheering them even when hope and faith had left the yard.

That is why this season is so awesome.  Years of despair flattened expectations.  Sure, Buck seemed to be building something, but a .500 season was as likely as there being meaningful dialogue in tonight's presidential debate.  As the team kept winning I kept looking skyward for the other shoe.  I was sure every loss was the first in a string of twelve.  As the wins continued to pile up it was difficult to ignore that something special was brewing.  Succeeding despite such an upside down run differential?  Unlikely.  Winning almost every extra inning game and one run decision they played?  Improbable.  Contributions from cast-offs like Nate McClouth, Carlos Quentanilla and Miguel Gonzalez?  Seriously?  Incredibly, yes.  Pitching, power and a sprinkle of Orioles Magic was a recipe for success that hearkened back to the O's powerhouses of my youth. 

I don't know what will happen tonight or Friday or beyond.  In many ways it doesn't matter; the Birds are in the hunt for the pennant.  They are relevant again.  Summer was fun.  September was meaningful.  October (Yes, October) is full of possibility.  This team has given its fans the greatest gift any team can give - restoration of hope and faith.  So, in the words of former Orioles public address announcer, the late Rex Barney, I say to the 2012 Baltimore Orioles, "Thank Yooooouuuuu."

I Have A Bad Feeling About This:An Open Letter To Gary Bettman

Dear Gary Bettman,

You sir, are an idiot.  I'm sorry.  That's no way to start a letter.  And if my daughter heard me say that she'd remind me I'm not supposed to say that word. You sir, should be ashamed of yourself.  It's not just that you have tried to make professional hockey into the NBA on Ice.  It's not that you are presiding over your third(!) work stoppage during your tenure as NHL commissioner.  It's not that everyone I know agrees you resemble the Count from Sesame Street. (One player lockout-ah-ah-ah, two player lockouts ah-ah-ah, three player lockouts ah-ah-ah.)  It's not that you oversaw the unnecessary Southern Expansion Strategy.  It's all of the above.

I'm not an economist, nor an accountant.  I don't have to be, because the number-crunched details of the labor negotiations do not matter.  I don't care about the salary cap.  I don't want to see your books.  I don't care about revenue sharing or what percentage operating expenses are devoted to player salaries.  I'm not saying you and the owners should cave into every request of the players (who are not absolved of sin in this), but as the caretaker of major league hockey in North America you can not cancel even one more game. 

When you last locked out the players it cost an entire season.  An entire season without NHL hockey.  It is a wonder missing an entire season didn't destroy the NHL forever.  You are lucky that there were enough dopes like me who love the game so much that, despite millionaires and billionaires spitting in our faces, we tuned back in and even paid outrageous prices to attend games.  You were also incredibly fortunate that when hockey returned last time, it was buoyed by the emergence of two dynamic rookies, Alexander Ovechkin and Sidney Crosby.  A season of empty arenas was wiped from memories by acrobatic goals and a rivalry reborn.  You will not be so lucky this time.  Ovechkin will have to have a huge bounceback (fingers crossed) to be the player he was then.  Crosby is one hard check away from moving from Mario's basement to the Lindros-Lafontaine Wing of the NHL Retirement Home.  You must make the owners understand how damaging this lockout will be if games are actually cancelled.  Get training camps open on time.  Be ready on Opening Night.  Get this done.

And if you need any more incentive, I make you this vow: I will not cut my hair until the lockout ends.*  I am need of a haircut now, so this brillo pad will be a honkey afro before long.  Aside from my brother-in-law who encourages me to grow the fro to match his own, no one wants to see my hair expand like a well-watered Chia Pet.  There is a reason, except for the unfortunate Afro Summer of '95, my hair hasn't been much longer than crew cut length in over thirty years.  But I'll do it Gary, I'll unleash this hair helmet on the world if you don't do what is right.  So, please Mr. Commissioner, save hockey, save the eyeballs of those around me.  End this unnecessary conflict now.

*I reserve the right to break this vow around the time my wife looks at my head and says, "Dude, really?" 

Is this what middle-aged feels like?

What's the difference between 37 and 100?  Not much in my neighborhood, at least as it pertains to age.  To my college age neighbors I likely seem an ancient 37.  Yesterday, I got out the door a little later than usual for my morning walk so I was walking among students heading to Salisbury University for class.  A blond bicycle gang, more Mean Girls than Hell's Angels, rolled past trailing a cloud of perfume and smug indifference.  Athletes jogged by making my "fitness" walk look meager and pointless.  Surrounded by hoodies and skateboards, pony tails and short shorts, I felt as awkward and uncool as I did when I actually attended the university twenty years ago.

The students eyed me warily.   My first generation iPod may as well have been a Walkman, my white daddy sneakers sandals with black socks.  My backpack, worn to keep my pockets free of keys, phone and wallet, had them wondering whether I was an old student or some sort of creeper.  I'd have been less conspicuous had I donned a trench coat and shouted "Pervert Alert.  Pervert Alert."

