So, how about that supermoon, eh? I know it was over hyped and your news feed was jammed with blurry cell phone photos of glowing white orbs that may or may not have been the moon. I know many of you think it was silly or overrated or not worth your time. I didn't check out Sunday's lunar eclipse because Facebook told me to, because I subscribe to the mystical powers of blood moons, or even because it was an event that had not occurred in thirty-some years. I dragged my beach chair into the front yard and looked skyward because the eclipse was genuinely neat. Maybe, in this era of YOLO and extreme everything, "neat" is a quaint ideal that no longer has much cachet, but, man, sometimes the simplest joys are where it's at.
I found the the eclipse truly awe-some. Maybe I was feeling a bit philosophical Sunday night because I had a rough day at work and Mother Nature reminded me there is so much more to my universe than unreliable employees or selling books to angry old women. Maybe I was worn down by the failings of my fantasy football team. Or maybe the eclipse was actually exciting. I forgot that nature is actually exciting. I sometimes don't look up from my phone or television or book long enough to appreciate nature's beauty. Even the clouds that moved in, threatening to derail the show, were amazing to see. I remembered to not be disappointed in what I might not see, but to appreciate what I could. And there was much to appreciate. Whether you believe in God or Science or both, I think you could see the magic in the moon marching across the night sky. Watching the sky, I felt the same way I do standing in the ocean-tiny, admiring the vastness laid out before me. This weekend at the shore, with the surf non-negotiable and the wind-driven sand trying to peel flesh from leg, I couldn't help but marvel at the enormity and power of the sea. Similarly, Sunday, watching the moon succumb to the shadow, I let my mind wander. Thoughts, ranging from the serious to the silly, drifted by like the clouds drifting through the air. I thought of my late father, eternity, space travel, werewolves, the new Star Wars movie and gentle painter Bob Ross (Let's give this little cloud a friend, shall we?).
As crickets' songs and the far off honks of traveling geese served as nature's soundtrack to the moon's show, I was reminded how rarely there is stillness and quiet in my life, inside my head or out. We are always on the go; work or play, we stuff our lives with activity. At work, crappy music, the bark of blenders and coffee grinders, and customers' bleats ring in the ears. At home, sounds of music or a ball game or a jumping/laughing/shouting six year old fill the air. Except when I try to meditate or write, both of which I do all too infrequently, the house is buzzing. It felt so good to feel the gentle breeze, listen to the nature songs and watch the eclipse through my binoculars. Then after about an hour or so, much like saying a word over and over again until it becomes unrecognizable, the magic ended and the moment was lost. But the lesson remains: Make time to enjoy the universe's grandeur. Getting lost in it might just help you find yourself.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Friday, September 25, 2015
Vapid Vapers Voraciously Vaping
I am normally easygoing when it comes to people's hobbies. After all, we all geek out about different things. You play Dungeons and Dragons, I play fantasy football. You like to cook, I like to eat. You indulge in Guatemalan Midget Porn, I watch the news. Same, but different. Who am I to say what's right? There are plenty of things I don't enjoy or "get" that I acknowledge are important to others: craft beer, Bronies, trying to make Quidditch an Olympic sport. (Though, that last one is kinda ridiculous, right? I love Star Wars, but you don't see me lobbying to race The Kessel Run in Rio in 2016.) However, at the risk of upsetting the Hipster Army and getting beaten with fedoras and tins of artisanal moustache wax, I do have one hobby targeted squarely in my sights: Vaping. I'm like a Victorian Englishwoman, all these vapers vaping their vapors are giving me the vapours.
Look, if you are using e-cigs as a transition to quit tobacco altogether, then I give you a pass; I don't consider you among this scourge upon humanity. But if you picked up this adult pacifier, as my friend Elise calls it, because it's cooler than cigarettes or smells better then I simply don't understand you. If you are a smoker, be a smoker. Embrace it in all its nasty, stinking, yellow finger-tipped glory. Wear that stale tobacco, we-just-spent-three-hours-in-a-bowling-alley, I-live-in-a-giant-ashtray stench like a badge. Own it. Take your smoke breaks, rail against being herded into designated areas to do your business, enjoy your passengers wondering if your car has exhaust leaking into the cabin. Own it. Don't be swayed by the shiny new technology, don't be wooed by exotic flavors. Remember, there was a time when smoking didn't require extensive accessories. Pop-pop's Zippo or Mom-mom's pleather cigarette case was all the accessory they needed; why are you being such a pretentious ass? Who needs to fool with batteries, rebuildable atomizers or vape juice? (Which, by the way, is a term that, if I knew which authority to ask, I would request be stricken from the lexicon. It sounds so oogy, like something vaguely associated with excitement below the belt.) Keep smoking stinky and electronics-free. Own it!
If you do bow to pop culture pressure and decide to vape, don't be surprised if people look at you funny. Especially if you vape in an area that is off-limits to smokers. Don't look so surprised when I ask you to not vape in my store. Just because you enjoy it when your vape retailer helps you to encounter new flavors by blowing a vapor cloud from his mouth to your face (Gross, right?) doesn't mean the rest of us want your chicory-almond-lavender blend wafting through our shared confined spaces. Nothing screams, "Hey, look at me!", quite like somebody vaping in an elevator, office or retail store. (Except maybe someone linking to his blog on Facebook begging for "likes", but I digress.) You can't browse for five minutes without a nicotine hit? Of course you can, but you don't. Instead, you'd rather coolly prowl around like you are getting over on somebody, when really you just look like a douche. If your oral fixation is so intense, may I suggest dabbling in Guatemalan Midget Porn? Working with those little guys would have to be less embarrassing than pompously puffing away on your overpriced robot cigarette.
Look, if you are using e-cigs as a transition to quit tobacco altogether, then I give you a pass; I don't consider you among this scourge upon humanity. But if you picked up this adult pacifier, as my friend Elise calls it, because it's cooler than cigarettes or smells better then I simply don't understand you. If you are a smoker, be a smoker. Embrace it in all its nasty, stinking, yellow finger-tipped glory. Wear that stale tobacco, we-just-spent-three-hours-in-a-bowling-alley, I-live-in-a-giant-ashtray stench like a badge. Own it. Take your smoke breaks, rail against being herded into designated areas to do your business, enjoy your passengers wondering if your car has exhaust leaking into the cabin. Own it. Don't be swayed by the shiny new technology, don't be wooed by exotic flavors. Remember, there was a time when smoking didn't require extensive accessories. Pop-pop's Zippo or Mom-mom's pleather cigarette case was all the accessory they needed; why are you being such a pretentious ass? Who needs to fool with batteries, rebuildable atomizers or vape juice? (Which, by the way, is a term that, if I knew which authority to ask, I would request be stricken from the lexicon. It sounds so oogy, like something vaguely associated with excitement below the belt.) Keep smoking stinky and electronics-free. Own it!
If you do bow to pop culture pressure and decide to vape, don't be surprised if people look at you funny. Especially if you vape in an area that is off-limits to smokers. Don't look so surprised when I ask you to not vape in my store. Just because you enjoy it when your vape retailer helps you to encounter new flavors by blowing a vapor cloud from his mouth to your face (Gross, right?) doesn't mean the rest of us want your chicory-almond-lavender blend wafting through our shared confined spaces. Nothing screams, "Hey, look at me!", quite like somebody vaping in an elevator, office or retail store. (Except maybe someone linking to his blog on Facebook begging for "likes", but I digress.) You can't browse for five minutes without a nicotine hit? Of course you can, but you don't. Instead, you'd rather coolly prowl around like you are getting over on somebody, when really you just look like a douche. If your oral fixation is so intense, may I suggest dabbling in Guatemalan Midget Porn? Working with those little guys would have to be less embarrassing than pompously puffing away on your overpriced robot cigarette.
Friday, September 11, 2015
In Tyler We Trust
Trust is a tricky notion. In interpersonal relationships, for example, trust is essential to success. It is an investment that must be earned. In so many other areas of our lives, however, we have to invest trust in, or at least begrudgingly hand it over, to complete strangers that we hope will earn it. If we didn't, we couldn't function or operate in a normal lifestyle. We trust that the subway driver is sober. We trust that our mechanic tightened all the lug nuts properly when he rotated our tires. We trust that the kid working the drive-thru didn't slap his Little Mac on our Big Mac before he hands us the bag through the window. If we didn't invest this trust, we would never leave the house. Or maybe you should leave your house right now! Are you sure your builder used enough nails in your roof?
For parents, doling out trust to someone else to watch over your kids can be difficult. Not that she can't skin a knee or fall off the swing when I am present (she's done both, now that I think of it), but I make keeping Grace safe my number one mission in life. Dropping your child off to spend the day with strangers (relatively speaking, as compared to family and friends) can be an astounding investment of trust for parents. No matter how well-researched and well-reasoned your thought process, you are still placing great faith in others. You think you are making the right decision, but you can't see everything that goes on at school, or camp, orday care toddler fight club. Seriously, day care providers arrested for encouraging and shooting video of kids ages 4-6 fighting each other? It's enough to drive a helicopter parent to drink. (And isn't that the whole reason we send our kids to places like camp in the first place, so we can enjoy a refreshing adult beverage in peace?)
At a glance, arrests and a little jail time seem an appropriate punishment for these day "care" providers. But are we judging these women too harshly? Surely, I can't be the only one that was told by my parents on occasion (or dozens of occasions) when fighting with my brother to, "Take it outside!" My parents couldn't have thought that we went outside to settle our dispute with chalk drawing or dandelion picking. They just wanted us out of their hair. Hell, maybe they broke out the Super 8 and secretly made black market kid fight films. We already witness our kids duking it out with their siblings, why not get a little something out of it? Fellow parents, are we outraged at these babysitters because they slaked their blood lust with the violence of children or because we didn't think of it first?
Hear me out. There are lots of reasons why it makes sense to make the whole process more transparent, to drag it out of the dark, to officially sanction toddler fight clubs. First, today's parenting experts advise us to spend our money on experiences for our children not toys, gadgets and trinkets. Talk about an experience! There is nothing like "experiencing" swallowing your own blood or putting back a dislocated finger. And, look, those kids were going to lose most of those teeth anyway. We build a whole army of baby Thoreaus learning about themselves in the proverbial "woods" long before their tenth birthdays. That kind of self-discovery is invaluable. Speaking of our money, who among us couldn't use a little more pocket change? Come on, let your entrprenuerial spirit shine. We sanction the bouts, set odds and watch the money pour in. It's really no more complex than organizing fantasy football or our March Madness pools. Now, I don't wanna brag, but if all Grace's unintentional(?) headbutts, accidental knees to the groin, and elbows to the nose over the years are any indication, I might have a contender on my hands. So, come on, let's build some tiny octagons and get this thing rolling. You can squeeze one more thing on the schedule. Dance, Scouts, Choir, Soccer, Fight Club...at least you can trust that you know what's going on. What could go wrong?
*May this post in no way discourage any of you from bringing your children to our house for a play date, Grace's birthday party, etc. My wife is quite a normal and sensible person.
For parents, doling out trust to someone else to watch over your kids can be difficult. Not that she can't skin a knee or fall off the swing when I am present (she's done both, now that I think of it), but I make keeping Grace safe my number one mission in life. Dropping your child off to spend the day with strangers (relatively speaking, as compared to family and friends) can be an astounding investment of trust for parents. No matter how well-researched and well-reasoned your thought process, you are still placing great faith in others. You think you are making the right decision, but you can't see everything that goes on at school, or camp, or
At a glance, arrests and a little jail time seem an appropriate punishment for these day "care" providers. But are we judging these women too harshly? Surely, I can't be the only one that was told by my parents on occasion (or dozens of occasions) when fighting with my brother to, "Take it outside!" My parents couldn't have thought that we went outside to settle our dispute with chalk drawing or dandelion picking. They just wanted us out of their hair. Hell, maybe they broke out the Super 8 and secretly made black market kid fight films. We already witness our kids duking it out with their siblings, why not get a little something out of it? Fellow parents, are we outraged at these babysitters because they slaked their blood lust with the violence of children or because we didn't think of it first?
Hear me out. There are lots of reasons why it makes sense to make the whole process more transparent, to drag it out of the dark, to officially sanction toddler fight clubs. First, today's parenting experts advise us to spend our money on experiences for our children not toys, gadgets and trinkets. Talk about an experience! There is nothing like "experiencing" swallowing your own blood or putting back a dislocated finger. And, look, those kids were going to lose most of those teeth anyway. We build a whole army of baby Thoreaus learning about themselves in the proverbial "woods" long before their tenth birthdays. That kind of self-discovery is invaluable. Speaking of our money, who among us couldn't use a little more pocket change? Come on, let your entrprenuerial spirit shine. We sanction the bouts, set odds and watch the money pour in. It's really no more complex than organizing fantasy football or our March Madness pools. Now, I don't wanna brag, but if all Grace's unintentional(?) headbutts, accidental knees to the groin, and elbows to the nose over the years are any indication, I might have a contender on my hands. So, come on, let's build some tiny octagons and get this thing rolling. You can squeeze one more thing on the schedule. Dance, Scouts, Choir, Soccer, Fight Club...at least you can trust that you know what's going on. What could go wrong?
