Aqua, man.

I could write a simple, one sentence review of Aquaman that conveys the quality of the film: It's another D.C. movie.  Since I've never missed an opportunity to run on when being concise would work, here's a bit more long-winded take.  I wanted to like the movie, I truly did.  I have no particular feeling, positive or negative, for the character; my only real experience with the dude is watching SuperFriends and the recent Justice League movie.  Based on Aquaman's role in Justice League, I assumed this movie would be two hours of Jason Mamoa wise-cracking like a roided-out, underwater Jerry Seinfeld.  It was that and so much more.  And by more, I mean less.

Mamoa, you know, the guy who in every role somehow looks like he always smells while also constantly looking like he is starring in a shampoo commercial, does try hard.  He seems like a decent actor deserving of a movie better than this, but he and the rest of the cast are dealing with a dog turd of a script.  The dialogue stinks like day old sushi.  Nicole Kidman, phoning it in as A-man's mer-queen mom, hasn't tread a plot this thin since Days of Thunder.  Actually, this flick makes Days look like an Oscar winner.

The short version goes something like this: forced to save his mom's hometown of Atlantis, Aquaman heads out on a Homeric odyssey to recover an ancient king's magic fork trident.  What little plot there is exists only to move you to the next action scene.  Unfortunately, the action is cheesier than the dialogue.  Remember the scene in The Phantom Menace where Obi-Wan, Qui Gon, and Jar-Jar pilot the little submarine through the underwater passages of Naboo?  Of course you don't; the scene was boring, terrible and forgettable.  If you did recall, you'd remember it was ten minutes of Jedis coughing out shitty one-liners and Jar-Jar shrieking while navigating waters populated by silly alien sea creatures.  Well, about half of Aquaman is that scene played out in different ways.  Aquaman rides, surfs, and fights every manner of video game sea creature and cartoonish crustacean you can think of.  I was surprised Sebastian and Flounder didn't show up for a musical number.  The rest of the movie feels familiar, too.  Not in a good way.  It has vibes of Power Rangers, echoes of Flash Gordon, hints of Under Siege and feels like a rip off of, not Indiana Jones, but Indiana Jones ripoffs like National Treasure and The Mummy.

To distract from this, the producers tossed in plenty of substandard special effects, bright colors, and flashing lights like the movie is actually some sort of underwater game show.  Throw in two poorly drawn villains, heavy-handed environmentalism, Dolph Lundgren, and Dolph-ins and you've got a mess.  I don't want to say I disliked the movie, but I felt like I spent the evening stuck in a plastic six-pack ring.  D.C. super hero movies act as if a thundering, soaring score and raspy voiced hero can convince you that having poo dumped in your lap for two hours is epic.  But, you know what, I could be wrong.  Remarkably, when the credits rolled the theater erupted in cheers and applause.  And not like people were happy to have finally escaped their worst ever visit to the aquarium.  They were genuine cheers.  With those folks, I will happily disagree.  This movie gets 2.5 tuna cans out of ten from me.

In Defense of Gritty

If you've been paying attention this fall, you have seen an aggressive, wild-eyed, orange monster energizing and enthralling arena-sized crowds of deplorables.  His antics border on unhinged and his manners are, well, nonexistent.  He has channeled the rage of the people he represents and courted the scorn of his detractors.  If you care about such a thing, you'll be jealous of his Twitter follower count.  And, much to my own surprise, he's starting to grow on me.  Donald Trump?  Good golly, no.  I'm talking about Gritty, the dubious mascot of the Philadelphia Flyers.

No, I haven't lost my grip on reality.  Yes, I know Gritty is an abomination.  A blight on society.  An affront to normalcy and domestic tranquility.  The Flyers claim he was "living" in an unused underbelly of the arena.  Seems to me, more like a product of Chernobyl that stowed away in a Russian player's gear. Perhaps he slipped in from the Upside Down before Eleven powered through her most recent nosebleed.  He looks like Chewbacca knocked up Mayor McCheese, but they left the baby in the wilderness to be raised by wolves.  Gritty is flatulence personified, an ethereal stench coalesced into physical form.  No, personified is the wrong word.  Personified mistakenly implies Gritty is a person.  He's more like a Sulphur-stinking hell hound poorly imitating human characteristics in order to infiltrate society.  But I love him.

I am loathe to give the Philadelphia Flyers organization any credit.  My hatred of the team and (most) of their fans is well documented.  This is the team that gave us the Broad Street Bullies, Ron Hextall, and whiny Eric Lindros.  I have no love for the Orange and Black, but with Gritty they may have, perhaps accidentally, hit it out of the park.  It depends on what you believe about Gritty's origins.  If he is supposed to be another silly, but cute lovable loser then he is an easy fail.  This mascot can't hold the Phillie Phanatic's jock in this regard.  But if Gritty is, as I firmly believe, a sarcastic rebuttal to the terrible pre-game sh*tshow produced by the Vegas Golden Knights then he is brilliant.  Vegas made all of hockey dumber last season with their Ice Capades meets Renaissance Faire stage act that preceded home games.  The overproduced community theatre may have been a sweet part-time gig for some Strip understudies and drama students, but the rest of the NHL could have done without all the phony arrows, drums, and fanfare.  If you want to entertain me,  play two minutes of the Black Knight on the Jumbotron and drop the puck.  I think Gritty is an epic troll by the Flyers seeking to bring us something worse than Vegas's Knights of the Crease.

Whether playing it straight or as a troll job, Gritty, twenty games into the season, has become an extraordinary success.  He, and the Flyers, were mercilessly ridiculed upon his debut.  Philly fans, known to boo Santa Claus, were aghast. The mocking was amplified when Gritty fell down when walking across the rink.  A hockey mascot that can't navigate the ice surface is embarrassing.  Or, maybe, a genius idea.  Either way, the Flyers embraced the hate and ran with it.  Like a comedian who feeds off angry hecklers, Gritty now courts the abuse.  The Flyers marketing team looks incredibly smart now.  The bar was set so low, so early, now they can do almost anything no matter how stupid or demeaning.  Pour popcorn on unsuspecting fans?  That Gritty is incorrigible.  Push over a mite player during intermission?  Man, Gritty, you're so silly.  Run over a kid with the Zamboni in a murderous rage?  Oh, that's just Gritty being Gritty.  By design, or by turning chicken manure into chicken salad, the Flyers have created a good kind of monster.  And, however begrudgingly, earned a tiny bit of respect from me.

What's Your Appeal?

Suspended Washington Capitals forward Tom Wilson has his appeal hearing with the independent arbitrator today.  We here at Hailey Industries found enough change in the couch cushions to fire up our time machine.  We were able to jump into the future just far enough to witness the hearing.  This is a transcript of the proceedings.

Setting:

 A conference room in NHL Headquarters.  It is appointed and furnished like a normal conference room except the walls are bathed in a weird purple hue and there are small, white blinking lights all around leaving the room looking sort of like a game show set.  Seated on one side of a long table is suspended Washington Capitals forward Tom Wilson.  Through the door walks a tall man with a deep tan and bleached white teeth.  The sound of thunderous applause roars from…somewhere.  The tall man stands at the end of the table to Wilson’s left.  Staring into the distance, the man begins to speak.

Johhny Hairdo: Hi, everybody, and welcome to another exciting edition of “What’s Your Appeal?”  I’m your host, Johnny Hairdo.  Today’s contestant is Capitals forward Tom Wilson.  Hiya, Tom!

Wilson: (muttering) What the fu…

Johnny Hairdo: Exactly! Now let’s meet your opponent…er, I mean the completely neutral, independent arbitrator assigned by the league, Mr. Barry Gettman.

(In walk four individuals who seat themselves across from Wilson. One, a short, balding man looks suspiciously like the Count from Sesame Street, but wearing large glasses and a bushy, obviously fake moustache, begins to speak.)