I spotted an older gentleman, maybe mid-50's, walking on the opposite sidewalk.  I searched his eyes for a hint of old man solidarity only to be spurned.  His eyes conveyed not solidarity, but contempt as he lumped me in with the other backpack-toters.  I longed to stop him and explain that I was not one of the punks that pukes in his yard every weekend.  That I don't leave the neighborhood covered in broken beer bottles.  I'm on his side.  Alas, I stayed silent as he blew past.  But my encounter brought me to my senses.  Why did I care what these kids thought?  I chastised myself for ever feeling awkward and uncool even when I was in school.  The heck with these kids.  And the heck with that older guy.  No longer a young punk and not yet an old man, it's my time to feel comfortable right where I am.  But those damn kids better stay off of my lawn.

Welcome.

I know of a couple new people who are checking out my page (Which basically doubles my readership. Thanks guys!) so I thought I'd link to some of my favorite posts to help them catch up.  A Greatest Hits album, if you will.  If by greatest I mean least boring and by hits I mean posts people have told me they enjoyed.  The posts range from my thoughts on my disdain for Coldstone Creamery, ethnic profiling ,my never ending battle with lawn tools, grocery shopping with an infant, my raging germophobia, filthy bowling alleys, cursing at Santa, why you should visit the potty before visiting the playground, traveling with a three-year-old, and condoms in the ocean.

Something in the Air

 

I could tell something was different as soon as I walked outside. I don't know how you measure it, maybe the Hormone and Stupidity Saturation Index? A few blocks into my morning walk I had my explanation; it is New Student Arrival and Orientation Day at Salisbury University. Here's to all the beer to be consumed and casual sex to be had tonight. Cheers and be safe you crazy kids.

Fly Nemo Fly!

Last Saturday, Grace and I were having a rad father-daughter hang out day while Amanda worked.  After we buzzed the Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru rocking out to Led Zeppelin, Grace threatened to ruin the mood by asking a question that I had secretly been dreading for some time.  No, she didn't ask "Where do babies come from?" or "Could you please explain your curious affinity for Storage Wars?" 

She made the perfectly reasonable request to fly her kite.  That may not sound like a big deal to you, but I am something like the Chicago Cubs of kite flying.  Even when things start out promising they usually end in disaster.  Mostly, though, kites and I never sniff promising.  Kite flying is the kind of activity that can stymie the technically-challenged.  It requires intricate tasks like knot tying and uses intimidating words like "aerodynamics", "lift" and "Assembly Required".  Knowing how to do stuff/fix things/put stuff together is a glaring hole in my Dad resume.  (How can I teach Grace skills that I do not possess?  I need to get learning.)  I have previously documented my battles with machinery, but my fight with kites dates back even further, to childhood.  Too much wind, not enough wind, bad equipment-my kite was less likely to get off the ground than John Madden after his third helping of Turducken.  I also once, around age nine, got knocked down by a kite someone had left anchored unattended in the sand.  The kite itself was high in the sky, out of my sightline, and the clear string was impossible to see as I ran across the beach.  That string caught me across the throat, lifted me off my feet and slammed me down faster than a Hulk Hogan clothesline.  Finally, Grace's kite expectations are likely inflated because most, if not all, of her kite experience is the sky carnival that the Kite Loft kite shop flies above their boardwalk shop.

Fortunately, BrainStormProducts LLC, manufacturer of our meager Finding Nemo kite made a kite that is idiot Bryan-proof.  No knots to tie, minimal assembly, a cartoon clownfish and a sustained breeze made me look like a hero.  Given Grace's reaction you would have thought I was Orville Wright.  Shouts of "Yayyayyayayyay!" and "Fly Nemo Fly!"  filled the playground.  I think Grace even shouted too.  Then she grabbed the string and took off running full speed, her hair flowing behind her in perfect time with the kite tails flapping fifty feet above.  Of course, I was bored after about forty seconds.  Then, staring up at the floating kite, she told me she wanted to hold my hand.  So we stood hand in hand, wordlessly watching Nemo dance on the breeze and I suddenly wished the moment could last forty years.  Perfect Saturday, and my love of kites, restored.

News Flash: Zoos Are Smelly, Water Is Wet and Tomatoes Taste Tomato-ey

Everything is bigger in Texas, especially the nerve of Jennelle Carrillo.  This mental giant is suing the Dallas Cowboys  because she severely burned her bum on a bench outside Cowboys Stadium.  According to ESPN.com's story, "The suit alleges that Cowboys Stadium posted no warning signs alerting fans that the benches could be hot."  I'm sorry that Ms Carrillo needed skin grafts after getting burned worse than the Cowboys' secondary, but did she really need a sign to know that a black marble bench setting in the August sun might be hot?  (Sure, you can debate the wisdom of placing a black marble bench in direct sun, but I don't believe Jerry Jones is out to intentionally harm ticket holders.  Unless, of course, the bench had a sign reading "Reserved for Redskins Fans Only".)  My three-year-old figured out this mystifying "heat" concept the first time she grabbed a seat belt that had been hanging in the sunlight.  Maybe I should have sued Honda instead of teaching Grace complex scientific notions like "absorption" and "hot sun".  I tripped over the untied laces of my One Stars the other day; somebody get me the Converse lawyers on the phone! 