*May this post in no way discourage any of you from bringing your children to our house for a play date, Grace's birthday party, etc. My wife is quite a normal and sensible person.
Tuesday, September 01, 2015
September 1st:Expanding Rosters, Shrinking Pennant Hopes
Though they have provided little evidence throughout the season they are more than a .500 ball club, the Orioles' sweep of Oakland a couple weeks ago made me think they could be starting a playoff push. No team seemed to want the second wildcard berth. If the Birds could finally put together a sustained run (and with 6 games remaining on a season-defining homestand, it seemed possible), perhaps they could hit the post-season for consecutive seasons. They put together a run, alright. A run for last place; an anti-pennant chase, if you will. Since that Oakland sweep, which now seems like some sort of mirage, the O's are 2-11. They now stand closer to last place in the division than to the second wildcard spot. Suddenly, all those cutesy hashtags seem silly and sad. #BuckleUp because we are not sure where rock bottom is, but #WeWontStop until we find it! Instead of authoring a September to remember, Baltimore is finishing a season to forget. Instead of writing about the joy of my postseason experience like last year, I'll be penning a tale of October-less woe.
So how did we get here, me sobbing over my keyboard singing the Charm City blues? I guess we should have seen it coming. Unlike the Flats down in D.C., the O's were not prohibitive favorites. Most will agree they overachieved last season. Many wondered if they could duplicate a first place finish. Even Showalter, speaking at my local minor league team's hot stove banquet, sought to temper the crowd's enthusiasm. He was cagey about the prospects for this season, seeming to know how difficult it would be, given the off-season losses, to repeat as division champs. Maybe it was coach speak or maybe it was a sliver of honesty in a giddy off-season. Even by measured expectations, though, this club has disappointed. It proves that Chef Buck is even better at making chicken salad than I previously thought. So, if not Buck, who is to blame?
I rightly praised Dan Duquette last season, yet he must shoulder a chunk of blame today. He made some great finds that worked out last year. For this team to take the next step in the evolution to contender, though, 2014 should have been built upon. I love Nick Markakis, but not bringing him back was the right move. His presence is most certainly missed, however, the Braves overpaid. Nelson Cruz is another story. Kudos to Duquette for grabbing him last year for what turned out to be a bargain at $8 million. He steadied the middle of the order and, at times, seemed to be the only guy hitting. I know he would have cost a bunch in dollars and contract years to bring him back, but I wish they had. As a DH, he could potentially produce for years beyond the extent of his contract. Worth the risk, in my opinion. You can't expect to add pieces from the scrap heap, cross your fingers, and hope it works every time. Maybe it is good scouting, but often it is simply luck when a journeyman brought in catches lightning in a bottle, turning in a Pearcien Performance over the course of an entire season. You can not rely on this method as a path to sustained success. Look at the pieces jettisoned this year alone. Snider, Cabrera, Lough, Young, De Aza, (I'm pretty sure I am forgetting a couple) were all pieces deemed useless by a team that is currently 5 games under .500.
Was Duquette handcuffed by the Angeloses? Probably. Was he purposely weakening the O's because he planned on ducking out to Toronto? Maybe. Either way, Baltimore entered their division title defense shorthanded. Having no ace, no corner outfielders of consequence and no quality designated hitter is a recipe for disaster. It puts a lot of pressure on the players that are here, who, obviously, are not absolved of culpability here. During this season-sinking stretch, the excellent bullpen back end and stellar defense have faltered at inopportune times. Adam Jones, as much as I love him, isn't a yet consistent or disciplined enough to be a true superstar. If Jones, Machado and Davis aren't hitting bombs, the offense struggles. Add in a few Cinderellas turning into pumpkins (Pearce, Gonzalez) and you get the mess currently stinking up Camden Yards. That said, there is enough talent to avoid a stretch as terrible as the last two weeks. Losing 10 of 11? Inexcusable. Obviously, there is no help coming from outside to fix this. To paraphrase Rick Pitino from his Celtic coaching days-Cal Ripken isn't walking through that door. Well, okay, except for tonight, when they are honoring The Streak, but you know what I mean.
Of course, I am writing all this hoping it is some sort of reverse jinx; that in some bizarre confluence of my whining, turning the page on the calendar, and Cal being in the house, my Birds can fix this. While writing this I saw a black and orange butterfly flitting its way about my driveway. A sign of hope, perhaps, but more likely just a sign that I have a butterfly in my driveway. Unfortunately, this season feels way more like most of those lost years during Cal's streak instead of the few glory years. But that's okay, it's almost hockey season and the Capitals never let me down, right?
So how did we get here, me sobbing over my keyboard singing the Charm City blues? I guess we should have seen it coming. Unlike the Flats down in D.C., the O's were not prohibitive favorites. Most will agree they overachieved last season. Many wondered if they could duplicate a first place finish. Even Showalter, speaking at my local minor league team's hot stove banquet, sought to temper the crowd's enthusiasm. He was cagey about the prospects for this season, seeming to know how difficult it would be, given the off-season losses, to repeat as division champs. Maybe it was coach speak or maybe it was a sliver of honesty in a giddy off-season. Even by measured expectations, though, this club has disappointed. It proves that Chef Buck is even better at making chicken salad than I previously thought. So, if not Buck, who is to blame?
I rightly praised Dan Duquette last season, yet he must shoulder a chunk of blame today. He made some great finds that worked out last year. For this team to take the next step in the evolution to contender, though, 2014 should have been built upon. I love Nick Markakis, but not bringing him back was the right move. His presence is most certainly missed, however, the Braves overpaid. Nelson Cruz is another story. Kudos to Duquette for grabbing him last year for what turned out to be a bargain at $8 million. He steadied the middle of the order and, at times, seemed to be the only guy hitting. I know he would have cost a bunch in dollars and contract years to bring him back, but I wish they had. As a DH, he could potentially produce for years beyond the extent of his contract. Worth the risk, in my opinion. You can't expect to add pieces from the scrap heap, cross your fingers, and hope it works every time. Maybe it is good scouting, but often it is simply luck when a journeyman brought in catches lightning in a bottle, turning in a Pearcien Performance over the course of an entire season. You can not rely on this method as a path to sustained success. Look at the pieces jettisoned this year alone. Snider, Cabrera, Lough, Young, De Aza, (I'm pretty sure I am forgetting a couple) were all pieces deemed useless by a team that is currently 5 games under .500.
Was Duquette handcuffed by the Angeloses? Probably. Was he purposely weakening the O's because he planned on ducking out to Toronto? Maybe. Either way, Baltimore entered their division title defense shorthanded. Having no ace, no corner outfielders of consequence and no quality designated hitter is a recipe for disaster. It puts a lot of pressure on the players that are here, who, obviously, are not absolved of culpability here. During this season-sinking stretch, the excellent bullpen back end and stellar defense have faltered at inopportune times. Adam Jones, as much as I love him, isn't a yet consistent or disciplined enough to be a true superstar. If Jones, Machado and Davis aren't hitting bombs, the offense struggles. Add in a few Cinderellas turning into pumpkins (Pearce, Gonzalez) and you get the mess currently stinking up Camden Yards. That said, there is enough talent to avoid a stretch as terrible as the last two weeks. Losing 10 of 11? Inexcusable. Obviously, there is no help coming from outside to fix this. To paraphrase Rick Pitino from his Celtic coaching days-Cal Ripken isn't walking through that door. Well, okay, except for tonight, when they are honoring The Streak, but you know what I mean.
Of course, I am writing all this hoping it is some sort of reverse jinx; that in some bizarre confluence of my whining, turning the page on the calendar, and Cal being in the house, my Birds can fix this. While writing this I saw a black and orange butterfly flitting its way about my driveway. A sign of hope, perhaps, but more likely just a sign that I have a butterfly in my driveway. Unfortunately, this season feels way more like most of those lost years during Cal's streak instead of the few glory years. But that's okay, it's almost hockey season and the Capitals never let me down, right?
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
Gary Bettman Sucks
The internet has been dominated recently by stories of East Coast shark attacks and arguments about gay marriage. Can we please turn our attention to something important? Like why the heck the NHL approved playing 3-on-3 overtime for regular season games?
Maybe I am way off base here. Maybe come October I will love 3-on-3 OT. But for now, I think 3-on-3 should be reserved for memories of the pick-up basketball games of my youth. I have heard the arguments for the change: Too many games end in shooutouts and, though it is exciting for the fans, the shootout decides a game in a way that is too different from how the previous 65 minutes were played. So the solution was to further bastardize the game to fix the way it was bastardized when the shootout was created ten years ago? I suppose it might be better than the shootout, but when was the last time you saw 3-on-3 played in an actual NHL game?
Three skaters aside could be interesting when you have the best players on the ice allowed more room to show their skill. In fact, if it is so great let's play 3-on-3 all the time. Wide open play, lots of goals, goalies under siege, the scoreboard lighting up like a video game-what's not to love?. (Mr Bettman, I am totally kidding.) There could also be precious seconds wasted chasing pucks that were not held in the offensive zone. 3-on-3 overtime is just more circus trickery that, unfortunately, will still end in a shootout if no one scores in OT. I have some suggestions that might work better, especially for those concerned about excessive wear and tear on those poor, over-taxed star players.
*Flip a coin. (See this quarter it used to be a nickel.)
*Instead of letting the pros finish, we will let the Mites that play during intermission settle things in overtime.
*No sticks or pucks during OT. A team picks its five best skaters to figure skate a routine to music. The team earning the best artistic and technical judges marks earns a standings point.
*At the end of regulation, one monkey will dress in the sweater of each team. The team whose monkey flings its poo the furthest wins!
Ooh, Ohh. Pick me! Pick me!
Yes, you there in the back that looks like you have been sitting on a good idea for ten years.
I have a plan. I know how we can make it so fewer games end in a shootout.
Let's hear it.
GET RID OF THE SHOOTOUT!
So simple, yet so brilliant. The shootout is exciting for fans, but it is more like an exhibition contest or a game to end practice. Nothing of value should be decided with an exhibition. (I am looking at you and your "All-Star Game winner earns home field advantage in the World Series" fiasco, Major League Baseball.) I say we go back to the old days when games could end in (GASP!) ties. A team earns one point for a tie and two points for a win. This fixes four problems. One, we get rid of the ghastly shootout. Two, we eliminate a team earning a point for simply reaching OT. I know my Capitals have benefited mightily from this system, but awarding a point to a team that loses is foolish. Three, the standings get easier to decipher (Goodbye ROW and OTL). Four,teams have to win (or at least tie) their way in to the playoffs. Tell me why I am wrong.
Maybe I am way off base here. Maybe come October I will love 3-on-3 OT. But for now, I think 3-on-3 should be reserved for memories of the pick-up basketball games of my youth. I have heard the arguments for the change: Too many games end in shooutouts and, though it is exciting for the fans, the shootout decides a game in a way that is too different from how the previous 65 minutes were played. So the solution was to further bastardize the game to fix the way it was bastardized when the shootout was created ten years ago? I suppose it might be better than the shootout, but when was the last time you saw 3-on-3 played in an actual NHL game?
Three skaters aside could be interesting when you have the best players on the ice allowed more room to show their skill. In fact, if it is so great let's play 3-on-3 all the time. Wide open play, lots of goals, goalies under siege, the scoreboard lighting up like a video game-what's not to love?. (Mr Bettman, I am totally kidding.) There could also be precious seconds wasted chasing pucks that were not held in the offensive zone. 3-on-3 overtime is just more circus trickery that, unfortunately, will still end in a shootout if no one scores in OT. I have some suggestions that might work better, especially for those concerned about excessive wear and tear on those poor, over-taxed star players.
*Flip a coin. (See this quarter it used to be a nickel.)
*Instead of letting the pros finish, we will let the Mites that play during intermission settle things in overtime.
*No sticks or pucks during OT. A team picks its five best skaters to figure skate a routine to music. The team earning the best artistic and technical judges marks earns a standings point.
*At the end of regulation, one monkey will dress in the sweater of each team. The team whose monkey flings its poo the furthest wins!
Ooh, Ohh. Pick me! Pick me!
Yes, you there in the back that looks like you have been sitting on a good idea for ten years.
I have a plan. I know how we can make it so fewer games end in a shootout.
Let's hear it.
GET RID OF THE SHOOTOUT!