Barry Gettman: Hi, Tom.  I’m Barry Gettman.  I’ve been asked by Commissioner Gary Bettman to hear, and fairly adjudicate your case today.  Before we hear your version of events, I’d like to introduce my team of totally impartial assistant arbitrators.  I think you know, Sidney Crosby.

(Wild applause sounds)

Crosby: Like it or lump it, I’m an NHL elder statesman!

Barry Gettman: And you may also know Don Cherry.

Cherry:  See my suit covered in this wild pattern of middle fingers?  I had it made just for you A-hole!

Wilson: I…but…what?

Barry Gettman: And to my left, the newest member of the team, one of the finest legal minds in the land, my esteemed colleague from Philadelphia-

Gritty: Me Gritty!

Wilson: Wow.  I know today is Halloween.  Is this some sort of joke?

Gritty: Trick or treat, Mother F-

Johnny Hairdo: I wish it was!  Mr. Gettman (wink), you’re up first.

Barry Gettman: Thanks, Johnny.  Now, Tommy, I’ve read Commissioner Bettman’s nuanced, beautifully written ruling on your initial appeal.  He really took you behind the woodshed, huh? Can you tell us about the night of your brutal on-ice attack when you almost murdered helpless St. Louis Blues player Oskar Sundqvist?

Wilson: Well, I, uh, saw Oskar cut across the ice, I knew we were below the hard deck, but I had the shot, so I took it. He should have had his head up.

Cherry: Top Gun references will get you nowhere, son. C’mon, you are Canadian for chrissakes.  You want a Top Gun reference, boy? You keep this crap up and you’ll be flying a plane full of rubber dog shit to Hong Kong.  How you like them apples, eh?  See I watch movies too, Titface.

Wilson: Man, I thought you liked North American players. 

Cherry: Not you, Shitpile.  You have that Ovechkin Eurotrash stink all over you.  Wrap yourself in a Maple Leaf and we’ll talk.

Crosby (snickering and shaking his head): Hehe, Shitpile. Don, you’re incorrigible.

Barry Gettman: Um, thanks Don.  Anything else to say in your defense, Tom, before we wrap up this charade?

Wilson: Yes, sir.  I think sitting out these ten games has been beneficial.  I’ve seen how I need to change my game and think I am ready to get back on the ice. 

Barry Gettman (under his breath): That seems unlikely.

Wislon: What?

Barry Gettman: I said, before I make my ruling I’d like to hear my colleagues’ recommendations.  Should we alter the length of Mr. Wilson’s suspension? Sid?

Crosby: Yes.  Make it forty games.

Gettman: Don?

Cherry: Hang him.  And all those other nutsacks rocking the red.

Gettman: Gritty?

Gritty: Yep. Reduce to 19 games if me allowed to shoot him in balls with T-shirt gun!

Gettman: Okay, panel thanks for weighing in.  I will consider all your, uh, helpful recommendations.  Tom, I will take all of today’s testimony under advisement and will hand down a ruling, hopefully, by Christmas.

Wilson: But-

Johnny Hairdo:  Well, I’m afraid that’s all the time we have.  Thanks for playing.  We’ll see next time, and for you Tom, I’m sure there will be a next time, on “What’s Your Appeal!” Goodnight, Everybody!

Opening Night Mailbag

What, you thought because Washington won the Stanley Cup that I wouldn't have enough material for an Opening Night Mailbag?  Now that the Caps wink in the face of playoff despair, that my readers wouldn't have questions?  Oh, they have questions.  And, as usual, I have something resembling answers.  Let's open up the mailbag so I can answer some questions submitted by actual That's No Moon readers.

Hi Bryan,
Are you still sitting on a giant pile of those "In Trotz We Trust" bumper stickers?
- Red Rocker in Reston

Yeah, Rocker, I've got a bunch left.  Know any good charities that can use irrelevant bumper stickers?  Maybe have a friend on Long Island who would trade me for some "Totally Tavares" t-shirts he no longer needs?  Perhaps I was too hasty in placing my reorder during the euphoria of a Cup victory.  Barry Trotz's departure was part expected, part a shame.  Of course, Todd Reirden can make Trotz's absence an afterthought if the Caps get out of the gate quickly.  He seems to have the ear of the players which has proven difficult at times with this group.  I think Todd is up to the task. According to UPS Tracking, my "Ridin' with Reirden" stickers should be on my doorstep by puck drop tonight.

Good Morning Mr. Moon,
What are we going to do with Tom Wilson?
- Troubled in Tenleytown

Well Troubled, the first thing we are going to do is watch the endless camera shots of him sitting in the press box for at least the first ten games of the season.  Once Tommy Knuckles returns, I hope Reirden assigns an assistant coach to blow a tranquilizer dart in Wilson's neck every time he spies an opponent with his head down.   The bottom line is the Caps need Wilson's edge, but also his burgeoning skill as  the top line wing.  Wilson must figure out the right way to avoid League scrutiny (whether we like where the game is headed or not).  It reminds me of 2010 when Alex Ovechkin got suspended for destroying Brian Campbell.  We wondered then if a neutered Ovi  could succeed.  I think he adjusted alright, don't you?

Hey B,
How do you feel about Sidney Crosby weighing in on Wilson's antics?
-Giddy in Gambrills

Hey Giddy.  Like I feel about anything regarding Crosby, it makes me feel gross and in need of a shower.  That guy delivers more dirty slashes than a horror movie villain yet thinks we care about his opinion on a guy's intent to injure.  But, like it or lump it (Man, I hate when he says that.), he is considered an elder statesman and caretaker of the game.  His opinion, especially regarding head injuries, will always be sought.

Yo Hockey Blogger Guy,
How many times have you watched the replay of Ovi lifting the Cup?
-Cupstanding in Clarksburg

Yo Cupstanding!  A lot. Many. North of a gazillion. But probably fewer times than T.J Oshie has been asked to drink a beer through his shirt.

That's No Moon, 
What was the most unlikely, surprising thing you witnessed in the aftermath of the Cup win?
-Still Drunk in Stevensville

A) Time to sober up, we need you for the new season.
B) Most surprising? Easiest answer of the day:  Emotion from Nicklas Backstrom.

Bryan, will you finally get off my ass now?
-Ted in Ballston

Done and done, sir.

Hello Bryan, 
After reaching the mountaintop, can these guys stay hungry for a title defense?
-Wondering in Warrenton

Good question, Wondering. Looks like DSP stayed hungry all summer, amiright?

Dear Mr. Hailey, 
Did you happen to see that photo of GM Brian MacLellan cutting loose and celebrating this summer? I'll hang up and listen.
-Hyped in Howard County

Hey Hyped. I did see it. It was glorious. That guy can really kick back. I'll post the photo here for those that did not catch it.

Bryan, are you a fan of the growing use of analytics to evaluate players?
-ALLCAPS IN ALEXANDRIA

Yes, ALLCAPS, I am. As long as it is only one aspect used to determine a player's value.  Interesting to see the latest statistical measurement added to Capital score sheets this season: B.A.C.

Hey Beezer,
Please help me. Something strange is happening to me. Hockey season is approaching and I feel...good. My lips are trying to involuntarily curl upward into- oh, what do they call it- a smile.  Looking at my Caps gear fills me not with a feeling of dread, but instead a warm positivity.  WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
-Kevin in Indiana

Nothing, brother. Enjoy it.

And that closes up the Opening Night Mailbag.  Enjoy the game, the banner, the beginning of a title defense.

#LetsGoCaps
#RockTheRed
#ALLCAPS

O, no...

Orioles fans have known this day was coming.  The signs, some as big as the Warehouse, have been evident for a long time.  I wrote, following the magical 2014 playoff run, that the Birds would be kicking themselves for losing to Kansas City because teams never know when that next chance will come.  Yes, there were signs. Yet, I didn't think the trade deadline bloodletting would be this severe. 

The first sign came that fall of 2014 when Dan Duquette decided not to re-sign Nelson Cruz. Cruz was a bargain basement lineup anchor in 2014, pounding 40 homers and 108 RBI on an $8 million dollar contract.  Cruz left for Seattle when Baltimore wouldn't offer a fourth year on their contract extension. Cruz's bat and clubhouse presence have been missed since.