I suppose Ms. Carrillo should be thankful she wasn't wearing what I believe is the customary daily attire of most Texans- assless chaps. Of course, if she had then she probably could sue Assless Chaps Inc. for failing to attach a tag reading, "Warning:these assless chaps are indeed assless."  Even though I realize personal responsibility took a vacation long ago, this story pisses me off.  This lady makes me wish tort reform would include getting beaten senseless if your lawsuit was deemed frivolous.   Her lawyer, according to ESPN.com, told KDFW that Carrillo has suffered "mental anguish, physical pain and disfigurement as a result of her wounds."  He, apparently, forgot to mention that these were self-inflicted wounds.  The Cowboys' offensive line ought to be allowed to use Ms. Carrillo's lawyer as a tackling dummy.  Only a greedy horse's ass would file this lawsuit.  Texas hasn't seen an act this repugnant in the thirty years since J.R Ewing was last on television.

Wait, what?  "Dallas" is on again?  New episodes?  Well, that's more preposterous than this lawsuit.

I know some of you are thinking that I wouldn't be writing this if it were a different team being sued.  Trust me, I am a much bigger fan of common sense than of even the Dallas Cowboys.  And remember, any attack on America's Team, is an attack on America, an attack on all of us.

[Dropping to one knee as two assistants drape me in the American flag to the fading strains of "Battle Hymn of the Republic"]

The Top Ten Reasons My Wife Is Absolutely Awesome

It's unlikely I could successfully pen a romantic sonnet.  No one wants to listen to any love song that I might compose.  I don't have a nearby mountain from which to shout news I'd like to share.  Instead I have scaled my keyboard so the entire Internet may hear me say, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY AMANDA.  I LOVE YOU."  But merely shouting in caps is not enough;  please permit me, in the only way I know how (silly, with a dash of humor), to share the ways in which my wife is absolutely awesome.  Now right about now, Amanda will be rolling her eyes or dismissively waving her hand.  She, engaging in the contemplative self-assessment that often accompanies the occasion of a 29th birthday, will humbly downplay her awesomeness.  But she would be wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong. So, ladies and gentlemen, I hold here in my left hand, tonight's Top Ten List:

#10: She has embraced my crazy family and shared hers with me.  Never underestimate how great it is to have terrific in-laws.

#9: She is one of the most caring people I know.  Her generosity of spirit, sharing and caring in even small ways, is a valuable lesson for me.

#8: Two Words: Electric Smile

#7: She's funny.  She can put me in my place with a witty retort and possesses the best quality a funny person can have- she is willing to laugh at herself.

#6:  She has been my rock.  Especially in the last 18 months when grief, and everything that goes into dealing with it, has intensified my anxieties.

#5: She wears her beauty with a natural ease.  She's more stunning today than the day I met her. (And I was pretty stunned that day.  Mostly stunned that a girl would talk to me, but, well...never mind.)

#4: She is the glue that holds our household together.  Paying the bills on time, cleaning, seeking out and scheduling cool activities for Grace-she does it all.  (For the record, I did manage to sign Grace up for swim lessons this summer.  I know, right?!  Of course, I did have to call the YMCA back to reschedule once Amanda pointed out I had signed up for the wrong class.)

#3: I'll say it- she's sexy.  You wouldn't believe  how                                      potato peeler                    . . And that         with the                   juggling                                                 corkscrew twist.  I mean, who would have ever have thought                    turkey leg                                          screen door?  Mind blowing.

#2:  She is a wonderful, loving mother who continually guides Grace down the right path.  There is no more inexact science than parenting, yet Amanda dons her lab coat every day and ably navigates the challenges.

And the #1 reason my wife is absolutely awesome:  She puts up with me.  For this she deserves a medal.  I come weighed down with idiosyncrasies, dopey ideas and flaws too numerous to list.  But I am fortunate enough to have found and married my best friend who helps me bear the load. 

I love you Amanda.  Happy Birthday.

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.

Traveling With A Three-Year-Old. Or How I Ended Up Wearing Ladies' Deodorant.

Traveling with my daughter Grace is what I imagine it would be like hanging out with Charlie Sheen, minus the hookers and blow.  Nobody sleeps, there's lots of arguing, at least one person thinks the weekend is "pants optional" and the hotel room is trashed.  After chasing The Girl around Philadelphia for two days, I have so much more respect for those daredevil parents that elect to travel with 2 or 4 or 8 kids.  Although, I figure when you reach a certain amount of children you link them together like an old Southern prison chain gang and herd them from place to place.