So simple, yet so brilliant. The shootout is exciting for fans, but it is more like an exhibition contest or a game to end practice. Nothing of value should be decided with an exhibition. (I am looking at you and your "All-Star Game winner earns home field advantage in the World Series" fiasco, Major League Baseball.) I say we go back to the old days when games could end in (GASP!) ties. A team earns one point for a tie and two points for a win. This fixes four problems. One, we get rid of the ghastly shootout. Two, we eliminate a team earning a point for simply reaching OT. I know my Capitals have benefited mightily from this system, but awarding a point to a team that loses is foolish. Three, the standings get easier to decipher (Goodbye ROW and OTL). Four,teams have to win (or at least tie) their way in to the playoffs. Tell me why I am wrong.
Monday, June 29, 2015
Marriage Is So Gay
Boy, the internet pisses me off sometimes. Friday, in the wake of the Supreme Court decision on gay marriage and the terror attacks in Tunisia, France and Kuwait, I read someone questioning whether terror attacks might be looming in the U.S. (legitimate question) and whether said attacks would be God's way of showing us that he was displeased with SCOTUS (eye-rolling, forehead-slapping, heavy sigh-inducing question.) Who, besides the Westboro Baptists, thinks like this? And for those that do, why? What's the problem here?
I think the biggest issue is a lack of empathy. For two seconds, put yourself in someone else's shoes. If you were gay, would you not seek the same things? What are gay and lesbian couples really asking for? To have their bond with their partner recognized by the state. To be able to visit their sick lover in the hospital. To help make end-of-life medical decisions. To reap the same tax benefits. To have the same perks that married straight couples have. Sir, nobody is asking you to marry a dude. Mam, no one is suggesting you take a wife. Nobody is saying you can't find it repulsive or against God's will. I submit that same-sex love is perfectly natural, but if you don't subscribe to that thinking, nobody is saying you must. Likewise, empathy is not required. I just ask that you try it on for size and ask yourself, "How does it harm me?"
I say to the fervent believers that feel God should smite homosexuals-"Be patient." We will all learn the truth when our Earth time ends. Maybe there is an afterlife. Maybe we'll just be a bag of bones. Just be patient. If you are right and gays are sinners doing the Devil's bidding that are doomed to literally be flamers as they burn in Hell, you have all Eternity to gloat. But while you are Earthbound, how about showing some empathy, showing some compassion, showing some respect for those that are different than you. Different, by the way, in ways that affect you not one iota.
Like the esteemed philosopher, Forrest Gump, I am not a smart man, but I know what love is. I know married gay men who express their love and affection better than most straight couples. I know women who, if they decided, in addition to being awesome aunts and great mommies to their fur babies, that they wanted kids of their own, would be amazing moms. It may not fit everyone's definition of family. It may not fit everyone's defintion of marriage. So what? I often hear we should be more religious in this country, a more Christian nation. What about the significant percentage of the population that does not believe in God or any Supreme Being? Why on Earth would they feel compelled to be bound by the rules and authority of a figurehead they don't even think exists? People of faith should use their faith to guide themselves; the Rule of Law should be the Rule of Man (and Woman).
So what do we do next? I have seen it suggested government should have nothing at all to do with the union of two people. That smacks a little of "I'm taking my ball and going home.", but I could get on board with this for the most part. I think keeping taxes or assets an individual thing would be fine. It is the medical/death decisions that I think would get sticky. Maybe, since we can't agree on a definition, we should simply eliminate the word "marriage" from government. Everyone gets a Civil Union. Man to woman, man to man, woman to woman, transgender to transgender, man to goldfish; everybody gets a civil union. We don't have to worry about Natural Law; we can just worry about the law. Marriage remains a religious institution. Churches get to enforce their definitions within their domain. Civil Unions can give equal rights to estates, medical directives, taxes, hospital visits, etc. It might be a little awkward at first for those that have been married a while. Honey, here on our anniversary, I love you more than ever. I can't believe it's been fifteen years since we were civilly united. But awkward is okay. Love is awkward and messy. Love is hard. But, at least on Friday, Love wins.
I think the biggest issue is a lack of empathy. For two seconds, put yourself in someone else's shoes. If you were gay, would you not seek the same things? What are gay and lesbian couples really asking for? To have their bond with their partner recognized by the state. To be able to visit their sick lover in the hospital. To help make end-of-life medical decisions. To reap the same tax benefits. To have the same perks that married straight couples have. Sir, nobody is asking you to marry a dude. Mam, no one is suggesting you take a wife. Nobody is saying you can't find it repulsive or against God's will. I submit that same-sex love is perfectly natural, but if you don't subscribe to that thinking, nobody is saying you must. Likewise, empathy is not required. I just ask that you try it on for size and ask yourself, "How does it harm me?"
I say to the fervent believers that feel God should smite homosexuals-"Be patient." We will all learn the truth when our Earth time ends. Maybe there is an afterlife. Maybe we'll just be a bag of bones. Just be patient. If you are right and gays are sinners doing the Devil's bidding that are doomed to literally be flamers as they burn in Hell, you have all Eternity to gloat. But while you are Earthbound, how about showing some empathy, showing some compassion, showing some respect for those that are different than you. Different, by the way, in ways that affect you not one iota.
Like the esteemed philosopher, Forrest Gump, I am not a smart man, but I know what love is. I know married gay men who express their love and affection better than most straight couples. I know women who, if they decided, in addition to being awesome aunts and great mommies to their fur babies, that they wanted kids of their own, would be amazing moms. It may not fit everyone's definition of family. It may not fit everyone's defintion of marriage. So what? I often hear we should be more religious in this country, a more Christian nation. What about the significant percentage of the population that does not believe in God or any Supreme Being? Why on Earth would they feel compelled to be bound by the rules and authority of a figurehead they don't even think exists? People of faith should use their faith to guide themselves; the Rule of Law should be the Rule of Man (and Woman).
So what do we do next? I have seen it suggested government should have nothing at all to do with the union of two people. That smacks a little of "I'm taking my ball and going home.", but I could get on board with this for the most part. I think keeping taxes or assets an individual thing would be fine. It is the medical/death decisions that I think would get sticky. Maybe, since we can't agree on a definition, we should simply eliminate the word "marriage" from government. Everyone gets a Civil Union. Man to woman, man to man, woman to woman, transgender to transgender, man to goldfish; everybody gets a civil union. We don't have to worry about Natural Law; we can just worry about the law. Marriage remains a religious institution. Churches get to enforce their definitions within their domain. Civil Unions can give equal rights to estates, medical directives, taxes, hospital visits, etc. It might be a little awkward at first for those that have been married a while. Honey, here on our anniversary, I love you more than ever. I can't believe it's been fifteen years since we were civilly united. But awkward is okay. Love is awkward and messy. Love is hard. But, at least on Friday, Love wins.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Happy Father's Day
From Clark Griswold to Ray Barone, from Fred Flintstone to Homer Simpson, dads are often portrayed as bumbling idiots. Even though it is a portrayal that I sometimes reinforce for laughs here on my own blog, it really is an unfair stereotype. Most of the dads I know are working hard to get it done right. Fortunately, my father, before he passed, and my father-in-law are more Heatcliffe Huxtable, setting a positive parenting example through word and, more often, by deed. I don't know exactly where I fit on the scale from Homer to Heathcliffe, but I was recently reminded that, no matter the situation, dads are always on duty, because our kids are always watching.
On Memorial Day I grabbed The Wife and The Girl and we headed to Baltimore for some holiday baseball. Grace, at age six, is beginning to grasp the game, but her love of Camden Yards is still mostly driven by the thrill of riding the light rail, dressing in Orioles' orange from head to toe and her love of peanuts, popcorn and cracker jack (and cotton candy). Or the fact that she likes to be where the action is. And on this Memorial Day we had a little action. On the way in to the ballpark, Grace, employing the wisdom and expectations of a six-year-old, announced that she wanted me to catch her a baseball while at the game. Sure, we were arriving early enough to watch some batting practice and have a chance at a ball, but I needed to temper expectations. I explained to her that, yes, some BP homers and game foul balls and home runs would land in the stands, but also that thirty thousand other people would be here too. The odds of getting a ball were extremely low. Undaunted, with that awesome hope of a youngster not yet beaten down by reality, she shrugged her shoulders and said, "Okay, but we should still get a ball."
Not two minutes later, as we worked our way down Eutaw Street, the plaza just outside centerfield, I look up in time to see a ball screaming from the clouds like a missile. Not too many balls, even in batting practice, reach Eutaw Street; somebody has really put a charge in to this one. Suddenly, like a wish granted, I see my opportunity to be a hero to my kid literally falling from the sky. I judge Opportunity's trajectory. Calculating that it is not heading straight at us thereby posing no danger to Grace or Amanda, I head for the ball's likely landing spot, not twenty feet from me. (I don't normally chase balls at the ballpark; to me, getting one is just not that big of a deal. I think people get a little crazy over chasing down fouls and homers. However, when your wide-eyed daughter has asked for a ball and it is this close, you better spring into action.) The ball spucks off the ankle of an unsuspecting fan and rolls right toward me. I look up to see there are a whole bunch of fans running towards me that have been tracking the ball's flight path much longer than I have. I begin to crouch down to reach for the ball when I realize without a Brook Robinson-like dive I have no chance at getting it. Common sense and a forty-year-old's notion of self-preservation prevail. I pull up and let some kid grab the ball. Unfortunately, another lumbering oaf, likely influenced by some batting practice beers, was not able to pull up in time. He crashed into me as I was standing up. Though he was not shirtless, we had an Along Came Polly moment where the side of my face met his belly and got slopped with his alcohol sweat. Not thrilled to be wearing my new cologne, Eau De Sweaty Douchebag, I put my hand up and say ,"Easy." He mumbles something clearly unapologetic so, a little sharper this time, I say, "Hey, take it easy." Meathead wittily retorts with a ,"Fuck you." And again, in that long drawn out way that indicates he means business, "fuuuuck youuu."
Great, now we have a confrontation. Standing a few feet from this guy a thousand things rush through my mind at once.
Terrific. I have ruined our family day five minutes after entering the stadium.
We are about the same size. I can handle him if it gets ugly.
Am I really ready to do "this" if he takes a swing?
What exactly does "this" mean?
Will anybody notice if I pee my pants?
I remained calm with no intention of escalating the situation further. Little did I realize that it didn't matter; Mama Bear had her claws out. One "Hey Asshole, not in front of my kid!", from Amanda was all it took to defuse the situation. Meathead turned back towards the field and we headed for our seats. (I'd like to point out here that I am the only one that did not use profanity in front of the six-year-old.) Grace, while not shaken up, did have questions about why the man was mean and worried if we would have trouble from him later. Assured that everything was fine, she enjoyed batting practice , even getting close to nabbing a few homers, and an Orioles victory. A fine day that could have ended much differently.
And there are the lessons. The kid is always observing and learning, so you are always teaching. She will do as we do. I hope by staying calm and not further escalating the confrontation I taught her to do the same. And, of course, lesson number two: When in doubt, let Mama help you out.
Happy Father's Day!
On Memorial Day I grabbed The Wife and The Girl and we headed to Baltimore for some holiday baseball. Grace, at age six, is beginning to grasp the game, but her love of Camden Yards is still mostly driven by the thrill of riding the light rail, dressing in Orioles' orange from head to toe and her love of peanuts, popcorn and cracker jack (and cotton candy). Or the fact that she likes to be where the action is. And on this Memorial Day we had a little action. On the way in to the ballpark, Grace, employing the wisdom and expectations of a six-year-old, announced that she wanted me to catch her a baseball while at the game. Sure, we were arriving early enough to watch some batting practice and have a chance at a ball, but I needed to temper expectations. I explained to her that, yes, some BP homers and game foul balls and home runs would land in the stands, but also that thirty thousand other people would be here too. The odds of getting a ball were extremely low. Undaunted, with that awesome hope of a youngster not yet beaten down by reality, she shrugged her shoulders and said, "Okay, but we should still get a ball."
Not two minutes later, as we worked our way down Eutaw Street, the plaza just outside centerfield, I look up in time to see a ball screaming from the clouds like a missile. Not too many balls, even in batting practice, reach Eutaw Street; somebody has really put a charge in to this one. Suddenly, like a wish granted, I see my opportunity to be a hero to my kid literally falling from the sky. I judge Opportunity's trajectory. Calculating that it is not heading straight at us thereby posing no danger to Grace or Amanda, I head for the ball's likely landing spot, not twenty feet from me. (I don't normally chase balls at the ballpark; to me, getting one is just not that big of a deal. I think people get a little crazy over chasing down fouls and homers. However, when your wide-eyed daughter has asked for a ball and it is this close, you better spring into action.) The ball spucks off the ankle of an unsuspecting fan and rolls right toward me. I look up to see there are a whole bunch of fans running towards me that have been tracking the ball's flight path much longer than I have. I begin to crouch down to reach for the ball when I realize without a Brook Robinson-like dive I have no chance at getting it. Common sense and a forty-year-old's notion of self-preservation prevail. I pull up and let some kid grab the ball. Unfortunately, another lumbering oaf, likely influenced by some batting practice beers, was not able to pull up in time. He crashed into me as I was standing up. Though he was not shirtless, we had an Along Came Polly moment where the side of my face met his belly and got slopped with his alcohol sweat. Not thrilled to be wearing my new cologne, Eau De Sweaty Douchebag, I put my hand up and say ,"Easy." He mumbles something clearly unapologetic so, a little sharper this time, I say, "Hey, take it easy." Meathead wittily retorts with a ,"Fuck you." And again, in that long drawn out way that indicates he means business, "fuuuuck youuu."