The next sign was the albatross contract extension for Chris Davis after the 2015 season. Peter Angelos had been rightly criticized for being stingy with his cash.  Cruz couldn't get a fourth year. Nik Markakis, about the closest thing to being Mr. Oriole the Birds had at the time, was unceremoniously allowed to walk to Atlanta. And the front office acted as if paying a quality starting pitcher a decent wage was like contracting gonorrhea. But when the Adderall Kid needed a new deal, Angelos finally opened his wallet.  Some fans saw Davis's contract as the first sign of  ownership willing to commit to keeping the team together and a championship window open. Others knew exactly what it meant: Davis would never earn the money and committing such resources would mean the end of the Manny Machado Era was nigh.

The next signal was actually a bit of a surprise. In 2016, the O's scrapped their way to a wild card berth.  On that fateful night in Toronto, Buck Showalter left Zach Britton, who had just completed one of the greatest regular seasons ever by a relief pitcher, in the bullpen while Ubaldo Jimenez (nice guy/terrible Oriole) served up a season-ending gopher ball to Edward Encarnacion.  It was surprising because it was the first time I remember Buck screwing up in a big moment. Sure, you could argue it was the right move, tie game, saving Britton, blah, blah, blah.  Sorry, foresight was 20/20 on that one. After five years of watching Buck make chicken salad out chicken manure, after saluting him for restoring an organizational culture and attitude, and after cheering his seer-like manipulation of the bullpen for years, the bloom was off the rose. Yes, it was just one bad decision, one wrong call.  But this felt different. Confidence in Buck was no longer unwavering. 

Finally, the writing was on the wall.  2017 saw Baltimore somehow hover near .500 through August despite their starting pitchers posting an ERA over 5 runs a game.  But an epic September swoon was just preamble to the disastrous 2018 season. I laughed at Sports Illustrated's pre-2018 prediction of 70 wins for my beloved Birds. Surely with so  much offensive firepower, adding a couple reasonably professional starting pitchers, and the still formidable,  if not invincible, Buck, Baltimore could maybe, somehow, kinda, sorta fight for a wild card spot.  Well, they proved SI wrong, alright.  Sports Illustrated looks downright silly predicting 70 wins. Just not silly in a good way. The O's need to win 38 of their final 55 games (a .690 winning percentage) to reach 70 wins. Considering they are currently winning at a .299 clip, I'd say the odds of me skipping desert are better than Baltimore reaching 70 wins.

So, we knew this day was coming. We prepared in different ways. My nine-year-old daughter bought a Manny Machado poster in the offseason so she could remember him when he is gone.  Friends crossed fingers that their son's favorite player, Adam Jones, would remain wearing orange and black.  I've scaled back my viewing habits, maybe subconsciously distancing myself from the carnage.  Even these preparations were not enough.  The last two weeks have been a bloodbath.  An Orange Wedding for you Game of Thrones fans out there.  Machado, Britton, Jonathan Schoop, Kevin Gausman, Brad Brach,  and Darren O'day all gone in a cloud of prospects and international signing money. (Oh, so NOW the front office thinks scouting other countries for young talent might actually be a wise decision. Welcome to 2018, dummies.  May I also interest you in this new-fangled area of science called analytics?)  The  roster is gutted, removing almost all links to the 2014 A.L. East champions.  Gone is the hope of a future fun-loving double play combo of Schoop and Machado.  Gone, too, are the formerly lockdown bullpen stalwarts Brach, O'day, and Britton.  Once upon a time, if the starter could get through six innings (a dicey proposition most nights), victory was almost assured.  Who is left?  Adam Jones remains.  So too, does  Chris Davis.  I love Adam and hope he re-signs in the offseason. Though his skills have diminished he is a helluva representative for the organization.  He has picked up the mantle of Mr. Oriole and worn it well.  But he is not a piece to build around. Nor is Davis.  The man cannot even hit his weight, but has FOUR YEARS left on his contract.  My goodness, someone please get him some Adderall.  I'm actually okay with the fire sale.  The signs told us it would happen, even if I didn't think it would be this drastic.  I'm surprised they stopped where they did.  Why not trade Dylan Bundy for some used fungo bats? What, did the fax machine run out of paper at the league office? But such a wholesale roster reduction leaves questions.

Where do we go from here?  Of course, that is an umbrella question covering many others.  Are the prospects garnered in these trades any  good?  Who will be running the front office next season, guiding the rebuild? Does the miserly owner actually want to rebuild?  Will Buck return? Why would he want to come back?  Will the (N)O's play in front of Marlin-like crowds in Camden Yards next season? Can I think of one more question to write here? So. Many. Questions.

If I were running the team, I would do two things: bring up the prospects right now, and clean house in the offseason.  Gone are the days of grooming stars in the minors.  The Braves are ahead of schedule because they have brought their kids up for on-the-job training.  If the kids can play they will benefit from live-fire exercises.  There is only one way to find out if the trades were any good.  Get the prospects in the big leagues tomorrow.

As for the manager and general manager, it is time for fresh air.  Buck has been awesome, but it is time for a new era, a new voice.  Dan Duquette has found some gems from the trash heap while constrained by the owner's budget clamps, but for too long has acted like he wants to be elsewhere.  These guys have performed admirably, giving me this gift along the way. However, the dream topped out at reaching and being swept in one ALCS. Thank you and goodbye. 

But I am not the owner, I am a fan.  What should we fans do?  I don't know about you, but I'll cheer.  I'll beg the baseball gods to sprinkle some star power on the prospects.  I root for the uniform. I still love Camden Yards. I'll cheer. I always do.  In fact, I've been here before. Baltimore was awful in 1988.  Lost 21 straight games to start the season.  Traded away my favorite Oriole, Eddie Murray.  Things were as low as they could go. Do you remember what happened in 1989? The Birds almost went from worst to first.  Only Pete Harnisch stepping on a nail and a bad final weekend in Toronto  kept the "Why Not?" season from being even more special.  Yeah, I'll cheer next season; it's what I do.  Maybe a little Orioles Magic will find its way to Birdland.  I know it is far more likely we are headed for another decade of losing seasons, but a boy can dream, right? 

Behold My "Don't Crap Your Pants" Dance.

Last Saturday, The Wife and I took The Girl to Ocean City for an evening beach jaunt.  We enjoyed a little time splashing in the surf, dining on a seaside picnic, and watching a spectacular bayside sunset.  It was delightful.  Delightful until the bubble hit, that is.   You know "the bubble."  The body's first attempt to alert you of looming trouble below the belt.  You know "the bubble."  That stop-you-in-your-tracks, wince-inducing warning.  The cause of the trouble is nearly irrelevant.  Maybe dinner was too greasy.  Maybe the recently guzzled ice water shook things up down below.  Maybe it is karma for the shitty way I spoke to someone.  Whatever the reason, the bubble is the lower intestine raising a brown flag signaling impending basement troubles ahead.  Perhaps the cause is better considered and analyzed later.  For now is the time to plan.  Urgently. 


My brain began a series of simultaneous calculations.  The car is six blocks away.  The  public   restroom two blocks beyond that.  The public restroom I am thinking of is a drug store.  Do they even have public restrooms?   Is it time to run? Will running make the situation worse?  


As I have mentioned before, I believe public bathrooms should be visited less often than the moon.  They are vile, evil places to be used only in emergencies.  When I have the opportunity to avoid a public restroom I take it.  So when the initial bubble passed, my mind turned off the submarine dive horn blaring in my head.  That was my first mistake.  I broke the cardinal rule of gastrointestinal distress: ALWAYS TRUST THE BUBBLE.


Man, was that dumb. Lulled into a false sense of security, I got cocky, even dreaming of making it home to my own bathroom thirty miles away.  We hopped into the car heading for West Ocean City to find The Girl some dessert.   When the pain returned we were in bumper to bumper Saturday night beach traffic with about eight blocks and drawbridge between me and an easily accessible public toilet.  What have I done?  If the drawbridge goes up it is game over.  Sweating despite the AC, I turned up the radio to drown out the abdominal gurgling. 