Even though I have just the one child, she has enough gear that it feels like I'm packing for more.  And sometimes weary dads get so caught up packing all the DVD's, books, snacks and crayons that they forget to pack their own stuff.  Like their deodorant.  Sometimes these dads don't realize their packing error until five minutes before it's time to leave for the rehearsal dinner.  These dads get to wear Mommy's deodorant for the night.  Fortunately, Secret lives up to at least half its billing.  I can't tell you if it is indeed pH balanced for a woman, but it is strong enough for this man.

Whether it was the excitement, all the neopolitan cake or the confusion over why Daddy smelled like Mommy, we had a helluva time getting Grace to sleep later that evening.   Bringing The Girl on trips forces many concessions including giving up that sweetest of travel treats: hotel sex.  But I draw the line at giving up a good night's sleep.  At 11:30, with the lights having been out for a long time,  Grace was still up trying to get in more bed jumping than all five little monkeys combined.  Fortunately, she didn't pull a monkey move and fall off and bump her head.  (Though, the next night an accidental head butt did send Amanda scrambling for an ice pack.)  No amount of singing, story-telling, threatening or bribing could get Grace to lay still.  Once she did fall asleep, she became a magician, contorting her body to make even a king bed tiny.

I shouldn't complain so much, because traveling really is easier than it used to be.  Expressways, GPS and EZ Passes all make my life easier.  So do travel games, portable DVD players and book lights.  One supposedly useful tool does not, however.  Is there a more inconvenient convenience than the juice box?  Maybe it should not surprise me that I have trouble with juice boxes considering that I earned the nickname Lil' Squirt for my inability to open a plastic fruit cup without spilling the contents, leaving a urine-looking stain on my lap.  I can't be the only adult that hates juice boxes.  Any container that, under my daughter's light grip, squeezes enough to send its contents squirting across the car is less than convenient.  I know there are those hard plastic boxes with handles that you can put the box in so the kid can't squeeze it, but I have a problem with needing accessories for my snacks.  And if I have to remember one more thing to pack for Grace  I might forget something less important, like my underwear. 

For this trip Amanda bought a juice-toting product that was new to me.  Unfortunately, this Minute Maid Pseudo Raspberry Synthetic Red Summer Citrus Cooler was nearly impossible to open.  I mean it.  I would have an easier time getting into Harvard than into this foil juice packet.  Where the arrow points to "Insert Here", there is no plastic circle like on other juice boxes.  Only more foil that does not want to be pierced with the meager straw included with the pouch.  Like fumbling virgins, multiple pokings failed to produce penetration.  Finally, looking like Vincent Vega plunging the adrenaline syringe through Uma Thurman's sternum in Pulp Fiction, I was able to get the straw into the packet.  Of course, concentrating on hitting the target with force with my right hand distracted me from noticing how hard I was crushing the pouch with my left hand.  Therefore, as soon as the straw punctured the foil, I inadvertently squeezed most of the juice all over the back seat of the CR-V.  At this point, it wouldn't be any messier to squeeze the juice from the fruit with my bare hands. 

But, as often happens with children, one magic moment can change everything.  When Grace walked down the aisle smiling, being a super-cute flower girl, every spill, every "Are we there yet?", every suitcase lugged into the elevator was worth it.

Just Another Day At The Office For Caps Fans

Of course he did.  Of course Joel Ward took a "terrible" (his word) penalty that led to the Rangers tying Monday night's game with less than seven seconds remaining.  Of course the Caps were swept under the tidal wave of excitement in New York and quickly succumbed in overtime.  After 25+ years of watching the Caps, of course I should have expected nothing less.  Joel Ward was the sorry son of a gun at which Lady Luck pointed her cruel finger, but the truth is if it wasn't Joel Ward it would have been somebody else.  A puck would have deflected off Mike Green and found the net.  Braden Holtby would have lost the puck in the sun.  Alexander Semin, on a breakaway with the GWG on his stick, would have been swallowed by a dragon that swooped down from the Garden rafters.  BECAUSE IT DOESN'T MATTER.  When you are the Chicago Cubs of the NHL, you know deep down that the other shoe, no matter how preposterous, hovers overhead.

If losing in 3 overtimes in Game 3 was a gut punch, then Monday night's loss was a staggering hay maker.  One that I'm not sure that Capitals can recover from.  If they can, they will prove they are as resilient as I think they are becoming.  If they can not, Joel Ward joins a dubious list that makes any long-time Caps fan wretch.  You know the names, you know the moments: The Easter Epic. Petr Nedved.  Gonchar falling down in OT.  Esa Tikkanen.  Joe Juneau failing to connect on an OT penalty shot.  Tom Poti.  Up 3-1.  Martin St. Louis.  Devastating moments that leave a trail of broken remote controls, profane tirades, stomped-on emotions and summers of discontent. 