Great, now we have a confrontation. Standing a few feet from this guy a thousand things rush through my mind at once.
Terrific. I have ruined our family day five minutes after entering the stadium.
We are about the same size. I can handle him if it gets ugly.
Am I really ready to do "this" if he takes a swing?
What exactly does "this" mean?
Will anybody notice if I pee my pants?
I remained calm with no intention of escalating the situation further. Little did I realize that it didn't matter; Mama Bear had her claws out. One "Hey Asshole, not in front of my kid!", from Amanda was all it took to defuse the situation. Meathead turned back towards the field and we headed for our seats. (I'd like to point out here that I am the only one that did not use profanity in front of the six-year-old.) Grace, while not shaken up, did have questions about why the man was mean and worried if we would have trouble from him later. Assured that everything was fine, she enjoyed batting practice , even getting close to nabbing a few homers, and an Orioles victory. A fine day that could have ended much differently.
And there are the lessons. The kid is always observing and learning, so you are always teaching. She will do as we do. I hope by staying calm and not further escalating the confrontation I taught her to do the same. And, of course, lesson number two: When in doubt, let Mama help you out.
Happy Father's Day!
Tuesday, June 16, 2015
Dispatches from the Armpit of New Jersey
This past weekend, The Wife surprised me by secretly securing me some days off from work so we could take a mini vacation. Awesome, right? The long weekend was our first trip away without The Girl since, well...since Grace was born. To say we both needed the time away is an understatement. We tossed around various destinations-time and budget meant not too far or too expensive- and once Amanda decided she wanted to drink, gamble and beach it, the decision was easy. Look out Atlantic City, you Ersatz Paradise, here come the Haileys. Of course, our decision was met with scoffing from every corner. You know A.C. is called the Armpit of New Jersey, right? Oh my God, Atlantic City is a shithole! Why do you want to go there? Everything is closed. Amanda was unbowed, confident in her suggestion. Personally, I was just happy to be away. Did I mention the trip was alone with my wife, away from the kid for a few days? I would have happily spent the weekend in a dumpster. (Which some people no doubt feel I did. *Rimshot*.) Ready to relax, we packed the car and headed for the coast.
While in Atlantic City, I learned and confirmed a few things:
* Time well-spent with a beautiful woman is about as good as it gets. My wife is witty, sexy and a great person to relax away a day with.
*People watching never gets old. From the oiled-up old timer that squeezed his leathery hide into a mankini to the lady smoking a joint walking down the street in broad daylight, there is plenty to see.
*I am a terrible gambler. Like "cooler" bad.
*Massage and parlor become two skeevy words when paired together. Seriously, there were like a half dozen massage joints within a few blocks. And I mean the "Love you long time/Happy Ending included" kind of massage "parlors".
*Don't outthink yourself when your wife says, "Sure, I'll go into Scores with you." It might not have been a trap.
*Meals taste better when you don't have to ask your kid to stop dancing in the booth every five seconds.
*Some people passing you on the street take a simple "Good Morning" as an opening to inquire exactly how straight you are. First time I have been propositioned by a large black man before breakfast.
Most importantly, I was reminded that any situation is what you make of it. Sure, Atlantic City is a shell of what it once was. It's equal parts shithole and sweet vacation spot. But guess what, three blocks from Camden Yards is a war zone. Guess what, I don't wander too far from the National Mall after dark, either. Guess what, I see more panhandlers on a daily basis in Salisbury than I did in three days in New Jersey. Every place is what you make of it. Yes, the faux opulence is stacked on the pretend luxury is piled on the last remnants of a bygone era of high rollers and fat cats. Yes, the desperation wafting off many casino patrons mimics the sagging desperation of the entire town. But these are all part of the charm. With a little imagination you can lie on the beach and daydream that you are in another era. An era when, with a pretty lady on your arm, a drink in your hand and a little change in your pocket you can be a high rolling king of the boardwalk. Every place is what you make of it and we made out just fine.
While in Atlantic City, I learned and confirmed a few things:
* Time well-spent with a beautiful woman is about as good as it gets. My wife is witty, sexy and a great person to relax away a day with.
*People watching never gets old. From the oiled-up old timer that squeezed his leathery hide into a mankini to the lady smoking a joint walking down the street in broad daylight, there is plenty to see.
*I am a terrible gambler. Like "cooler" bad.
*Massage and parlor become two skeevy words when paired together. Seriously, there were like a half dozen massage joints within a few blocks. And I mean the "Love you long time/Happy Ending included" kind of massage "parlors".
*Don't outthink yourself when your wife says, "Sure, I'll go into Scores with you." It might not have been a trap.
*Meals taste better when you don't have to ask your kid to stop dancing in the booth every five seconds.
*Some people passing you on the street take a simple "Good Morning" as an opening to inquire exactly how straight you are. First time I have been propositioned by a large black man before breakfast.
Most importantly, I was reminded that any situation is what you make of it. Sure, Atlantic City is a shell of what it once was. It's equal parts shithole and sweet vacation spot. But guess what, three blocks from Camden Yards is a war zone. Guess what, I don't wander too far from the National Mall after dark, either. Guess what, I see more panhandlers on a daily basis in Salisbury than I did in three days in New Jersey. Every place is what you make of it. Yes, the faux opulence is stacked on the pretend luxury is piled on the last remnants of a bygone era of high rollers and fat cats. Yes, the desperation wafting off many casino patrons mimics the sagging desperation of the entire town. But these are all part of the charm. With a little imagination you can lie on the beach and daydream that you are in another era. An era when, with a pretty lady on your arm, a drink in your hand and a little change in your pocket you can be a high rolling king of the boardwalk. Every place is what you make of it and we made out just fine.
Sunday, June 07, 2015
You Can Dance If You Wanna
Ah, Dance Recital Day. Witness the pageantry, the artistry, the cloud of hairspray and glitter. A day where a year of sacrificed Tuesday nights culminates in being let off the hook for the summer a grand dance spectacle. A day where you spend two hours watching other people's kids bump into each other and succumb to stage fright just so you can spend three minutes wrestling with your cell phone camera as you pray your kid does not bump into someone or succumb to stage fright. A day, in our house at least, marked my hairstyle negotiations and arguments about how and when the performer will get dressed. A day where you can squander all the Father of the Year points you think you earned as a Dance Dad by nodding off in the cool, dark auditorium during the recital. In short, a day to look forward to every year.
Don't get me wrong, I support my daughter, Grace, and love that she enjoys dancing. And Grace goes to a great dance school with a wonderful director and teachers. It is a non-competitive environment with a laid-back recital. One of the many reasons we selected this studio four years ago was that girls are actually treated like girls. Unlike some other schools, the routines are not too "mature", the uniforms (outfits? costumes?) are modest and the neither the girls, nor the boys look like they have raided Mommy's make-up bag to do their best Joker impersonations.(Side note: Are male ballet dancers called Ballerinos? If not, they should be. Yes, the mind does wander during a two hour recital.) Perhaps most importantly, the director mercifully breaks up her recital into two separate recitals so parents are not subjected to a marathon show in which their child only performs a few minutes. She also does extra homework to ensure that students, like Grace, who take two different types of classes perform in the same recital. Of course, sometimes this is not possible. For our family, this year was our sometime.
That's right, the only thing better than one recital is two recitals in one afternoon! By my count, we were on site for 5 1/2 hours yesterday. That's a lot of tutus and sequins, a lot of whining and snacks. Then there's the dancers. Fortunately or unfortunately, the second leg of our long recital day was anything but boring. A technical music glitch and then something I have not seen in three previous years kept the audience on their toes (or running for the restroom). Halfway into Grace's first performance, one of her poor classmates, due to sickness or nerves, lost her lunch up on stage not once, but twice. Grace and her other classmates, looking confused and horrified, froze mid-pose, uncertain what to do next. After a few seconds (but what seemed an eternity), someone off stage closed the curtain on the mess. I was just happy we didn't have a Stand By Me-style pie eating contest chain reaction. ("Lard-Ass, Lard-Ass, Lard-Ass") I felt so bad for that little girl, but was a tiny bit relieved for the break in the monotony. Does that make me a horrible person? Please don't answer that question. I guess I am just happy that it was not Grace projectile vomiting in front of a packed auditorium. Then I would have had the ethical dilemma of deciding whether to post one of my daughter's finest moments on YouTube. As it was, after a ten minute delay, the rest of the recital was relatively incident-free (only a couple on-stage stumbles) and we made it out unscathed, if a bit sleepy and hungry. I think by that time, even I was happy enough to dance.
Don't get me wrong, I support my daughter, Grace, and love that she enjoys dancing. And Grace goes to a great dance school with a wonderful director and teachers. It is a non-competitive environment with a laid-back recital. One of the many reasons we selected this studio four years ago was that girls are actually treated like girls. Unlike some other schools, the routines are not too "mature", the uniforms (outfits? costumes?) are modest and the neither the girls, nor the boys look like they have raided Mommy's make-up bag to do their best Joker impersonations.(Side note: Are male ballet dancers called Ballerinos? If not, they should be. Yes, the mind does wander during a two hour recital.) Perhaps most importantly, the director mercifully breaks up her recital into two separate recitals so parents are not subjected to a marathon show in which their child only performs a few minutes. She also does extra homework to ensure that students, like Grace, who take two different types of classes perform in the same recital. Of course, sometimes this is not possible. For our family, this year was our sometime.
That's right, the only thing better than one recital is two recitals in one afternoon! By my count, we were on site for 5 1/2 hours yesterday. That's a lot of tutus and sequins, a lot of whining and snacks. Then there's the dancers. Fortunately or unfortunately, the second leg of our long recital day was anything but boring. A technical music glitch and then something I have not seen in three previous years kept the audience on their toes (or running for the restroom). Halfway into Grace's first performance, one of her poor classmates, due to sickness or nerves, lost her lunch up on stage not once, but twice. Grace and her other classmates, looking confused and horrified, froze mid-pose, uncertain what to do next. After a few seconds (but what seemed an eternity), someone off stage closed the curtain on the mess. I was just happy we didn't have a Stand By Me-style pie eating contest chain reaction. ("Lard-Ass, Lard-Ass, Lard-Ass") I felt so bad for that little girl, but was a tiny bit relieved for the break in the monotony. Does that make me a horrible person? Please don't answer that question. I guess I am just happy that it was not Grace projectile vomiting in front of a packed auditorium. Then I would have had the ethical dilemma of deciding whether to post one of my daughter's finest moments on YouTube. As it was, after a ten minute delay, the rest of the recital was relatively incident-free (only a couple on-stage stumbles) and we made it out unscathed, if a bit sleepy and hungry. I think by that time, even I was happy enough to dance.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Neither Strong Guy Nor Fat Guy, He Was The Genius.
Many years ago, I stupidly suggested my parents watch Pulp Fiction. When they were done with the viewing my dad called me and asked, "What the %*@# did we just watch?" They may have had the same reaction had I suggested they watch Late Night With David Letterman when it debuted 33 years ago. (Of course, they may have also wondered why a seven year old was making 12:30am television viewing recommendations.) No, Late Night was not hilariously violent like Tarantino's masterpiece. No, Letterman didn't accidentally blow of Marvin's head or "Bring out the Gimp", but he brought out Larry "Bud" Melman, Stupid Pet Tricks and the dumbest gags night after night. Discovering Letterman ten years later as a seventeen year old college freshman was a freakin' revelation. In the ensuing twenty-plus years, the only person to bring more joy to my late nights than David Letterman is my wife. (If you know what I mean. Wink.) While it isn't as funny as Adam Sandler's lyrical tribute or as emotional as Norm McDonald's, I wanted to write a brief tribute to the King of Late Night as he signs off for the last time tonight.
Letterman being passed over for the Tonight Show in favor of Jay Leno may have been the best thing to happen to him. He left for CBS and never looked back. When the Late Show debuted in 1993, Dave came out swinging, crashing the 11:30 hour with a force that he may not have had if he had been handed the Tonight Show. We were all better for it. Dave was fearless, sarcastic and hilarious. Jay was safe, comforting, boring, there to tuck you in. Dave was your buddy that dragged you out of bed and said, "Let's get drunk and throw a TV off the roof. Dave made wacky okay. Acting like a dope moved you from the dunce corner to the head of the class.