Mercifully, we made it across the bridge and whipped into the Chick-fil-a just on the other side.  I rushed through the door trying to disguise the crazed look  on my face.  Imagine my disappointment when I can barely open the bathroom door because it is so crowded inside.  It wasn't so much a restroom as it was a clown car.  I had no choice but wedge my way in to assess the situation.  Fortunately, most of the crowd  was a man herding his boys through some hand washing.  Maybe I've caught a break.  The single stall is occupied, but the pain has abated for a moment. With a little patience this would soon be okay.    Except that a lot of patience was required and that was not okay. 


The tiny bathroom contained the stall on one side and the urinal and sink on the opposite wall.  I awkwardly hugged a third wall to hopefully signify I am waiting for the stall and  the urinal is open.  I'm too distracted by the returning Triple P's (Powerful Poop Pains) to even be grossed out that I am leaning against a wall in a public bathroom.  This devil's den will be my refuge if this guy will JUST GET OUT OF THE STALL.  Minutes began to pass as I did my best to avert my eyes from the steady stream of dudes using the urinal.  I've been in this smelly wasteland long enough that I should be offering towels and a mint.  Much longer and I'll find out if the perpetually cheery Chick-fil-a employees will still say, "My pleasure" when I tell them there is a clean up on Aisle Six.  As time dragged on, I had a choice to make- wait and hope for the best, or ditch and find another bathroom.  I always make the wrong call when deciding whether or not to switch grocery lines.  The stakes were higher here.  I glanced up and realized I can see the stall user's feet in the mirror.  I looked for any indication he was wrapping up.  Nope.  Those Crocs (of course they were Crocs) were planted firm and pointed dead ahead.  Then confirmation came that it was time to bolt.  Stall Guy started groaning.  A deep, guttural, Frankenstein's monster groan.  Unnnggghhh.  Then another, as if he is trying to push a boulder through his butthole.  I grabbed a handful of paper towels (you never know!) and walked to the car.  The Wife, incredulous the shituation has still not been resolved, suggested the Chipotle a hundred yards down the road.  The Girl, still without dessert,  openly wondered if I'm going to make it.  She wasn't the only one.


As expected, Chipotle was packed.  If things went way south, I'd have quite the audience.  If you're unfamiliar, many Chipotles have long, hidden hallways leading to the restroom.  Not this one.  This one has a short little hall open to the view of many diners.  And this short little hall was packed.  Two pairs of fathers and sons ahead of me waiting for the SINGLE bathroom.  What is with these resort town restaurants, busy as hell for six months a year, only having single restrooms?  A tiny part of me wanted to go full internet viral by doing my business right there as a misguided protest against single restrooms.  After a couple minutes, Dad Number One tells his kid, "I think somebody is dying in there", and drags his kid out of line.  Perfect. Yes, get the hell out of here, I have to go.  Finally, some dude emerges and Dad Number Two sends his kid in.  Alertly, and I will be forever grateful for this, before going all the way in the kid realizes there is no TP.  A couple extra minutes to restock, but that's a good thing.  It meant if I got in there I wouldn't have to use my Chick-fil-a paper towels. 


The key phrase was "if I got in there" because this kid was in the bathroom for TEN minutes. I didn't know the E. Coli you picked up at Chipotle affected you instantly!  Ten minutes?  Ten minutes I spent doing my "C'mon Bryan, Don't Crap Your Pants" Dance.  Rocking from foot to foot.  Deep breaths.  Closing my eyes, holding on, hoping each painful bubble was not the one to break the dam.  Pacing in a tiny circle.  The guy in line  behind me probably thought I was a tweaker.  No Sir, I'm not a methhead, just a guy considering using the ladies' room or a dark corner of the parking lot to relieve myself.  Dad Number Two, which, incidentally, would have been a better nickname for me, finally wandered back over, and probably upon seeing my wide-eyed, Yes-he-is-still-in-there look,  rapped on the door imploring his kid to come out.  I have never been so relieved to enter a dirty, disgusting public restroom.  The nightmare, exacerbated by ignoring the bubble, was over.  Order would soon be restored.   I have no idea what that boy was doing in there, but I bet he was wearing Crocs. 

Oh, Now You Want Civility?

Oh, now you want civility?

After years of talk radio hostility,
A campaign of absurdity,
Calls from the podium for brutality,
Assaults on liberty,
And daily Twitter stupidity,
Now you want civility?

The flip side bears some responsibility,
By breathlessly flaming the anxiety,
Indulging in overreactivity,
Choosing to match the animosity,
(Here I just want to rhyme Synchronicity),
And believing in hopeful audacity.

Can we fix a gulf of such enormity,
A divide so fraught with radioactivity,
Pushed to the brink is our collective fragility, Can we retain our bend but not break elasticity,
Will we demonstrate the necessary flexibility,
To achieve our founders' domestic tranquility?

We have the ability,
But it will take great temerity,
To change the tribal mentality,
Stow the vulgarity,
And erase the ideological rigidity,
Yes, we have the ability.

Oh, now we want civility...

(You know, calls from the right for "civility" drive me crazy. They are disingenuous at best, calculated base-baiting at worst. Do I think Trump officials should be shouted at in, or asked to leave,  restaurants? No, I do not. But to decry these actions while defending the bully-in-chief is laughable. The roots of today's culture war were planted long before Trump became president, yet he does his best (worst) each day to escalate  the battle.  If today's lack of civility is a raging wildfire, Trump may not be the smoldering campfire that started it, but he is the Santa Ana winds fanning the flames until they are out of control.

Finally, for funsies, if you haven't already, go back and read my "poem" in Don King's voice.)

Children In Cages

Children in cages.  Three simple words.  Three simple words that should be enough to cut through all the clutter.  To cut through the breathless talking heads, the purported policies and laws, the unconfirmed audio, and, if it is your cup of tea (party), the "fake news."  Three simple words that should make us, all of us, wonder what the hell is going on in this country we all claim to love.  Though, there were moments and simple words that previously should have been enough.  Grab 'em by the pussy.  Mocking a disabled reporter.  "Many sides" and "good people" in Charlottesville.  Endorsing Roy Moore.  Lie after lie with some untruths mixed in for variety.  Exhibits A through Z of evidence proving that Donald Trump's supporters, flattering Fox News  flunkies, and spineless Congressional Republicans are with him no matter the fuckery he trots out.  The blind loyalty somehow remains both astonishing and unsurprising. 


Back to today's issue.  (Which I assume is still the most recent forehead-slapping thing I need to worry about.  But I haven't been on Twitter in like five minutes, so who knows.)  There's no doubt we need immigration reform.   However, this zero-tolerance garbage is more like zero-compassion.  I've heard a bunch of arguments today from our President, from his administration, from his staff pundits at Fox News, and from friends and family defending separating kids from their parents.  Some of them are good; almost as good as PizzaGate and Birthers.  Let's check in on the latest. 


They're illegal!
Yes, some of the refugees are illegally crossing the border.  Deal with them accordingly.  But what about those showing up, at the proper designated ports of entry, willfully turning themselves in to seek asylum?  Do they not deserve to have their cases heard in a timely manner?  Can't we find a way to keep their families intact in decent living conditions while the legitimacy of their requests are considered? 


The holding facilities are like summer camps.
Laura Ingraham, to what kind of summer camps are you sending your kids?  Doggie day care?
Of course, I could be wrong. I am woefully out of style.  Maybe mylar blankets will be the next fidget spinners or Hatchimals dotting every kid's Christmas list this fall.


President Trump's hands are tied by a Clinton-era law.
Show me the law.  Seriously, point to it, send me a link, show me. And, no, the meme Uncle Don't Tread On Me just posted on his wall doesn't count.