Personally, I feel sorry for Joel Ward.  There are examples of sports figures that have gone from hero to goat even faster, but Ward took quite a hit in twelve days.  As someone who has taken a penalty in overtime of a playoff game, I feel his pain.  Obviously, my beer league playoffs didn't have nearly as high stakes, but, believe me, two minutes never moved slower than watching a sudden death period from the penalty box.  Fortunately, my buddies bailed me out.  Joel Ward was not so fortunate, yet he manned up and spoke to reporters after the game.  He didn't run from his mistake and Dale Hunter shouldn't run from him in Game 6.  I have friends who would bench him or release him outright, but is there any player who will play harder than Joel Ward Wednesday night?

Because I am stupid I am trying to remain upbeat.  Every bit of historical evidence suggests that there is no reason for optimism.  Yet, I shall remain positive.  Positive that the Caps can win Game 6.  If for no other reason than a Game 7 loss would be that much more excruciating.  And expected.

I'm Over the Overstuffing.

On a whim the other day Amanda submitted Grace's photo to a Gap casting contest.  Normally we're not into those sorts of things, but we figured, "Why not? Maybe she'll be plucked from obscurity and have a little fun."  Deep down, though, I know the truth.  Grace's big break will come when A&E produces Hoarders:Toddler Edition.  Grace, at just age three, is a precocious hoarder.  Unfortunately, in this regard, she is doomed by heredity.  My grandmother is a textbook case shopaholic/hoarder, my mother epitomizes the "One person's trash is another person's treasure" mindset(In a good way; she can breathe new life into broken down furniture and junk.) and I am one of those people who likes to keep things because I "know I can use it for something".  Grace doesn't stand a chance.  Recently, she was drinking lemonade from a 20-oz. fountain cup and straw.  Upon finishing she told me we could not throw away the cup or straw because she needed them for a "project".  She proceeded to explain how she would cut them, fold them, glue them and cover them with glitter, with the end result being a house.  Creative, yes, but Grace seems to have also inherited my procrastinator gene; the cup house sits unfinished on the counter instead of in the garbage where it belongs.

If Amanda and I aren't careful, we will raise a true bag lady.  Grace already loads her toy shopping cart with junk and pushes it from room to room.  It is not a huge leap from there to shouting bible verses at passing cars and sharing your bowl of tuna with your twelve stray cats.  In fact, if she wanted to pack her posessions and hit the road today she already has plenty of bags.  Tote bags, purses, recycled gift bags, backpacks - our playroom has held more sacks than Jenna Jameson.  And stuff!  Trinkets, fake jewelery, toys, crayons, papers, stickers-we have so much stuff.  Don't get me wrong- I appreciate all the gifts, large and small, that she has been given.  Heck, I enable her hoarding by picking up inexpensive stickers here and there or encouraging her to collect cool rocks and sticks on our exploration expeditions.  But some days walking into my house feels like I've been dropped into the Death Star trash compactor.  If I can't raise C-3PO on the radio soon, the walls will keep closing in and I'll be crushed in a pile of Barbies and Disney Princess DVDs.  (I just realized that I put myself in Luke Skywalker's shoes.  Lame.  I used to, and always will, pretend to be Han Solo, the coolest smuggler in the galaxy.)

So, why does my house, and the houses of most people I know, contain too much stuff?  Because America has become the Land of Accumulation populated by an army of hoarders.  I don't mean the clinically diagnosed, mentally ill that won't throw away rotting food or who poop in a grocery bag and toss it in the corner.  I mean the normal people that fill their homes and lives with things.  To some, acquisition is a sport, keeping up with the Joneses.  To others, new and shiny things are substitutes for other items missing from their lives.  Sometimes I think we get trapped into thinking we "need" crap that we really don't.  Why else would I be consumed by an avalance of Tupperware every time I open the cabinet when, in truth, we only use the same three or four containers over and over?  Wedding registries, that's why.

Hear me out.  When you get in that store with that scanner you start firing away like you are Han Solo blasting your way out of the Mos Eisley space port.  (See, he's much cooler than that tunic-wearing loser from Tatooine.)  Senseless Acquisition Mode takes over."Goblets?  Hell, yes we need crystal goblets!  Probably about seventeen of them.  Picnic basket?  I love picnics!  Useless spoon rest?  You bet.  Of course, the spoon rest is only useless until the night your new bride comes home and, instead of thanking you for the spaghetti dinner, rips you for staining the countertop with sauce.  The point is, running around Macy's, Target or Bed Bath and Beyond you can lose your mind, adding things to your wish list that you neither need, nor would ever spend your own money to purchase.  Follow the wedding with a baby shower, baby's first Christmas, birthdays, Arbor Day-there are dozens of excuses for more gifts junk to enter the home. 

Oh well, maybe Grace's Hoarder's money will pay for a new storage shed.  Otherwise, all three of us will have to take to the streets with our shopping carts.