"Voice of a Generation" is perhaps too strong a designation to hang on a TV host. Maybe that moniker should be reserved for an author, poet or musician. But for twentysomethings in the early 90's was there a better arbiter of cool, hip and funny than Dave Letterman? Maybe the aforementioned Quentin Tarantino. Maybe Kevin Smith. Maybe Dan Patrick and Keith Olbermann glibly doling out the highlights anchoring ESPN's Big Show. But my money's on Dave. He was the ringleader and chief entertainer presiding over a circus five nights a week. Acerbic and absurd met nutty and shameless night after night. Whether throwing footballs into moving taxis or piercing the bloated ego of a celebrity with sarcastic precision, Letterman was defining funny.
My friends and I slurped it up with a spoon. In the pre-internet/pre-DVR age, monologues and Top Ten Lists were appointment television. Dave's catchphrases and comedy bits seeped into our collective consciousness and populated our lexicon. I can all but promise you that the simple act of me writing, "Freeze, Hair Boy!" will elicit a chuckle from my friend Rob if he reads this. And that was a throwaway line from a throwaway bit twenty years ago. But we remember. Our own gags, from shopping cart races to Wacky Hat Night, from a Rascal parade through Wal-mart to a little student film called "Charmin: Not Just for the Bathroom Anymore" were, if not inspired by, were at least unwittingly sanctioned by our TV pal Dave.
As I've gotten older, I am not usually up at 11:30 unless I am weeping through a Capitals' NHL playoff overtime or addicted to a Netflix binge. I had not watched much Late Show over the last few years. When I did tune in, Dave seemed a little tired, not as sharp. (Until these last couple weeks leading to the finale. He seems happy and energized.) Clearly Jimmy and Jimmy,thanks in part to social media and a change in how we consume television, have passed Dave. I'm sure they know the debt they owe Letterman. It's a debt we all owe Letterman. He has been directly or tangentially responsible for millions of laughs. Late night will never be the same. Thanks, Dave.
Letterman being passed over for the Tonight Show in favor of Jay Leno may have been the best thing to happen to him. He left for CBS and never looked back. When the Late Show debuted in 1993, Dave came out swinging, crashing the 11:30 hour with a force that he may not have had if he had been handed the Tonight Show. We were all better for it. Dave was fearless, sarcastic and hilarious. Jay was safe, comforting, boring, there to tuck you in. Dave was your buddy that dragged you out of bed and said, "Let's get drunk and throw a TV off the roof. Dave made wacky okay. Acting like a dope moved you from the dunce corner to the head of the class.
"Voice of a Generation" is perhaps too strong a designation to hang on a TV host. Maybe that moniker should be reserved for an author, poet or musician. But for twentysomethings in the early 90's was there a better arbiter of cool, hip and funny than Dave Letterman? Maybe the aforementioned Quentin Tarantino. Maybe Kevin Smith. Maybe Dan Patrick and Keith Olbermann glibly doling out the highlights anchoring ESPN's Big Show. But my money's on Dave. He was the ringleader and chief entertainer presiding over a circus five nights a week. Acerbic and absurd met nutty and shameless night after night. Whether throwing footballs into moving taxis or piercing the bloated ego of a celebrity with sarcastic precision, Letterman was defining funny.
My friends and I slurped it up with a spoon. In the pre-internet/pre-DVR age, monologues and Top Ten Lists were appointment television. Dave's catchphrases and comedy bits seeped into our collective consciousness and populated our lexicon. I can all but promise you that the simple act of me writing, "Freeze, Hair Boy!" will elicit a chuckle from my friend Rob if he reads this. And that was a throwaway line from a throwaway bit twenty years ago. But we remember. Our own gags, from shopping cart races to Wacky Hat Night, from a Rascal parade through Wal-mart to a little student film called "Charmin: Not Just for the Bathroom Anymore" were, if not inspired by, were at least unwittingly sanctioned by our TV pal Dave.
As I've gotten older, I am not usually up at 11:30 unless I am weeping through a Capitals' NHL playoff overtime or addicted to a Netflix binge. I had not watched much Late Show over the last few years. When I did tune in, Dave seemed a little tired, not as sharp. (Until these last couple weeks leading to the finale. He seems happy and energized.) Clearly Jimmy and Jimmy,thanks in part to social media and a change in how we consume television, have passed Dave. I'm sure they know the debt they owe Letterman. It's a debt we all owe Letterman. He has been directly or tangentially responsible for millions of laughs. Late night will never be the same. Thanks, Dave.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Cap-sized! Rangers Flip Series, Sink Washington In Seven
I want you to try something. Call a buddy over, you are going to need some help. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart. Now ask your buddy to kick you in the nuts as hard as he can. I don't mean a gentle toe tap. I mean a kick that drives one of your testicles so far inside you surgery will be required to remove it. Go ahead, I'll wait... Hurts doesn't it? Why would you ask somebody to do that? Are you stupid or somethin'? Now you know how it feels to be a Washington Capitals fan. We stand, feet spread, wincing as we accept, practically beg for, a big 'ol nut punt Spring after Spring.
It's like some sort of decades-long fraternity hazing. Thank you, Sir! May I have another? Yes, I will stand here and endure all these Daniel-san crane kicks to the ballbag, but it will all be worth it because at some point I will get my pledge pin and get to play beer pong with pretty girls, right? No dumbass! You are going to take all those scrote-ripping groin busters and the big Swedish goaltender is still going to kick in the door, steal all your Milwaukee's Best and take your woman upstairs.
I mean, seriously? Can something be inevitable and impossible at the same time? 101 seconds from Round 3. A disallowed goal. A puck deflecting off a defenseman's skate, through the goalie's pads to be tapped in for a goal with .3 seconds left in the period. Simply more markers on the road map charting the Hockey Heartbreak Highway that Caps fans have traveled for decades. Run your fingers along the route with me. (Not that longtime fans need a map. We can find every exit and way station with our eyes closed.) Gonchar falling in OT. Joe Juneau failing to convert an overtime penalty shot. Tom Poti's penalty. Esa Tikkanen. I've got a dozen more, but you get the point.
This blog, whether discussing my dad skills or my favorite teams, is frequently fueled by pessimism and incompetence. In this regard, the Capitals are a flippin' nuclear reactor. The negative energy emanating from this franchise is unreal. Almost literally unreal. It seems impossible that every time they land in a Game 7 after blowing a 3-1 series lead they end up completing the fall. But here we are, 5 for 5. Impossible yet inevitable. Who didn't think when they lost Game 5 in OT that they were done? Liar. Then a frantic comeback in Game 6 provided false hope that maybe they could pull something off in Game 7. Lucy pulling the football from Charlie Brown one more time. Good Grief indeed, Chuck. There will be fans talking about what a great game Game 7 was. They will tell you it could have gone either way. They will tell you the Caps stood toe to toe with the better, favored, President's Trophy-winning Rangers through seven one goal games. This is all true. Also true, however, is that Washington once again choked away a 3-1 series lead. I don't care how big an underdog you are, you must finish that series.
Because if you don't, despite having a new coach and a new GM and new players and a new attitude and new resolve, you are still just the same old Caps. Is it October yet?
It's like some sort of decades-long fraternity hazing. Thank you, Sir! May I have another? Yes, I will stand here and endure all these Daniel-san crane kicks to the ballbag, but it will all be worth it because at some point I will get my pledge pin and get to play beer pong with pretty girls, right? No dumbass! You are going to take all those scrote-ripping groin busters and the big Swedish goaltender is still going to kick in the door, steal all your Milwaukee's Best and take your woman upstairs.
I mean, seriously? Can something be inevitable and impossible at the same time? 101 seconds from Round 3. A disallowed goal. A puck deflecting off a defenseman's skate, through the goalie's pads to be tapped in for a goal with .3 seconds left in the period. Simply more markers on the road map charting the Hockey Heartbreak Highway that Caps fans have traveled for decades. Run your fingers along the route with me. (Not that longtime fans need a map. We can find every exit and way station with our eyes closed.) Gonchar falling in OT. Joe Juneau failing to convert an overtime penalty shot. Tom Poti's penalty. Esa Tikkanen. I've got a dozen more, but you get the point.
This blog, whether discussing my dad skills or my favorite teams, is frequently fueled by pessimism and incompetence. In this regard, the Capitals are a flippin' nuclear reactor. The negative energy emanating from this franchise is unreal. Almost literally unreal. It seems impossible that every time they land in a Game 7 after blowing a 3-1 series lead they end up completing the fall. But here we are, 5 for 5. Impossible yet inevitable. Who didn't think when they lost Game 5 in OT that they were done? Liar. Then a frantic comeback in Game 6 provided false hope that maybe they could pull something off in Game 7. Lucy pulling the football from Charlie Brown one more time. Good Grief indeed, Chuck. There will be fans talking about what a great game Game 7 was. They will tell you it could have gone either way. They will tell you the Caps stood toe to toe with the better, favored, President's Trophy-winning Rangers through seven one goal games. This is all true. Also true, however, is that Washington once again choked away a 3-1 series lead. I don't care how big an underdog you are, you must finish that series.
Because if you don't, despite having a new coach and a new GM and new players and a new attitude and new resolve, you are still just the same old Caps. Is it October yet?
Friday, May 08, 2015
Who You Gonna Call?
Well, here we are. The place any team would love to be. The place any fan base would love to be. The Washington Capitals are one win from their first trip to the Conference Finals in seventeen years. One win from Alex Ovechkin's first venture beyond the second round. With Wednesday night's victory the Caps built a commanding (legally required to use that cliche there) three games to one series lead over the hated Rangers. But Caps fans know well the perils of 3-1 series lead. We have borne witness to blown leads and choke jobs. We have watched helplessly as the likes of Lemieux and LaFontaine, Jagr and Halak, have yanked our hockey hearts from our chests and mercilessly ground them under their skate boot. Out of two hundred seventy occurrences of a team holding a 3-1 series lead, only ten percent of the teams have blown that lead. Four of those twenty-seven teams,the most in NHL history, have been the Capitals. Four times I have watched as a team unraveled, as history repeated itself, as a series slipped away almost cosmically as if it were a fate preordained by the hockey gods.
Don't get me wrong; I haven't fired up the Doomsday Siren yet. Yet. But I am looking for the keys just in case. Such is the life of Caps fans. The worry reflex has kicked in. Muscle memory instructs us to expect the worst. We are wary when things are riding too high. I'll watch Game 5 through my fingers. A Game 6 would elicit the paces of an expectant father. A Game 7 would tighten sphincters across the region. I have seen what can happen and it's not pretty. It is hard to shake the feeling that New York has us right where they want us.
So, why can't I get my head around the idea that these might not be the same ol' Caps? Maybe because, unlike the opening round, I have been able to watch precious little of this series. In fact, I have seen less than twenty minutes of game action combined through four games (fortunately, a few of those minutes included Joel Ward's Game One buzzer-beater). I can't really speak to how the Caps are playing. Everything I read, hear and see in the highlights seems to indicate, carrying over from the first round, that they feel "different". Quotes from the locker room indicate the players are quite serious about finshing the Rangers. Unfortunately, this is typically where teams of the past, and Ovi's Caps, let up. Whether in an individual game or in playoff series, the Caps tend to let teams off the mat. The Rangers are good. Lundqvist is good. Good enough to come back and win this series. That's why I worry. However, in Round One optimism was my vow and a Ghost of Playoffs past was banished. Once again, I'm willing to let optimism be my spirit guide. Somebody call Ray Parker Jr. For now, I ain't afraid of no (playoff) ghosts.
Don't get me wrong; I haven't fired up the Doomsday Siren yet. Yet. But I am looking for the keys just in case. Such is the life of Caps fans. The worry reflex has kicked in. Muscle memory instructs us to expect the worst. We are wary when things are riding too high. I'll watch Game 5 through my fingers. A Game 6 would elicit the paces of an expectant father. A Game 7 would tighten sphincters across the region. I have seen what can happen and it's not pretty. It is hard to shake the feeling that New York has us right where they want us.
So, why can't I get my head around the idea that these might not be the same ol' Caps? Maybe because, unlike the opening round, I have been able to watch precious little of this series. In fact, I have seen less than twenty minutes of game action combined through four games (fortunately, a few of those minutes included Joel Ward's Game One buzzer-beater). I can't really speak to how the Caps are playing. Everything I read, hear and see in the highlights seems to indicate, carrying over from the first round, that they feel "different". Quotes from the locker room indicate the players are quite serious about finshing the Rangers. Unfortunately, this is typically where teams of the past, and Ovi's Caps, let up. Whether in an individual game or in playoff series, the Caps tend to let teams off the mat. The Rangers are good. Lundqvist is good. Good enough to come back and win this series. That's why I worry. However, in Round One optimism was my vow and a Ghost of Playoffs past was banished. Once again, I'm willing to let optimism be my spirit guide. Somebody call Ray Parker Jr. For now, I ain't afraid of no (playoff) ghosts.