The policy is a deterrent.
No, it's not.  It is a cruel, base-pandering, fear-mongering, brown people-punishing, fulfillment of a campaign promise.  And, if what you say is true, that migrants/refugees/animals/breeders/ insert-callous-word-Trump-has-used-here are indeed still flooding the borders, then this really isn't such
a hot deterrent after all, eh little chum?


Obummer (look at how clever you are) separated families, too.
Yep, and that was shitty, as well.  And protested. No, it did not get major media publicity.  I'm not here to debate the hypocrisy of the media; that ground is pretty well tread.  Obama also didn't send his Attorney General out like the town crier declaring war on refugee kids.  Damn, now I can't shake the image of tiny, elfin Jeff Sessions struggling to drag around his "Down with The Brown" sandwich board. Here's the thing, though.  Donald Trump has spent the first eighteen months of his presidency trying to dismantle every single policy enacted by Barack Obama.  But this one, splitting toddlers from their parents, putting boys on lockdown behind chain link in a refurbished Wal-Mart, this is the predecessor's policy that you leave in place?  Whatever, man.


Uh, if you don't want to lose your child, don't bring them here. 
Holy shit, listen to yourself!


So here we are, unable to move on to important matters like establishing a Space Force because I have to rage against children in cages.  Fortunately, others have taken up the cry.  SOME religious leaders, SOME Republicans, SOME  Trump voters.  But not enough.  It is not enough until ALL of us call for a better way.  It's not hard to do the right thing.  Sometimes all we need is a simple reminder.  Three simple words.  Children in cages.

Worth the Wait

Life is a series of moments.  The life of a sports fan is measured by these moments, the highlight  reels forever burned in our memory.  The plays we watch, the I-remember-exactly-where-I-was-when-that-happened memories we make, the shared joy and disappointment, all become touchstones in our families and our fan communities. They are how we communicate, both with best friends  and fans we barely know.


For Washington Capitals fans there have been electrifying moments.  Hunter in alone on Hextall.  Joe Juneau poking a loose puck behind Dominic Hasek. Joel Ward eliminating Boston in overtime.  But, especially in the playoffs, most of the memories are of bitter failure and disappointment.  We know them all. The brutal ones even get their own nicknames.  We lament them, we write about them, we curse them.  The Easter Epic.  Nedved.  Gonchar falling in OT.  Tikkanen missing a yawning open net.  Marty St. Louis in the third overtime.  Too many crushing Game Seven losses to count. Blown 3-1 series leads.  Dinged posts.  Deflections off defensemen's skates.  Bad calls and no calls.  Close calls and pratfalls.  In the postseason, the Caps routinely made the impossible seem inevitable, and NOT in a good way.  Each time, after remote controls  were flung in disgust and red sweaters ripped off in despair, we would lick our wounds, settling into our summers of discontent confident that we would never see the Capitals win it all.  We would console each other with the trite notion that all the heartache and dismay would make it that much sweeter when the Caps actually, finally, impossibly won the Cup.


Guess what.  On that last point, trite as it may have been, we were absolutely right!  Last night, we watched OUR guys do the impossible.  And vicariously sipping from Lord Stanley's Cup was sweeter than I could imagine.  The victory doesn't sweep away all the past disappointments, in fact, it does  the opposite.  The victory galvanizes those bitter memories into a healthy resolve, into a fun righteousness proving us correct for sticking with our Caps for all these years.  Look at what those guys accomplished.  During a season in which some thought they might not even make the playoffs, the boys in red, faced and exorcised all the demons of yesteryear.  It is easy to say the law of averages finally worked out, but we know better.  The hockey gods make you earn your breaks, and earn them Washington did.  On the ropes in Columbus,  The Holtbeast returned in the nick of time as the Caps stormed back to win four straight.  Evgeny Kuznetsov bookended goals in the first minute of Game One and the winning goal in overtime of Game Six to get by Pittsburgh.  Just when it looked like another here-we-go-again demise after coughing up a 2-0 series lead in Tampa, Andre Burakovsky returned from injury and the doghouse to propel Washington to the Stanley Cup Final.  Brandishing a team defense and depth of scoring that previous Caps' teams have so often lacked, Washington swaggered into Vegas and cashed in on their first title.  It was not without difficulty.  Facing nemesis Marc-Andre Fleury, and one last demon in holding a 3-1 series lead, the Caps endured things in Game Five that would have sunk them in the past.  A deflected goal against, hitting the post twice, untimely penalties.  Yet, this time the Caps backed up their talk by actually being different.  A new identity was formed as new memories were etched.  Gone are the choking dogs, replaced by clutch champions.  New memories and new heroes immediately legendary among the fan collective.  THE SAVE.  Bottom six heroes like DSP, Lars Eller, and Chandler Stephenson emerging.  Orpik standing tall.  Shot blocks by the grinders and the millionaires. Tom Wilson pulverizing anything in opposing colors. THAT power play saucer pass from Backstrom to Ovechkin symbolizing the excellence of an entire era.


So, now we've got it.  The big honkin' silver chalice on which the players's names will be engraved  in immortality.  We have the Stanley Cup.  And yes, I say we.  I didn't earn it on the ice, of course, but I have been with this team for thirty-plus years.  So I like to think this victory was for all of us.  Players and fans, past and present.  This win was Ovie and Backy.  For Kuzy and Trotz.  For Ted and Abe.  But it was also for Dale and Kono.  For Bonzai and Calle Jo.  For Olie the Goalie and Donnie B.  It's even for ketchup-faced Brucie and George McPhee. And  it is for the fans.  For everyone that braved the traffic to reach the big potato chip in Landover.  For everyone that rocks the red at F Street.  For a group of guys that lept off the couch squealing like little girls when Juneau scored twenty years ago and wept when Dale Hunter's number was raised to the rafters. For a group of guys that invested so much emotionally in what others consider a frivolous passion. For a group of guys that has cheered and cursed together, wondering  if we would ever see this day.  The day has arrived.  Enjoy it.  For today, whether you have been with this wonderful, enigmatic, torturing, amazing team for thirty years or thirty days, we are ALL CAPS.

Here We Go...Again?

It is no secret that fan is short for "fanatic." We sports fanatics sometimes tend to get a little crazy, often care a little too much.  Within fandom exists varying degrees of fanaticism.  The casual viewer, the follower who cares (but not too much), the fan that cheers, yet can keep his head about him when his team faces defeat. Then there's the alarmists. Cubs and Red Sox followers wore their doom and gloom like a badge of honor until each team broke its curse.  Browns fans wallow in Cleveland's futility.  Looking for the finest breed of alarmists? I give you fans of the Washington Capitals.  Over the course of the last thirty years, Capitals fans have buckled in for a roller coaster hell ride as our team has pummeled our hockey souls. I've documented the heartbreaking moments far too often in these very pages.

This season we Caps fans were treated to finally seeing our boys in red vanquish the hated Penguins. Faced with the prospect of actually seeing Washington claw closer to a first Cup, we have allowed this foreign substance called optimism to creep into our collective psyche.  Now that Tampa Bay has erased a 2-0 series deficit by winning two games in D.C., Caps fans can't hose off the good vibes fast enough. We are allowed to slip back into our comfortable feeling of worry. Nevermind that the series is TIED. Checking in with friends, internet comment sections, and radio callers, I have taken the temperature of Caps fans. Let's just say other hockey fans, the rational, normal kind, must be laughing at us. Here's a handing chart so you can check in on your fan status:

Rational, Normal Fan: The series tied at two games apiece after four games is a good place to be against a team as formidable as the Tampa Bay Lightning.
Caps Fan: Oh my god, it's happening again!  They are going to blow ANOTHER 2-0 series lead!

Rational, Normal Fan: The tactical chess match between these two coaches that has developed over the course of this series has been interesting and informative.
Caps Fan: Barry Trotz can't coach his way out of a paper bag. Why is he still Here?

Rational, Normal Fan: Washington has to be more stubborn on the penalty kill, getting back to the shutdown PK they possessed earlier in the playoffs.
Caps Fan: Steven Stamkos is a hockey god whose power play prowess makes him the next in a long line of hockey gods that routinely crush us!