Enemy of the Germophobe #3 - Myself

"Have you been in the Germ Tent yet?  If not, you've got to check it out.  It's terrific."    This is how Grace and I were greeted as we stumbled upon County Government Day in the mall parking lot which was little more than a collection of fire trucks and other county vehicles open for inspection and, of course, the Germ Tent.  Umm, nice lady, clearly you don't know me very well.  I had indeed not yet been in the Germ Tent and, despite her pleasant demeanor,  this gal was not going to convince me to get within 100 feet of anything called the Germ Tent.  I've seen the trailers for Contagion, thank you very much.  The young lady (I'm assumimg she was a representative of the county, though it's possible she's just a really big fan of germs) must have recognized the horrified look on my face because she proceeded to explain that the Germ Tent was simply a tent with a black light that illustrated how many germs covered your hands.  I nodded, thanked her for the invitation, took Grace's surely germ covered hand and slowly backed away. 

However, after checking out the fire equipment and climbing through the bookmobile, my curiosity got the best of me.  Grace and I lathered up our hands with the special germ detecting lotion and plunged into the darkness of the Germ Tent.  I wish I could report that we were nearly germ free; instead, under the black lights, our hands looked like we had dipped them in white paint.  The scary thing is that I am a vigilant handwasher and we had recently washed them.  I'm going to blame the germ-fest on the five minutes we spent on the bookmobile (Shared kids' books in a warm, sealed bus?  More like the petri dishmobile.) because I don't want to think that I'm toting around that many germs on a regular basis.  After leaving the tent, another county worker helped us wash our hands at one of those foot-pump washing stations.  I scrubbed Grace's hands and evidently didn't spend enough time on mine because the worker reminded me that I should always wash my hands for thirty seconds.  Me?  Me?  You are going to lecture me on handwashing  protocols?  If you didn't look like you were struggling with the foot-pump causing a lame water output I would have washed my hands all day. Because that's what I do.

I proudly wear my germophobe title.  Recently, a discussion with friends, one of whom is a fellow phobe, turned to various anti-germ tactics.  I don't mean run of the mill stuff like lamenting that not all public restrooms have outswinging doors or how many layers of toilet paper create an adequate barrier between ass and toilet seat.  No, I'm talking next level stuff like the wisdom of attempting to turn the public restroom faucet on and off with your foot.  (For the record, I don't think that is worth the risk; I'm so clumsy that there is a 50/50 chance that I would fall in the floor attempting such a graceful move and that would be a hundred times worse than touching the faucet.)  So, this county lady doesn't know it, but I've got hand washing cred.

Obsessive hand washing is just the tip of the iceberg, though.  Recently, my germophobia/hypochondria reached a new low when I decided to boil my clean silverware.  Why did I boil my fresh-washed silverware, you ask?  The short answer is because I don't own an autoclave.  The long answer is that I don't have a dishwasher and after a couple days too long in the sink our silverware had a film on it that looked impervious to soap and water alone (in my warped, overcautious brain).  I scrubbed the silverware like always but, sitting there in the drying rack, it just didn't "look" clean.  So, of course, the next obvious step anyone would have taken would be to boil it until sterile.

Once you answer the question "Am I really going to boil my silverware?" in the affirmative a few more questions pop up.  How long does one stand over a roiling pot of silverware before determining it is "done"?  One minute?  Ten minutes?  They don't cover this info in Food Network Magazine or Hypochondriacs Illustrated.  Or, why are there no specific kitchen tools for removing silverware from a boiling cauldron?  It is far more likely that someone would get scalded by boiling water or stabbed with sharp knives as I remove them with regular tongs, than would be done in by eating with tainted silverware.  But I don't let common sense get in the way of a good obsession.  Sad to say that, lately I've had to look no further than my own hands and sink (not a hotel or bowling alley) to find an Enemy of the Germophobe.

They Can't Blow It Every Year, Right? Right?

I was going to do a Capitals' playoff breakdown, but, really, what is there to know?  The Caps are as puzzling as the enduring success of Jay Leno or the apparent appeal of Two and a Half Men.  In their first round series that starts tonight, the Caps may be pulverized, leaving Ted Leonsis and George McPhee to scrape the road kill off F Street.  Or...the team may wake up, be the team they are capable of being and march through the Eastern conference.  After all, the Caps have hovered a hair above a .500 winning percentage all season.  It's not a huge stretch to think they could win 16 of their next 28 games.

My optimism, as it usually is regarding the Capitals fortunes this time of year, is, if not insane, at least undeserved.  This team has broken my heart year after year.  Yet, each season I find something to cling to, something that I can point to that says, "This is the year."  This season there are actually two things that make me believe (however foolishly). 

The first is that for the first time in years the Caps come in with low expectations.  A Stanley Cup favorite in the preseason, the Caps stunk it up enough to slip in the seventh seed and draw the defending champs.  Despite what George McPhee thinks, anything this team wins is gravy.  Perhaps lowered expectations will remove pressure and help this team pull off upsets instead of choke jobs.