Tuesday, April 28, 2015
Charm City?
I will never suffer the indignity of being pulled over for Driving While Black. I have never lived in a neighborhood that fears a police presence. I have never felt like my vote didn't count. I can never truly give full voice to to the anger of feeling marginalized due to the color of my skin. I have never been, and hopefully never will be, placed in the back of a police vehicle. If I do find myself in police custody, however, I deserve, as does EVERYONE ELSE, to be treated with dignity and fairness until justice is served. So I can't fully live the experience of all my neighbors, but I can stand with those seeking answers in Ferguson or New York or with those wanting to know what really happened in the back of a paddy wagon in Baltimore. I can appreciate the outrage. I acknowledge it. I get it. What I don't get is using this outrage as an excuse to indulge in wild, illegal, destructive behavior.
The looting and rioting has eclipsed any positive message the peaceful protestors sought to spread. Thousands of people protested peacefully Saturday. Unfortunately, a much smaller number of people (not entirely unprovoked, by the way) decided to show their asses. This destruction, and the coverage of it by local media, seemed to give license to troublemakers who took to the streets with the craziness after Freddie Gray's funeral yesterday. Just like in Ferguson and New Orleans after Katrina and countless other places before, opportunistic losers took advantage of a grievance to act like assholes. I have been pissed about a lot of things in my life, but I promise you I have never once thought, "You know what would make me feel better right now? Burning down a CVS after I steal all the Charmin." Vandalizing your own neighborhood, "getting mines", attacking police with bricks, destroying businesses-these things make no sense even in, maybe especially in, this context. My favorite, in a hilariously sad way, video from yesterday was a news chopper feed of the one mall being looted. One of the looters ran from the store with an armload of clothes, which she had to put down so she could unlock her car. Rioting Pro Tip: Be sure to lock up so no one steals your stuff while you are off stealing someone else's stuff. Brilliant! What are we doing here people?
Thank goodness for those who cut through the nuttiness to help. Thank goodness for Robert Valentine and for the mom who slapped some sense into her son. Thank goodness for the man who quietly started sweeping up in the middle of the chaos. Thank goodness for the hundreds of first responders who stood watch last night while the city burned around them. I love Baltimore. She is a proud city. Despite making fun of her for once being the most syphilitic city in the country, I constantly defend Baltimore to the naysayers. We have never had trouble going to ball games or to Johns Hopkins for my daughter's surgery and follow-ups. I hope the city finds peace. I hope communities across the nation can find peace. How that happens, I don't know. We are talking about systematic injustice and mistrust. We are talking about drugs and the violence and sadness they leave in their wake. We are talking about selfishness. We are talking, but not always listening. Criminals and victims. Sometimes, criminals as victims.
What I do know, is that we can all help. We must be sensible and sensitive. Respectful and responsive. Caring and careful. And I know that burning police cars and smashing in windows or skulls is none of those things.
The looting and rioting has eclipsed any positive message the peaceful protestors sought to spread. Thousands of people protested peacefully Saturday. Unfortunately, a much smaller number of people (not entirely unprovoked, by the way) decided to show their asses. This destruction, and the coverage of it by local media, seemed to give license to troublemakers who took to the streets with the craziness after Freddie Gray's funeral yesterday. Just like in Ferguson and New Orleans after Katrina and countless other places before, opportunistic losers took advantage of a grievance to act like assholes. I have been pissed about a lot of things in my life, but I promise you I have never once thought, "You know what would make me feel better right now? Burning down a CVS after I steal all the Charmin." Vandalizing your own neighborhood, "getting mines", attacking police with bricks, destroying businesses-these things make no sense even in, maybe especially in, this context. My favorite, in a hilariously sad way, video from yesterday was a news chopper feed of the one mall being looted. One of the looters ran from the store with an armload of clothes, which she had to put down so she could unlock her car. Rioting Pro Tip: Be sure to lock up so no one steals your stuff while you are off stealing someone else's stuff. Brilliant! What are we doing here people?
Thank goodness for those who cut through the nuttiness to help. Thank goodness for Robert Valentine and for the mom who slapped some sense into her son. Thank goodness for the man who quietly started sweeping up in the middle of the chaos. Thank goodness for the hundreds of first responders who stood watch last night while the city burned around them. I love Baltimore. She is a proud city. Despite making fun of her for once being the most syphilitic city in the country, I constantly defend Baltimore to the naysayers. We have never had trouble going to ball games or to Johns Hopkins for my daughter's surgery and follow-ups. I hope the city finds peace. I hope communities across the nation can find peace. How that happens, I don't know. We are talking about systematic injustice and mistrust. We are talking about drugs and the violence and sadness they leave in their wake. We are talking about selfishness. We are talking, but not always listening. Criminals and victims. Sometimes, criminals as victims.
What I do know, is that we can all help. We must be sensible and sensitive. Respectful and responsive. Caring and careful. And I know that burning police cars and smashing in windows or skulls is none of those things.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Game Seven:The Two Most Exciting Words In Sports
Bring it in Caps Fans.
Huddle up. You guys out there on
the ledge-climb back in the window. You
over there muttering, “Here we go again”- come on over. You there, holding your Ovechkin sweater- put
down the butane lighter and get over here.
Take a knee and listen up. I know
it doesn’t look good. Home Game 7s
(Games 7?) haven’t treated the Caps very well. (1-4 record in the Ovechkin Era.) Our stars seem to shrink in
these moments. Big Mo seems to be on the
Isles side. Jaroslav Halak is 6-1 in elimination
games during his playoff career. So
what? I choose optimism. It may not be
rational. It may not be logical. But it sure is more fun.
You see, I don’t Rock the Red because Big Ted’s marketing
team tells me to. I root for the Caps
because they are my team. If I was going
to stop rooting for this team when things looked bleak, I would have stopped 25
years ago, or during the era they wore Red the first time. Yes, I predicted the Islanders would win the
series in seven games. That doesn’t mean
I want to be correct. And you know what? The Islanders might win. They are a damn strong team. All the more reason to watch with excitement
tonight; if the Caps pull out a W, it will have been well earned. I’ll chew my
nails through Game 7. I’ll don my lucky
hat at game time. I’ll let Grace watch a
few minutes before bed continuing her indoctrination into this roller coaster
ride that is being a Washington Capitals fan.
I’ll believe in a win until the scoreboard reads otherwise.
Tomorrow, if this team I love has laid another Game 7 egg, I
will gladly listen to your “I told you so.” To, “Ovechkin isn’t clutch.” To, “this organization is cursed.” To, “Barry Trotz is just Bruce Boudreau with
a goatee.” I will listen to all
criticisms and likely add a few of my own.
But tonight we cheer. Tonight we cheer, for we are fans and that is
what fans do. Because the possibility
still exists that the Great 8 will net a hat trick, raising his game as he
wills his team to Round 2. There still
exists the possibility that Braden Holtby shuts out New York. There still exists the possibility that this time the Caps prevail in four
overtimes. Of course, there also still
exists the possibility my optimism is entirely unfounded. I’ll let you know after Game 7!
Thursday, April 16, 2015
Wow Me.
Okay, I admit it. As I've gotten older I have become a little jaded. I think we all do as we age. I suppose we develop a "I've seen it all" mentality. Fewer things knock my socks off. I find myself saying, "It was fine" when asked how something was. I might enjoy stuff, but rarely am I wowed. Dinner at that new restaurant? Fine. That book I just finished? Fine. The Fourth of July fireworks show? Fine. (Seriously though, I can't be the only adult that is bored with the fireworks, can I? If you've seen one, you've kinda seen 'em all.) This is one of the many reasons having a kid is so great. You can see experiences through their eyes. When they experience things for the first time, you can experience it anew vicariously through them. When Grace tells me a day at the beach jumping in the surf is the BEST DAY EVER! who am I to argue? Instead of dismissing it as hyperbole, I should remember that, yeah, this is a pretty good damn day. Child-like wonder can do us all some good.
Two separate kid moments cut through the clutter for me today. Today was a day of errands and other routine distractions. As we completed them, Grace asked if we could stop by the library. How could I say no to the that? (What I should have said no to, though, was letting her check out the Frozen soundtrack sung in Spanish. I long for the due date so I may then sing Libre Soy.) One of our post-library traditions is stopping by the nearby pizza shop for a slice. We had fun just chilling with some pie in the warm afternoon sun. The real awesome moment came later when Grace started reading one of her borrowed books. She has been learning and diligently practicing reading in and after school for a few weeks now. It has been neat seeing her move from letter sounds to blending words and piecing together syllables. Today, however, was the first time that she has thrown open a book, begun sounding out the words and nailed it without needing or asking for help. Needless to say I was filled with pride. It is so cool to see the puzzle pieces clicking in to place as she determinedly sounds out the words. Wow Moment Number One.
Wow Moment Number Two was a kid moment, too, but more because it tied to my own childhood. The internet blew up this afternoon as the second Star Wars teaser trailer debuted and was subsequently shared by a Death Star-sized percentage of my friends list. Sure it was only a thirty-second snippet. Watching that tantalizing morsel transported me back to childhood. Some may say it is only a movie, nothing to get so so excited about. For them, that may be true. And that's cool. I'm sure they have their passions. After all, I believe we are all giant nerds about something. It might be craft beer or baseball or comics or photography; we all have things that we geek out on that leave others scratching their head. For me, that trailer hitting the Net (do people still call it that?) was a big ol' NERD ALERT. Hearing John Williams' score, listening to talk of the Force and watching the Millennium Falcon blast across the screen made me feel like a kid again. Because for me, and millions of people my age, the Star Wars Saga was not simply a collection of movies. It was a gateway to so much more. It inspired creativity and play time. It fired the imagination and it embodied, right there on that big screen, child-like wonder. And it was just so damn cool. That is why today's trailer was important to me. It was a not so sublte reminder that, "travelin' through hyperspace ain't like dustin' crops, boy."
Now, the jaded me worries that the movie might suck. A friend, and fellow fan, reminded me that the best part of Episode I was the trailer. I admit, as happy as I was to see Han and Chewie on screen again, Harrison Ford's gravelly voice sounded a lot like Krystal Skull-era Indy. (Shudder.) But none of that matters. I will sit with Christmas morning-like anticipation as the house lights go down December 15th. Not only will I get to be a kid again, but I get the opportunity to take Grace to see a Star Wars movie in the theater for the first time. Peaking into a Galaxy far, far away through my eyes and hers could be awesome. A shared joy and Wow Moment Number Two.
Two separate kid moments cut through the clutter for me today. Today was a day of errands and other routine distractions. As we completed them, Grace asked if we could stop by the library. How could I say no to the that? (What I should have said no to, though, was letting her check out the Frozen soundtrack sung in Spanish. I long for the due date so I may then sing Libre Soy.) One of our post-library traditions is stopping by the nearby pizza shop for a slice. We had fun just chilling with some pie in the warm afternoon sun. The real awesome moment came later when Grace started reading one of her borrowed books. She has been learning and diligently practicing reading in and after school for a few weeks now. It has been neat seeing her move from letter sounds to blending words and piecing together syllables. Today, however, was the first time that she has thrown open a book, begun sounding out the words and nailed it without needing or asking for help. Needless to say I was filled with pride. It is so cool to see the puzzle pieces clicking in to place as she determinedly sounds out the words. Wow Moment Number One.
Wow Moment Number Two was a kid moment, too, but more because it tied to my own childhood. The internet blew up this afternoon as the second Star Wars teaser trailer debuted and was subsequently shared by a Death Star-sized percentage of my friends list. Sure it was only a thirty-second snippet. Watching that tantalizing morsel transported me back to childhood. Some may say it is only a movie, nothing to get so so excited about. For them, that may be true. And that's cool. I'm sure they have their passions. After all, I believe we are all giant nerds about something. It might be craft beer or baseball or comics or photography; we all have things that we geek out on that leave others scratching their head. For me, that trailer hitting the Net (do people still call it that?) was a big ol' NERD ALERT. Hearing John Williams' score, listening to talk of the Force and watching the Millennium Falcon blast across the screen made me feel like a kid again. Because for me, and millions of people my age, the Star Wars Saga was not simply a collection of movies. It was a gateway to so much more. It inspired creativity and play time. It fired the imagination and it embodied, right there on that big screen, child-like wonder. And it was just so damn cool. That is why today's trailer was important to me. It was a not so sublte reminder that, "travelin' through hyperspace ain't like dustin' crops, boy."