Rational, Normal Fan: The Capitals have badly outshot the Lightning in these last two games.  If they keep up the barrage they will break through.
Caps Fan: We shoot high and wide more than Imperial Stormtroopers.  We are doing that thing again where we consistently fire shots into the goalie's chest.  Andrei Vasilevskiy has grown into an invincible wall that will never be penetrated again!

Rational, Normal Fan: Andrei Vasilevskiy is his team's best penalty killer.
Caps Fan: Our power play has abandoned us and will never score again!

Rational, Normal Fan: The Capitals need to stay out of the penalty box.
Caps Fan: Lars Eller is a piece of human garbage that should not leave the press box for Game Five.

Rational, Normal Fan: Best two out of three from here. What an exciting series.
Caps Fan: I know how this movie ends. Caps are gonna Cap.  Stupid choking dogs!

In other words, take a deep breath.  If this team truly is different after slaying Pittsburgh, the next three games could be fun.  If not, we'll toss this season on the scrap heap of other broken postseason dreams.  Either way, I'm sure we'll derive some manner of satisfaction.

Capitals Assemble!

It was 1992. I know because I looked it up to double check my memory.  1992 was the first time the Caps blew a 3-1 series lead to the Penguins.  Then they did it again in 1995. Sure, they first lost to the Pens in the postseason in 1991, but it was those blown leads in '92 and '95 that really built my hatred for the men in black. The subsequent Shakespearean tragedies (Nedved, Gonchar falling in OT, Bonino, seemingly a hundred other moments) have cemented that hatred.  Watching Lemeiux and Crosby hoist the Cup (the Pens have eliminated the Caps in each of the seasons Pittsburgh has won the Cup) makes it that much worse.  Nearly thirty years of soul-draining, head-scratching, heart-wrenching beatdowns.

So they meet again.  Pittsburgh gunning for their third straight elimination of Washington and their third straight Stanley Cup.  Washington looking to somehow rip the black and gold monkey from their back.  About the same time the puck drops for Game One tomorrow night, Marvel's Avengers Infinity War hits theaters.  The film's villain, Thanos, is a big, purple, Grimace-on-steroids dude.  I can't think of a more apt avatar for Sidney Crosby than a purple-headed, penis-looking villian.  And the Capitals will have to "assemble" their greatest effort yet in order to "avenge" three decades of misery.  To save the galaxy beat Pittsburgh, Washington will have to defeat Crosby/Thanos and his sycophantic minions LeTang, Murray, Referees, and Pierre Maguire.  In a fun exercise, I decided to cast our hockey heroes as their Marvel counterparts.  More knowledgeable comic fans, please feel free to correct me or weigh in.

Alex Ovechkin as Iron Man: The Russian Machine is the wealthiest, flashiest, arguably most important leader of the Capitals, outfitted with the heaviest weapons. As Ovie goes, so do the Caps.

T.J. Oshie as Captain America: Duh

Nick Backstrom as Vision: Nicky has the quiet, cool demeanor of artificial intelligence transplanted in a sentient being. And, of course, the name just fits as he has terrific on-ice "vision."

Tom Wilson as The Hulk: The Caps need a lot of smash from #43, but they also need Wilson to channel Bruce Banner's smarts when deciding when to dance.

Dimitri Orlov as Black Widow:  A slick Russian operative capable of acrobatic moves and putting an opponent flat on his back.  No word on how good he looks in a black leather jumpsuit.

Devante Smith-Pelly as Hawkeye: Not the most popular Avenger, nor possessing superpowers, Smith-Pelly has had a knack for being a sniper blasting his top shelf target at just the right moment.  What, you thought he had to be Black Panther because he is the only black player on the Caps?

Braden Holtby as Black Panther: To defeat the Pens, Holtby will need to be as impenetrable as T'Challa's Wakandan armor.

Matt Niskanen as Bucky Barnes: A former enemy becomes an ally.  In his third series against his old mates, can Nisky be a difference maker?  Plus Winter Soldier is a cool nickname for a hockey player.

Evgeny Kuznetsov as Dr Strange:  Kuzy's magic hands make him a wizard with the puck.

Jakub Vrana as Spider-Man: The speedy youngster has the opportunity to play a small, but pivotal role in the action.

Jay Beagle as Ant Man:  A fourth-liner in a small role becomes a giant on the PK and at the face off dot.

Lars Eller as Thor: Okay, he might not be the God of Thunder, but he brought the hammer in OT helping slay the giant Bobrovsky and he IS Scandinavian.

John Carlson as Star Lord: The All-American kid that can bring the big laser blasts.

Barry Trotz as Nick Fury: For no other reasons than Trotz is the leader and looks like he should wear an eye patch.

What's that? Oh, what is my prediction for the series? I have no clue. I mean, the law of averages says the Caps are due, but we all know the hockey gods don't care about the law of averages.  I'm content to sit on the edge of my seat and enjoy (as much as I can) watching this roller coaster ride of a spring blockbuster play out.

Never Tell Me the Odds

I'm ready, but not yet willing to give up on my Caps.  We've been here before, hoping against all good sense that our hometown hockey team can defy the odds. While we anxiously wait for Game Three, pondering the possibilities, here's another playoff edition of Fact/Opinion:

Fact: No team has won a series after losing the first two games at home, in overtime.  Only 19 of 103 teams have won a series after losing the first two games at home. One of those teams was the Capitals in 2009 versus the Torts-coached Rangers.
Opinion: We gotta get Torts a water bottle.

Fact: Tom Wilson's growth as an offensive player was an integral part of Washington's regular season success.
Opinion: Tom Wilson is also a bonehead who should be made to wear a shock collar with which an assistant coach could taze Wilson if he is about to take a stupid penalty.

Fact: I understand a coach's job is to babble coachspeak and attempt to maintain an even keel in post game press conferences following losses.
Opinion: After Game 2, Barry Trotz should have dispensed with the happy horseshit about the many positives to be taken from the game. (John Carlson hitting the post with thirty seconds left wasn't a good thing. Somebody in red always hits the post.   It was more a sarcastic chuckle from the universe.) You can grasp at positivity straws, but I'd rather you get angry, rip your guys for the terrible second period, show ANY kind of emotion. If you are going to look like a Russian premier you might as well bang your shoe on the podium.

Fact: A young co-worker was lamenting the anguish she has felt during her six years as a Caps fan.
Opinion: That's nice. Come talk to me in another 24 years, kid.

Fact: The viral video of Brett Connolly's attempts to get a warm up puck to a young fan was heart-warming. (Except for the other two brats who kept stealing them, of course.)
Opinion: It would have been better for the other 18,504 fans in attendance if he could have placed a few pucks in the net instead of the front row.

Fact:Braden Holtby is talented enough to steal this series.
Opinion: Haha, good one, Bryan.

Fact: The first and third periods of Game 2 showed who the Caps CAN BE.
Opinion: The second period of Game 2 showed who they ARE.

Fact: Washington's power play is operating at an outstanding 38.5%.
Opinion: This is much less impressive when you realize Washington PK is allowing Columbus' PP to score at a whopping 50% clip.

Fact: I will Rock the Red until it's over.
Opinion: It gets harder every year.

Fact: I previously picked Columbus to win in seven games.
Opinion: Columbus in six.

I've Got Mail!

Ah, yes, can you smell the frozen vulcanized rubber in the air? With the NHL regular season in the rearview mirror, sixteen teams are about embark on a battle for the toughest trophy to win in all of sport, that cherished chalice, the Stanley Cup.  Pardon the hyperbole; I'm a bit excited to see if my Caps can make a serious postseason run.  To kill some time until Thursday's Game One with Columbus, I thought I would dip into the That's No Moon Mailbag and answer some real questions from actual Washington Capitals fans.