The second factor is Coach Dale Hunter.  Go ahead, stop laughing.  I'll wait.  No, seriously, stop laughing.  Sure, some of his coaching moves and most of his press conferences make him seem borderline illiterate.  Sure, as he does little more than chew gum and sip water on the bench, he looks more bored than my wife at a baseball game.  (She just doesn't get the grand beauty of the game.)  Sure, Hunter may just be doing McPhee a favor by keeping the bench warm after Bruce Boudreau was fired.  But maybe he is stupid like a fox.  (That's how the saying goes, right?)  Hunter has elicited stronger play out of certain guys that have been scratched then worked hard to get back in the line-up.  His style of play, if executed properly, could thrive in the postseason.  Fans have no idea what Dale is doing behind the scenes to improve this team and change the culture of playoff ineptitude.  Maybe Dale Hunter, one of the most clutch players in Caps history, becomes the most clutch coach in Caps history.

I can dream, right?  A mountain of evidence and past history suggests that my optimism is misplaced.  The beauty, however, lies in the fact that anything is possible before the puck drops for Game 1.  And if the Caps are bounced early then I have the whole spring to join America the Stupid in sitting through Two and a Half Men reruns.

Bryan Hailey and the Pop of Doom

I learned a valuable lesson yesterday-always make the three-year-old pick up her own toys.  This is not a noble lesson borne of the need to instill discipline, recognize consequences or teach responsibility.  No, this was a lesson in self-preservation.  Had I forced the girl to pick up her own mess, the living room would have been clean and I would not be injured.

I wish I could report that I was wounded carrying out some sort of Herculean feat of strength like lifting every single one of her toys with one hand.  Or a daredevil move like parking her tricycle in the shed by riding it like a skateboard.  Even the cliched stepping on a Lego would have been acceptable.  Instead, I was felled by crayons and markers.  And felled isn't even accurate because I was actually already on the ground when my old-man body betrayed me. 

I was running late for work and the girl was so entranced by Pocoyo that she was ignoring my pleas to clean up.  Damn that mischievious little flappy-hat-wearing CGI munchkin.  Instead of turning off the tv  and playing the enforcer I decided to take the shortcut and pick up the stuff myself.  I was on all fours scooping up the mountain of crayons (because, of course, even though she only uses two colors at a time Grace has to dump out the entire box) when I reached to my left and heard what I will, from this day forward, call the "Pop of Doom".  A blinding pain shot through my left knee; the kind like when you fall on your butt bone and it hurts so bad you think for a moment that you are going to hurl.  I must have let out some kind of whimper as well, because Grace immediately asked me what happened and if I was okay.  For a few moments, I can assure you, I was not okay.  I had legitimate trouble getting off the floor.  Payback, I suppose, for years of ridiculing those silly "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up." commercials.  But being that I had neither a Life Alert necklace or anyone to cover my shift I pulled myself up and walked it off.  Seriously though, is the start my gradual age-related decay?  I have played ice hockey, worked on ladders, played high school football (Nevermind, you usually don't get hurt on the bench.) and handled huge sheets of plate glass daily.  And this is how I get injured? By rotating my torso fifteen degrees while kneeling?  Welcome to 37, I guess.

I felt okay for the first half of my shift, but halfway through I took a mis-step that brought a fresh stab of pain that almost dropped me to the floor.  (Ironically, this occurred while I was monitoring the well-being of a woman in the store who was either so drunk or so narcoleptic that she was basically passed out on her feet and constantly looked like she was about to crash into something.)  I spent the rest of my shift hoping for a Marty McFly hoverboard to appear from 2015 because putting any weight on the leg made the knee buckle and bark with pain.  Prior to my knee surgery five years ago,  I walked around for months with a torn meniscus (Thanks Misdiagnosing Orthopedists and Insurers Who Forced Me To Have Unnecessary Physical Therapy Before Approving An MRI!) and never had the type of pain I experienced last night.  Ice and rest helped a little overnight, but the pain, fortunately a little weaker, has returned today.  Funny enough, after a morning of running errands, what I really should do is elevate the leg, throw on the ice pack, turn on some Pocoyo and spend some quality time snuggling with the girl.  Just no coloring.

Yellow Rain

As any parent of a three-year-old knows, any venture out of the house requires a constant interrogation-"Do you have to go to the potty?"  "Are you sure you don't have to pee-pee?" "Why don't you try going to the bathroom?".  Grace is actually very good about telling us when she needs to find a bathroom so when all my pleas, threats and cajoling failed I rolled the dice and accepted the girl's assurances that she would alert me when it was time for a bathroom break.  You can see where this story is going.  Or flowing.

We breezed through our morning errands unscathed, but then I had the genius idea to enjoy the great weather with a picnic at the playground.  Not the playground directly across the street from our house, literally fifty yards from our bathroom.  No, that would be smart.  Instead, we stopped at a park across town.  A park delightfully free of those pesky public restrooms.  (I told you I'm a gambler!)  The picnic was going swimmingly - tasty food, running and jumping, raucous laughter - until I see that expression cross Grace's face.  That expression that wordlessly conveys, "Thanks Dad, you are a wonderful father who has made today so enjoyable that until just this moment I have been too distracted to monitor exactly how full my bladder really is!"  I wasn't mad at this turn of events, after all, accidents happen and I pretty much put us in a postion to fail.  I instantly started the mental calculations of getting back down the slide and how to keep the car seat dry on the way home. 