Now, the jaded me worries that the movie might suck. A friend, and fellow fan, reminded me that the best part of Episode I was the trailer. I admit, as happy as I was to see Han and Chewie on screen again, Harrison Ford's gravelly voice sounded a lot like Krystal Skull-era Indy. (Shudder.) But none of that matters. I will sit with Christmas morning-like anticipation as the house lights go down December 15th. Not only will I get to be a kid again, but I get the opportunity to take Grace to see a Star Wars movie in the theater for the first time. Peaking into a Galaxy far, far away through my eyes and hers could be awesome. A shared joy and Wow Moment Number Two.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
The Most Wonderful Time of the Year
Forecasting the unpredictable NHL postseason is a bit like having dandruff- people think you are weird and you are often left scratching your head. Knowing just how much the internet is clamoring for my predictions, I have doused my crystal ball with Selsun Blue, so let's get started. Who wants to talk about the Caps-Islanders Eastern Conference Quarterfinal match up?
WHY THE CAPS WILL WIN THE SERIES:
1. BARRY TROTZ: During his first season in D.C., Trotz has installed a tight-checking, gap-control system that the players are actually buying in to. Playing as a five man unit defensively, players see that sound defense can quickly transition to opportunistic offense. Trotz has a good feel for his team. Whether talking line combos, goalie starts or healthy scratches, he has often pushed the right buttons. That he has never advanced any deeper into the playoffs than the Ovechkin-era Caps is a valid criticism, but Trotz never had in Nashville the offensive firepower that he has in Washington.
2. TOUGHNESS: Trotz has demanded a level of toughness that even hard-ass Dale Hunter could not coax out of these Caps. Opponents remark that the Caps are now hard to play against. Washington has big bodies that can grind a team down. I'm not saying they are the second coming of recent Bruins teams that punished defenses under a relentless forecheck, but the Caps are swift enough and rugged enough up front to make teams pay. Now, will they?
3. DEFENSE: For years, fans begged GM George McPhee to improve the defense. Yet trade deadlines and offseasons passed year after year with only a rotating cast of has-beens and minor league journeymen manning the back half of the defense corp. During free agency new GM Brian McClellan overspent to land stud defenseman Brooks Orpik and fellow blue-liner Matt Nisskanen. They have stabalized a realigned defense that is now a team strength.
4.MIKE GREEN: Perhaps the biggest beneficiary of the revamped defense has been Mike Green. Relegated to the third D pairing has been a blessing. He appears to be healthy after no longer being asked to play thirty minutes a night. Bruce Boudreau irresponsibly ran this kid into the ground. Green has responded to playing less minutes by producing nearly the same number of points in far fewer minutes than in recent seasons. He is getting hot at the right time and could be a major offensive weapon in this series. Though, I reserve the right to move him to the WHY THE CAPS WILL LOSE THIS SERIES column as soon as he makes a bonehead, high-risk pass to the other team.
5.NUMBER 8: Alex Ovechkin has had some masterful playoff performances (dueling hat tricks with Sidney Crosby, Game 5 against the Rangers in 2009), but he has yet to elevate his game to an elite status during a deep playoff run or even an entire series, for that matter. This has probably been Ovi's best all-around season. He has played better defensively (Let's be honest, it would be hard no to.), he has played well with many different linemates and he has led by example with his physical play. Is this the year he is less Pavel Bure and more Mike Modano or Steve Yzerman, still a potent scorer, but a more mature defender and leader?
6. BRADEN HOLTBY: Solid, bordering on spectacular regular season. Most playoff-ready backstop since Godzilla. My chief concern is the number of minutes he has logged. 73 games played is a lot. In fact, not since Grant Fuhr twenty-nine years ago has a Cup-winning goalie played so many games during the regular season. But In Trotz, We Trust. (Not that I think this team has what it takes to win it all.)
WHY THE CAPS WILL LOSE THE SERIES:
HAVE YOU MET THE CAPS? This collection of misfits deems it their annual mission to make ME, a complete stranger only loosely connected to their place of work on a geographic basis, miserable. The Islanders are talented, have a goalie that has previously foiled the Caps in the first round and may be poised to embark on a magical, last hurrah, history evoking Cup run to say farewell to Nassau Coliseum.
As Dave Letterman would say, this is an exhibition not a competition, so please, please, no wagering. But if I were a betting man, I'd say Islanders in 7.
WHY THE CAPS WILL WIN THE SERIES:
1. BARRY TROTZ: During his first season in D.C., Trotz has installed a tight-checking, gap-control system that the players are actually buying in to. Playing as a five man unit defensively, players see that sound defense can quickly transition to opportunistic offense. Trotz has a good feel for his team. Whether talking line combos, goalie starts or healthy scratches, he has often pushed the right buttons. That he has never advanced any deeper into the playoffs than the Ovechkin-era Caps is a valid criticism, but Trotz never had in Nashville the offensive firepower that he has in Washington.
2. TOUGHNESS: Trotz has demanded a level of toughness that even hard-ass Dale Hunter could not coax out of these Caps. Opponents remark that the Caps are now hard to play against. Washington has big bodies that can grind a team down. I'm not saying they are the second coming of recent Bruins teams that punished defenses under a relentless forecheck, but the Caps are swift enough and rugged enough up front to make teams pay. Now, will they?
3. DEFENSE: For years, fans begged GM George McPhee to improve the defense. Yet trade deadlines and offseasons passed year after year with only a rotating cast of has-beens and minor league journeymen manning the back half of the defense corp. During free agency new GM Brian McClellan overspent to land stud defenseman Brooks Orpik and fellow blue-liner Matt Nisskanen. They have stabalized a realigned defense that is now a team strength.
4.MIKE GREEN: Perhaps the biggest beneficiary of the revamped defense has been Mike Green. Relegated to the third D pairing has been a blessing. He appears to be healthy after no longer being asked to play thirty minutes a night. Bruce Boudreau irresponsibly ran this kid into the ground. Green has responded to playing less minutes by producing nearly the same number of points in far fewer minutes than in recent seasons. He is getting hot at the right time and could be a major offensive weapon in this series. Though, I reserve the right to move him to the WHY THE CAPS WILL LOSE THIS SERIES column as soon as he makes a bonehead, high-risk pass to the other team.
5.NUMBER 8: Alex Ovechkin has had some masterful playoff performances (dueling hat tricks with Sidney Crosby, Game 5 against the Rangers in 2009), but he has yet to elevate his game to an elite status during a deep playoff run or even an entire series, for that matter. This has probably been Ovi's best all-around season. He has played better defensively (Let's be honest, it would be hard no to.), he has played well with many different linemates and he has led by example with his physical play. Is this the year he is less Pavel Bure and more Mike Modano or Steve Yzerman, still a potent scorer, but a more mature defender and leader?
6. BRADEN HOLTBY: Solid, bordering on spectacular regular season. Most playoff-ready backstop since Godzilla. My chief concern is the number of minutes he has logged. 73 games played is a lot. In fact, not since Grant Fuhr twenty-nine years ago has a Cup-winning goalie played so many games during the regular season. But In Trotz, We Trust. (Not that I think this team has what it takes to win it all.)
WHY THE CAPS WILL LOSE THE SERIES:
HAVE YOU MET THE CAPS? This collection of misfits deems it their annual mission to make ME, a complete stranger only loosely connected to their place of work on a geographic basis, miserable. The Islanders are talented, have a goalie that has previously foiled the Caps in the first round and may be poised to embark on a magical, last hurrah, history evoking Cup run to say farewell to Nassau Coliseum.
As Dave Letterman would say, this is an exhibition not a competition, so please, please, no wagering. But if I were a betting man, I'd say Islanders in 7.
Hardware Wars
Behold and bear witness to one man's valiant attempt to win both Husband of the Year and Father of the Year in the same day. Ignore for the moment that this humble warrior is grossly unqualified to complete the tasks that he dreams will win him these accolades. How will our hero, used to doing battle with words and a keyboard, fare wrestling projects that require complex notions such as math and...tools? Will he land in some catalog of Pinterest fails or cheesy Buzzfeed compilation of home improvement disasters (23 Photos of People Who Should Have Hired a Contractor)? Or will he win the hearts, minds and hearty cheers of his loving family? Stay tuned.
My mission this day was, as stated above, two-fold. My wife, Amanda, and I have been wanting to create a backyard in which we can hang out and relax. Unfortunately, our last few backyards have been either dust bowls or tiny, grassy postage stamps with no privacy. Our current yard is large and fenced in. Check. Secondly, our daughter, Grace, has been bugging us to sign her up for gymnastics. Since we don't need to add ANYTHING ELSE to our Gracie Shuttle Schedule, I hoped building a gym bar in the yard would hold off her requests for a little while longer. Room for Grace to twirl and flip. Check. With procrastination being my default setting, my big ideas are often left on the vine to wither and disappear. Today, though, I was determined get the job done and surprise my ladies with my craftsmanship.
My one requirement for any structure was that it could be fairly easily moved or removed.(In case Amanda hated it or thought it would work in a better spot in the yard.) This requirement, and a looming afternoon thunderstorm, meant any posts could not be secured with concrete; I would need another method. My plan was simple, if a bit flawed. But that is okay because Simple and Flawed are my middle names. With a plan in my head and determination in my soul, I headed for the Home Depot. Yes, the Home Depot. That place where, like church, the gym and the health food store, I get looks from the employees that seem to say, "Are you sure you are in the right place?" You see, in my family, I am the least likely to build, make or fix anything. My mom is a crafter with a yard that is like a fairy garden filled with flowers, bird baths and squadrons of hummingbirds hovering nearby. My brother has an engineer's brain and has remodeled two homes. He inherited those skills from my dad, who, in addition to being an electrician, contractor and all-around handy guy, fixed engines changed the oil in his cars for years. I can barely change the television channel with my X1 remote. Anyway, like a tourist in a strange city, I wandered around until I found what I needed. I packed the car (Hey look, the boards actually fit!) and headed for home.
My simple plan included posts for a hammock, posts for a gym bar and festive lights strung all around. Because I wanted temporary, I chose to use deck spikes to hold the posts in place. The spike consists of a metal base that acts as a seat for the 4" x 4" post. Attached to the metal base is an 18" spike that sticks in the ground to keep the post (allegedly) from toppling over. The spikes are not exactly designed for what I am using them for, but I figured by securing the posts together there would be enough rigidity to keep everything upright. And there might have been had I actually completed my plan. I had the posts in place and the hammock hung. One hammock post was securely attached to an existing fence post. I had not, however, secured the bar or the support braces when, smugly, I decided to test my handiwork. Ignoring the fact that my plan called for everything being attached together for rigidity, I slowly eased into the hammock. It felt good. For a brief moment I allowed myself to think of summer afternoons spent right here- SNAP- the popping sound pulled me from my day dream, as I landed with a thud, tangled in the hammock with an 8' salt-treated post in my lap (No, that is not a euphemism). For half-a-second, I thought I had pulled the existing fence down. Idiot! Nope, just my one hammock post fell. A quick survey revealed that only my pride and the deck spike were damaged. The post did not break; the welds of the spike base did. Myeagerness impatience and stupidity had ruined my first attempt. Discouraged but undaunted, I hit the Depot for another spike.
With the new spike and all the planned pieces secured, I was confident everything was going to work fine. I decided I will keep my fat ass from testing the welds. I will leave the hammock to the lighter members of my family. All that was left was to string the lights. The area to be lit is a square measuring approximately 25 feet on each side. My 150 foot string of colorful lights will be more than - wait, what? 150 count measuring 50 feet? Dammit. So much for words being one of my strengths. On my third trip to the store I picked up another pack of lights and considered another spike, this one to drive into my skull as punishment for thinking up this scheme in the first place. A few minutes and a few calming breaths later, the lights were up and my project complete.
I don't yet know if I will win any awards, but I will call the project a success. Grace was surprised and delighted to have a "flipping" bar. Amanda greeted her backyard oasis with a bemused, suspicious look, probably wondering who helped me. So, friends and neighbors, I invite you to join us in our backyard, uh, paradise. Just be gentle with the hammock.
My mission this day was, as stated above, two-fold. My wife, Amanda, and I have been wanting to create a backyard in which we can hang out and relax. Unfortunately, our last few backyards have been either dust bowls or tiny, grassy postage stamps with no privacy. Our current yard is large and fenced in. Check. Secondly, our daughter, Grace, has been bugging us to sign her up for gymnastics. Since we don't need to add ANYTHING ELSE to our Gracie Shuttle Schedule, I hoped building a gym bar in the yard would hold off her requests for a little while longer. Room for Grace to twirl and flip. Check. With procrastination being my default setting, my big ideas are often left on the vine to wither and disappear. Today, though, I was determined get the job done and surprise my ladies with my craftsmanship.