Hi Bryan, 
I'm having a hard time deciding what to do about a playoff beard this year.  The Caps have never won in any postseason when I have grown one, yet have also never won when I have forsaken the beard. It's almost as if my beard has no bearing on the outcome of a series. Advice?-Facial Dilemma in Fairfax

Thanks for the letter, Facial Dilemma. You've fallen into that old trap: thinking you matter.  We all twist ourselves into that logic pretzel of wondering had we done one little thing differently could we have prevented a devastating playoff loss. Aside from a trip to the Finals in 1998 fueled solely by my steadfast vow to eat a Royal Farms chicken salad sub prior to every playoff game, adhering to my superstitions has never helped. As for your beard, can you grow a robust chin jungle that would make Brent Burns proud? Or are you like me and look like a testosterone-deficient, scabies-suffering, low-level pot dealer being busted on COPS when you try to grow a beard? I trust you'll do the right thing.

Good morning B,
This team always drives me to drink by mid-May, so I decided to start early this year.  I'm drunk right now. Too soon?  - Hammered in Howard County.

Good morning Hammered,
To paraphrase the poetic duet performed by Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett, it's Game 7 somewhere.  So, no, it is never too early with this team.

Yo That's No Moon,
Grubie or Holtbeast, who ya got?- Crease Crisis in Crownsville

Crease, you raise the biggest question of the postseason. Barry Trotz's answer will likely define the remainder of his tenure in D.C.  Grubauer has been one of the best goaltenders in the league since January 1st, yet lacks extensive playoff experience.  Braden Holtby, while shaky, has played better of late, but has not been his dominant self.  Also, remember, Holtby is vastly more experienced, however, that experience totals up to a 19-20 career playoff record complete with the inability to make THE save to turn a game or series in the Caps' favor.  Given they are both somewhat beholden to the defense, or lack thereof, in front of them, I think I ride with Grubauer.  Having a Vezina Trophy winner on hand for emergencies sounds like an okay problem to have.  Then again, as esteemed American philosopher and playwright, John Madden,was fond of saying "If you have two quarterbacks, you don't any."

Bryan, I'm thinking of taking a vow of celibacy until Washington wins the Cup. Thoughts? - Blueballed in Bladensburg

Well, Blue, I hope you like Washington's radio announcers because you are likely to be blind by the time the Caps break their drought.

Hello Bryan,
TORTS IS A DOUCHE!!!!!
- Wound Up in Wheaton

*Duly noted*

Hi B, 
Penguins versus Flyers? Who the heck do I root for in that one? - Perplexed in Potomac

Perplexed, at first I thought this would be the toughest question to answer in the whole mailbag.  These two Patrick Division holdovers make my skin itch like no other teams.  I hate them with every fiber of my hockey fandom.  Each are reviled rivals whose fans, with the exception of an awesome few that I know, are just as loathsome.  Faced with this awful choice, I choose to root for D.  No, not defense.  In that series I root for Disease,  Diarrhea, and Dismemberment.  Never forget, Perplexed, those teams are animals and should be treated as such.

Hey Bryan,
As a long suffering Caps fan do you ever allow yourself to be a little optimistic? After two seasons of underachieving as favorites maybe Washington can fly under the radar without the burden of expectation.  They have played better and won more games in the regular season than any of us could have imagined.  The defense is improving. T.J. Oshie has bounced back from a slow start. Ovechkin is scoring. Kuzy is on fire.  Columbus is beatable.  The Pens and Flyers will beat the crap out of each other.  Dare I dream? - Amped in Adams Morgan

Wuher, do you wanna take this one?

"We don't serve your kind here."

Hey Beezer, 
When this inevitably goes South I'll need to place an internet order. Is there one "M" or two in Hemlock? -Kevin in Indiana

And that closes up the mailbag, folks. Enjoy Round One!

Uncle Don Wants You!

I am not often shy about sharing personal details here, (my post about urine collection for example), and today is no different.  I was overjoyed to learn earlier this week that President Trump is finally openly weaponizing space by forming an official United States Space Force.  As such, I have posted here a copy of the application letter I will soon be sending off to the Space Force Academy. Fingers crossed I get in.

Dear President Trump,
Thank you for finally announcing what I suspected long ago. I am pleased to know I  was correct in surmising that with last year's mysterious "Covfefe" Tweet, which obviously (at least to a genius like me) stands for Covert Outer-space Voyages For Exterminating Foreign Extra-terrestrials, you were signaling the formation of a U.S. Space Force.  My astute power of deductive reasoning is but one quality that makes me an excellent candidate for entry into Space Force Academy.  I assume to keep your standards high, you will require enlistment applicants to be straight white males.  Now, I don't want to rock the spaceboat before even being accepted, but may I make a suggestion? I would recruit at least a few women.  After all, us Space Rangers will need something to look at and someone to keep us company on our long cross-galaxy flights. 

As one of your loyal Space Rangers, I look forward to MSGA. Great like when we blasted chimps and brave dudes into orbit atop giant gas cans. We'll show North Korea who the real Rocket Man is. Great like before we shared the International Space Station with other countries.  We don't need to collaborate, we're America, dammit! 

For so many reasons, I am ready to head into space. I am eager to gain visual confirmation of the majestic turtle upon whose shell our flat Earth travels through time and space.  Armed with proof, I can stick it in the eye of my ninny friends that think the Earth is round. I can't wait to smash Sanctuary Space ports, though I understand not all of us can be warriors. Some of us Space Rangers will work in support roles. If asked, I will serve in any capacity.  Perhaps I can help build the Wall around the moon to prevent those dirty Martians, AKA Space Mexicans, from invading.  I believe we have done enough "sciencing" here on Earth, therefore it is my sincere hope that Space Force's missions will consist of only protectionism, galactic war, conquering planets, and plundering said planets and any other meteors, comets, moons and such, of their precious natural resources in the name of the good ol' U.S.of A.  I would absolutely volunteer to run Exxon's drilling operations in the asteroid belt or the "clean" helium mining on Neptune.  However, as an upstanding,  "family values" applicant of profound moral standing and big Mike Pence fan, I am afraid I must refuse any missions to explore Uranus.  Of course, if you keep hemorrhaging staff at your current unprecedented pace, I may be in line to be Chief of Staff by the time I graduate from the Academy.

Anyhoo, as I know you make all your decisions only after careful consideration and thoughtful rumination, I humbly submit this application. I'm sure, like all things provided for your perusal, you will thoroughly read this missive.  If not, let me put it easier terms: I want to help @failingspace. #SAD #MSGA #SPACEFORCE

That Ain't Lemonade.

There are worse things you can hear your doctor say than, "Get him the jug." Things like "Scalpel" and "Grab the defibrillator!" come to mind.  But jug talk isn't super when the doctor is your kidney doc and the container in question is a big, honkin' 3-liter bottle in which she expects you to collect your urine.  Yep, for a 24 hour period starting yesterday morning, I had to forsake toilets in favor of a bucket with a screw-on lid.  I'm all for saving on my water bill, but if I was truly concerned I would simply pee  in the sink on a tree outside.  Since I'm neither Howard Hughes nor a passenger on some sort of non-stop cross country road trip, I  haven't often thought about urinating in a jug. That is, until I was diagnosed with kidney stones.

A couple weeks ago, I woke in the middle of the night to some pain in my left upper back and side.  Thinking I had tweaked something by turning awkwardly in my sleep, I stood up to stretch.  Instead of resolving, the pain worsened.  I tried to remember when I had been kicked in the side by a horse. Or when I had gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson.  It was certainly more than a sore back.  I suddenly felt like Mola Ram, the evil high priest from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, was reaching through my ribs, not to rip my heart out, but to give my innards a nasty squeeze.  Uncertain of the cause of the pain, my anxiety slipped into overdrive. I didn't know what it was, but I knew it wasn't good.  I shook Amanda awake to tell her I was driving to the emergency room. My sweet wife, not being keen on indulging my paranoia at 4am, tried to calm me down. Too late. I was already a sneaker-clad Igor shuffling towards the car.