What's that?  Oh, I didn't mention we were at the top of the tallest, curliest kids' slide I've ever been on?  Or how fun it was to watch thirteen gallons of urine leak through the top grate, rain down onto the first layer of curves then watch it slowly cascade around and around and around the remaining curves until it covered the entire slide?  Thirteen gallons might be an exaggeration, but there was SO MUCH PEE.  So much that I'm surprised the National Weather Service didn't immediately issue a flash flood warning.  So much that I am thinking about renting her out to the fire department. 

Fortunately, there were no other kids (or parents, more importantly) in the park.  After walking Grace back down the steps and convincing her it would not be more comfortable to ride in the carseat naked than to ride in wet clothes, I set out to clean up the mess.  Yes, my first instinct was to toss her in the car and peel rubber so no one would discover what a terrible father I am.  My conscience got the better of me, however, so I cleaned up the best I could with limited resources.  I was wearing two shirts so the oldest went to soak up the puddle at the top of the slide.   I could have used the second shirt as well, I suppose, but I think me walking around a park shirtless is more of a public disservice than leaving behind a piss-covered slide.  For the slide itself, I briefly considered sliding down myself to soak up as much pee as possible.  Instead comm on sense prevailed and I poured the remainder of a large cup of water down from the top and let it wash down what it could.  But I can assure you the urine to clean water ratio was woefully out of balance.

So, to the children who will play in that park today after school, I say- I'm sorry.  And you might want to wear a wetsuit.

The Meek May Inherit the Earth, But They Won't Win the Cup.

For weeks, my friends and I have spent way too much time attempting to figure out what exactly is wrong with the Washington Capitals.  We've studied the forecheck, broken down the power play, speculated on trades and otherwise engaged in the constant (but pointless) analysis only undertaken by  diehard  stupid fans.  Imagine if we'd spend our time and brainpower answering the important questions like "What is the solution in Syria?" or "What are the global ramifications of Snooki becoming a mother (shudder)?".

To prove how culturally out of touch I am, I submit for your consideration the list of rejected questions I thought of before the Snooki joke: "Who shot J.R.?", Where's the beef?", Whatchyu talkin' bout Willis?" and "Who really is the Boss?".  Sad, I know.

Unfortunately, our amateur hockey eyes have diagnosed many problems with the Caps-injuries, suspect coaching and the sad realization that unless you possess a flux capacitor and a stash of plutonium you have likely seen the best of Alexander Ovechkin.
The number one problem, however, is that the Caps are, collectively, a bunch of wimps.  Of course, I don't mean wimps as far as the real world is concerned.  Even the wussiest Capital is a hundred times tougher than I am.  These guys block 100-mph slapshots, take sticks to the face, get stitched up and still take their next shift.  But I'm not talking real world tough; I'm talking NHL tough.  I'm talking stick-up-for-your-linemate tough.  I'm talking crush-an-opponent's-spirit tough.  I'm talking rising-in-the-face-of-adversity tough.  Call it what you will-passion, grit, heart, intestinal fortitude-this team rarely possesses it.

General Manager George McPhee must shoulder much of the blame for this glaring organizational deficiency.  Several years ago when McPhee did not re-sign enforcer Donald Brashear he justified the move by stating that the Caps' power play would provide enough deterent to keep other teams from taking liberties against the Caps' star players.  This is a suspect theory at best, but when your power play short-circuits to the point you should think about declining penalties, then the theory is exposed as completely flawed.  It is not simply about having a goon, however.
McPhee has acquired a roster of softies.  Jeff Schultz, a 6'6" creme puff, and alleged grinder Joel Ward symbolize a roster that is overpaid and not at all rugged.  Despite having a coach, Dale Hunter, who was "nails" as a player, this team has refused to forecheck, lacks agressiveness and shows no killer instinct.
 
The latest, most damning evidence was the postgame comment after last week's Caps/Canes contest.  A Caps' player, hiding behind an anonymous quote, accused Carolina's Jeff Skinner of committing a dirty slew foot on Dmitri Orlov.  Are  you kidding me?  Man up and stand behind your comments.  Do you think any Boston Bruin would have requested anonymity?  Hell, any Bruin that retaliated (And they probably would have had to take a number.) would have to go on record to explain exactly when he decided to rip off Jeff Skinner's head and drink the blood from his skull.  The B's are beasts in a way the Caps can only dream.  The Bruins players have each other's back, don't shy away from anyone and brutally crush opponents under the treads of a relentless forecheck.  Unless the Capitals find a way to adapt their game, the only thing they'll be getting their names inscribed on this summer is the starter's log at the country club.  At least, my buddies and I will have plenty to talk about all offseason.