Arrival at the hospital began to ease my worry.  Not because the pain relented, but because the first four staffers I encountered all said, "Yep, sounds like a kidney stone."  Had there been a coat check girl, I'm sure even she would have concurred. Now convinced it only felt like I was dying, I tried to settle into my ER bed to wait for the doc to examine me. Of course, because they were convinced it was only a kidney stone, I slipped down the priority ladder.  Don't get me wrong, I was happy to be healthy enough to not warrant immediate action.  Yet the pain made it impossible to wait patiently.  I could not get comfortable.  Standing, sitting, lying down, nothing brought the slightest bit of relief.  Meditation failed to ease the pain. As did any breathing exercises.  Can we page the Lamaze coach?

Let me interrupt my story to commend every mom ever.  The pain of a kidney stone is said to rival that of labor and contractions.  If that is what labor feels like, I salute you. You are all even more badass than I thought.  I was in pain for five hours. I can't imagine feeling like that for as long as some labors last.

Too distracted by the discomfort in my side to realize there was a tv remote control attached to my bed, I was stuck trying to lose myself in whatever was on the television. Unfortunately, the last 45 minutes of The Notebook just added to my misery.

The nurses were great. Sympathetic to both my pain level and my wait time, they changed the channel, hooked up an IV to ward off any dehydration, and got some pain meds on board.  I learned from them "Hurts like hell" appears nowhere on their Scale of 1-10 Emoji Pain Rating system.  With meds knocking the pain down from a 9 to a frowny-faced 6, I was whisked off to CT scan. 

But not before the most frightening moment off the night. I had to remove my pants for the CT scan.  The doctor or nurse casually set them on top of the  biohazard can. The Biohazard can! Sure, the lid was closed, but as Seinfeld taught an entire generation, adjacent to refuse is refuse.  It's bad enough I am in the  ER immersed in a viral cloud in the middle of flu season. I have already dropped my phone on the Petri dish of a  floor a couple times. (I'm sure watching me painfully maneuver to pick it up, straining against the confines of the IV and an ill fitting hospital gown, would have been good for some laughs.) Now my pants are separated by only a few millimeters of plastic  from whatever demon particles are inside the biohazard bucket?  Germophobe alarm activated!  I wasn't sure if my nausea was now from the kidney stone or the fact that my pants were, as Ruxin would say, forever unclean.  When Amanda walked in to the room after getting Grace to school, she laughed and asked if I was going to burn those pants.  Believe me, I considered it.

The CT scan confirmed a stone had passed and that welcome news combined with a dose of morphine (the pain had bounced back to an angry-emoji 9 or 10) took the discomfort level to a chill zero. Fortunately, even though I do have some more stones, I have been pain free since. However, bloodwork revealed some of my kidney numbers were wonky, leading to my date with the nephrologist (spooky) and the 3-liter urine jug.

Peeing into a jug may seem like a simple proposition, but there are more than a few logistical gymnastics involved.  First, is the When and the Where. Carrying a jug o' warm pee around for an entire Earth rotation isn't simple. It would be a little awkward carrying a jug, or a large bag hiding the jug, in and out of the pubic restroom at work.  (Actually, as awkward as it might be, it would be about the seventeenth weirdest thing to occur in our store's bathrooms, but still.)  Then I learned the collected specimen has to be kept cold, either in the fridge or on ice.  Well, I suppose workplace etiquette dictates  I can't very well toss my jug of dragon drainings next to Susie's brown bag lunch in the community fridge in the break room. That means I have to collect on my day off. That means on my day off I can't stray too far from home and my own fridge.  The key phrase of that sentence, of course, is MY OWN FRIDGE. Have I mentioned I'm a germophobe? Talk about cross-contamination. I don't like placing the plastic-wrapped raw meat next to the veggies.  Now, I have this jug stashed next to the juice.  Grace, ever clever at age nine, feigned disgust, but I know her Captain Underpants-reading self got a kick out of it. Especially when I reminded her jug was NOT filled with lemonade.

Having established the When and the Where, figuring out the How wasn't the easiest of tasks.  The opening of the jug is a wee (see what I did there?) bit narrower than a toilet.  Then there is the order of tasks. Flip the toilet lid. Unscrew the jug lid. Set the jug down. Unzip. Pick the jug back up.  Actually pee. Then reverse the steps. I'm by no means claiming to be wrestling an anaconda down there, but juggling all this with only two hands is challenging.  Especially twelve hours in, when the jug is starting to gain some weight. The last thing I want to do is pee all over my hands. (Who am I, Moises Alou?) Actually, the last thing I want to do is drop/spill the jug so I have to repeat this entire process again.

Fortunately, the 24 hours passed without incident.  No one in my household mistook my jug for the bottle of Minute Maid.  There were no runs, drips, or errors. I even remembered to use the jug in the middle of the night.  The only hiccup was at the lab where I had to give one more  sample (the cup was a breeze after hoisting a full jug for a day) and for a few tense minutes when the lab tech thought I had been given the wrong container making my nearly 3-liter sample invalid.  Luckily, all was well, and I didn't leave the lab PISSED off.

In-vest-ment Strategy

Ah, the holiday season. A time to pause for reflection and self-examination. To ask myself important questions. How's life? Am I doing good work? Am I vest guy? (Seriously, never underestimate my knack for focusing on the frivolous or mundane.)
 
Yeah, a vest guy.  No, not a sweater vest guy.  Or A cowboy.   More of a gentleman who wears a sleeveless winter garment.  As I roamed the halls of retail prior to Christmas (me and the, like, three other people who don't do the bulk of their shopping online), I started looking for a new winter coat.  This is a bit of a departure for me.  As a rule, I hate wearing coats. They are too bulky in the car, I have to keep track of them once indoors, and they admit surrender at the hands of Weather.  In the past I'd rather take my chances freezing while crossing a parking lot than carrying a heavy coat through the grocery store.  However, one of the concessions I've made to age is that I can't fight the cold as easily. The harsh wind cuts through to the bone. Gone are the days of wearing shorts in December. So, I was looking for something warm, yet comfortable.  Cozy, but light. Utilitarian, yet stylish. Not that I would know stylish if it fell on my head like a cartoon anvil.

The more I browsed coats, the more I bumped into vests.  I tried on a few.  Hmm, snug as a cocoon and I can move my arms freely? Nice. Lightweight and waterproof?  Hey hey, we might onto something here. As I stood in the middle of Boscov's test-flailing my arms around like a twin turbine windmill, I realized a vest might just be the outerwear that possesses both the warmth and the unencumbered free range of motion I desire.

But I needed to proceed with caution; being a vest guy comes with some inherent dangers.  One, I run the risk of being a hypocrite.  For years I have made fun of my wife for wearing winter vests.  Each fall I break out my oh so clever little quips: Forget your sleeves? Still paying full price for half a coat?  Marty McFly called, he wants to take his life preserver back to the future.  Buying myself a vest would admit that all those insults were hollow or that my wife was right.  Not sure we can have that.
Secondly, a vest guy carries a certain air about him, doesn't he?  Maybe a vest guy is a little too "bro", a little too douchy.  Like Chaz the Obnoxious  Ski Instructor or a model for an outdoor menswear catalog.  Let's face it, the only menswear catalog I could ever model for might be L.L. Beef.  Finally, what if a winter vest serves as a gateway garment? "Sun's out, Guns out" is like the crystal meth of fashion advice. It's possible I'll stop wearing sleeves altogether.  Leather biker vests, cutoff denim shirts, Larry the Cable Guy shirts, muscle shirts, tank tops - nobody, and I mean nobody, wants to see that looming train wreck. 

As the holiday season dragged on, I stalked men's department mirrors wondering if each vest was too Chaz, too McFly, or just right.  I ultimately decided to hold off on a coat purchase in case Santa's elves had already made me one.  It was a good call because Amanda and Grace had indeed bought me a warm, puffy sleeveless jacket. Thanks to my wife's sense of humor or irony, I'm now a vest guy!  Hope I can pull it off. Now I'm off to the gym to get these biceps ready for Summer.