My one requirement for any structure was that it could be fairly easily moved or removed.(In case Amanda hated it or thought it would work in a better spot in the yard.) This requirement, and a looming afternoon thunderstorm, meant any posts could not be secured with concrete; I would need another method. My plan was simple, if a bit flawed. But that is okay because Simple and Flawed are my middle names. With a plan in my head and determination in my soul, I headed for the Home Depot. Yes, the Home Depot. That place where, like church, the gym and the health food store, I get looks from the employees that seem to say, "Are you sure you are in the right place?" You see, in my family, I am the least likely to build, make or fix anything. My mom is a crafter with a yard that is like a fairy garden filled with flowers, bird baths and squadrons of hummingbirds hovering nearby. My brother has an engineer's brain and has remodeled two homes. He inherited those skills from my dad, who, in addition to being an electrician, contractor and all-around handy guy, fixed engines changed the oil in his cars for years. I can barely change the television channel with my X1 remote. Anyway, like a tourist in a strange city, I wandered around until I found what I needed. I packed the car (Hey look, the boards actually fit!) and headed for home.
My simple plan included posts for a hammock, posts for a gym bar and festive lights strung all around. Because I wanted temporary, I chose to use deck spikes to hold the posts in place. The spike consists of a metal base that acts as a seat for the 4" x 4" post. Attached to the metal base is an 18" spike that sticks in the ground to keep the post (allegedly) from toppling over. The spikes are not exactly designed for what I am using them for, but I figured by securing the posts together there would be enough rigidity to keep everything upright. And there might have been had I actually completed my plan. I had the posts in place and the hammock hung. One hammock post was securely attached to an existing fence post. I had not, however, secured the bar or the support braces when, smugly, I decided to test my handiwork. Ignoring the fact that my plan called for everything being attached together for rigidity, I slowly eased into the hammock. It felt good. For a brief moment I allowed myself to think of summer afternoons spent right here- SNAP- the popping sound pulled me from my day dream, as I landed with a thud, tangled in the hammock with an 8' salt-treated post in my lap (No, that is not a euphemism). For half-a-second, I thought I had pulled the existing fence down. Idiot! Nope, just my one hammock post fell. A quick survey revealed that only my pride and the deck spike were damaged. The post did not break; the welds of the spike base did. My
With the new spike and all the planned pieces secured, I was confident everything was going to work fine. I decided I will keep my fat ass from testing the welds. I will leave the hammock to the lighter members of my family. All that was left was to string the lights. The area to be lit is a square measuring approximately 25 feet on each side. My 150 foot string of colorful lights will be more than - wait, what? 150 count measuring 50 feet? Dammit. So much for words being one of my strengths. On my third trip to the store I picked up another pack of lights and considered another spike, this one to drive into my skull as punishment for thinking up this scheme in the first place. A few minutes and a few calming breaths later, the lights were up and my project complete.
I don't yet know if I will win any awards, but I will call the project a success. Grace was surprised and delighted to have a "flipping" bar. Amanda greeted her backyard oasis with a bemused, suspicious look, probably wondering who helped me. So, friends and neighbors, I invite you to join us in our backyard, uh, paradise. Just be gentle with the hammock.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
A Rivalry Renewed
You're right Pittsburgh media outlets,
Alex Ovechkin is a monster. A menace to society. Deport his sorry ass
for the blatant act of violence committed against poor, helpless
Penguins defenseman Kris Letang last
week. I'll grant you Ovechkin's stick work probably should have been called a penalty,
though the hyperbole coming out of Pittsburgh was a bit much. But I
don't mind the trash talk. In fact, I love it. I love that America's
Top Douche, Chris Kunitz, retaliated by cross-checking Ovechkin after
the next whistle. I loved it even more when an undaunted Ovie
laughed in his face. Because all this can only mean one thing: this is a
rivalry reborn.
For too long, the Caps-Pens rivalry, once a pressure cooker ready to boil over at any second, has been set to a tepid simmer. Six years without a playoff meeting has cooled the hatred built upon passionate playoff matchups. During that span, Ovie's game went MIA for a bit as did Sidney Crosby's ability to stay healthy enough to be in the lineup. A once proud rivalry has taken a back seat to others. Since 2009, these teams, which are more alike than Pens fans probably like to admit, have been stuck in neutral. The young teams, once expected to duke it out for dynasty status, have been passed by the Kings and Hawks as the top teams and top rivalry in the sport. The Caps-Pens regular season matchups though always hyped, are often more network bluster than actual substance.
Then something happened last week. There was snarl. There were huge hits. There were chops and chips and facewashes after every whistle. For maybe the first time since the New Patrick Metropolitan Division was formed, a Caps-Pens game had some real juice to it. And I watched with glee. You see, as a young hockey fan, I suckled at the teat of this rivalry. The first Caps game I attended was against the Penguins. Mine is a hockey fandom burnished by the vicious rivalries of the old Patrick Division-battles with the hated Pens, the filthy Rangers and the despicable Flyers. My buddies and I practically swung from the rafters of the Capital Centre, cheering our hockey heroes and disparaging the enemy. We bore witness to so many formative moments in that barn: penalty filled games stopped to scrape the blood from the ice, chants of "Barass-hole, Barass-hole", games that featured more fights in the seats than on the rink, hand-written signs questioning both the length of Ron Hextall's, uh, goalie stick and the sexual prowess of his sister. We drank it all in and learned. Then we carried on the proud traditions and created a few of our own along the way: talking shit with visiting fans, sneaking in airplane bottles of liquor to supplement our colas, tackling each other as the siren wailed after another Capital goal. Sorry, but the likes of Columbus and Florida don't feed the rage quite like a good ol' Patrick Division showdown. Make special "Blue Jackets Suck" t-shirts for the game? Nope. But "Flyers Suck" was a different story. We witnessed playoff victories and bitter playoff disappointments. Many of those defeats, admittedly, at the hands of the Pittsburgh Penguins. That is why last Tuesday's game was so fun to watch. It conjured so many wonderful memories. The game was also an important step in the Caps-Pens history. It was a beacon of hope, a symbol of things to come, a sign of a rivalry re-ignited.
Last Tuesday's game was also an important step in the development of this current Caps team. The Capitals, long in search of an identity, may be coming together. The nastiness of the game didn't seem to bother the Caps. They seem tougher than before. Perhaps they can shed their reputation for softness. Outside of goalie Braden Holtby's stellar play it is difficult to pinpoint the exact reasons for their climb in the Eastern Conference standings. But a tougher attitude and being harder to play against seem to be at the top of the list. Why? Is it Brooks Orpik's leadership? Is it Barry Trotz's coaching style? Is Alex Ovechkin maturing into the all-around player he could have always been? I don't know. What I do know is that when the Penguins got dirty with cross checks and sucker punches last week, the Caps didn't blink. Players that shy away from the rough stuff were in the mix. To paraphrase the announcer in the movie Slapshot, "The fans are standing up to them! The security guards are standing up to them! The peanut vendors are standing up to them! By God, even Eric Fehr is standing up to them!" An identity forged of toughness, togetherness and offensive firepower could make the Capitals formidable down the stretch.
Which brings us to tomorrow night's rematch in Washington. The Pens have cheap shots to answer for. The Caps have home ice to defend. Pittsburgh is likely surly as the Caps have had their number so far this year. Washington can pass Pittsburgh in the standings with the victory. There is a lot at stake. A possible bloodbath in the making that can continue the shenanigans from last week and lay the groundwork for a possible matchup later in this Spring. I hope somebody pulls a Reg Dunlop and pays the ambulance driver to take a few pre-game laps up and down F-street ringing the siren to stoke the bloodlust of the fans coming to enjoy the rivalry. A rivalry renewed.
For too long, the Caps-Pens rivalry, once a pressure cooker ready to boil over at any second, has been set to a tepid simmer. Six years without a playoff meeting has cooled the hatred built upon passionate playoff matchups. During that span, Ovie's game went MIA for a bit as did Sidney Crosby's ability to stay healthy enough to be in the lineup. A once proud rivalry has taken a back seat to others. Since 2009, these teams, which are more alike than Pens fans probably like to admit, have been stuck in neutral. The young teams, once expected to duke it out for dynasty status, have been passed by the Kings and Hawks as the top teams and top rivalry in the sport. The Caps-Pens regular season matchups though always hyped, are often more network bluster than actual substance.
Then something happened last week. There was snarl. There were huge hits. There were chops and chips and facewashes after every whistle. For maybe the first time since the
Last Tuesday's game was also an important step in the development of this current Caps team. The Capitals, long in search of an identity, may be coming together. The nastiness of the game didn't seem to bother the Caps. They seem tougher than before. Perhaps they can shed their reputation for softness. Outside of goalie Braden Holtby's stellar play it is difficult to pinpoint the exact reasons for their climb in the Eastern Conference standings. But a tougher attitude and being harder to play against seem to be at the top of the list. Why? Is it Brooks Orpik's leadership? Is it Barry Trotz's coaching style? Is Alex Ovechkin maturing into the all-around player he could have always been? I don't know. What I do know is that when the Penguins got dirty with cross checks and sucker punches last week, the Caps didn't blink. Players that shy away from the rough stuff were in the mix. To paraphrase the announcer in the movie Slapshot, "The fans are standing up to them! The security guards are standing up to them! The peanut vendors are standing up to them! By God, even Eric Fehr is standing up to them!" An identity forged of toughness, togetherness and offensive firepower could make the Capitals formidable down the stretch.
Which brings us to tomorrow night's rematch in Washington. The Pens have cheap shots to answer for. The Caps have home ice to defend. Pittsburgh is likely surly as the Caps have had their number so far this year. Washington can pass Pittsburgh in the standings with the victory. There is a lot at stake. A possible bloodbath in the making that can continue the shenanigans from last week and lay the groundwork for a possible matchup later in this Spring. I hope somebody pulls a Reg Dunlop and pays the ambulance driver to take a few pre-game laps up and down F-street ringing the siren to stoke the bloodlust of the fans coming to enjoy the rivalry. A rivalry renewed.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
The Elf Has Left The Building.
Despite my previous run-ins with Santa, I still love the magic of Christmas. I do, however, despise lying to my kid to perpetuate the magic and myth. You know the questions that dominate the holiday season- Is Santa real?, Is that guy in the mall really Santa's helper?, How does Santa fly all over the world in one night?, Daddy, are you really going to eat all those chocolate covered cherries? I love the joy my daughter, Grace, finds in Christmas. From opening the advent calendar to setting out reindeer food to wide-eyed excitement at seeing what Santa delivered, I hope it lasts a few more years. It is the lying I hate. But lie I did when Grace recently found her Elf on the Shelf packed away in the drawer of the nightstand.
In case you are unfamiliar with the Elf on the Shelf, allow me to explain this plague. The Elf is a creepy inanimate doll with weird follow-you-across-the room eyes that visits your home daily during December to keep tabs on your child, reporting naughty or nice behavior back to Santa when he or she makes his or her nightly flight back to the North Pole. When the Elf returns to your home each morning, it lands in a different perch where it waits to be found by the child. "Ambitious" parents create a fun, perhaps mischievous, scene each day such as the Elf shitting out peppermint candy poops into the toilet or spilling cereal all across the breakfast table. (Oh, those pesky elves!) Less ambitious parents simply hope they remember to move the elf to a new hiding spot before their child wakes. Is the Elf on the Shelf a delightful family tradition or a shameful extension of bribing our kids to behave by telling them that Santa is watching? Is it fanciful holiday fun or a grim lesson to our children that Big Brother is always watching? You make the call. All I know is there were several mornings I had to sprint out of bed to toss our elf, Katie, into a new hiding spot as Grace was waking. There was at least one morning I had to make an excuse (for which there are entire websites dedicated to assisting you in creating your lie) as to why Katie was hiding in the same spot as the day before. You would think this would have left me prepared when Grace found Katie packed away.
On the afternoon I almost ruined Christmas, I had left Grace upstairs in my bedroom watching tv on our tablet while I cooked dinner. I was downstairs only a few minutes when I heard a mournful wail. "Daaaaaady!" I headed for the stairs thinking something was truly wrong. "Daaaaady, why is she in there? Why is she in this box?" I turned the corner into the dining room to see Grace standing perfectly still, sadly looking at her elf smushed in the box she holds in her hands. Suddenly frozen with panic, my first thought was to chastise Grace for snooping in our nightstand. Then I realized now was not the time to chastise, now was the time for damage control. For I had not only stupidly packed the elf away in the box it was purchased in, but I had packed other important things in the box such as Grace's Christmas list, older letters to Santa and the note she left with Santa's cookies this year. All things, along with Katie the Elf, that should currently be hanging out at the North Pole. Grace unleashed a flood of legitimate questions. "Why is Katie here instead of the North Pole?" "How come Santa doesn't have my letters?" "Has Katie lost her magic?" "Is she even real?" All I could think to myself was, Oh, shit.
As I stood there stammering, trying to formulate a response, I could see Grace's wheels turning. I could see the puzzle pieces clicking into place. The Elf Truth would lead, eventually, to the Santa Truth which would lead to the My Wife Is Going To Kick My Ass Truth. The jig was up. If I didn't act fast, my family's Christmas magic would be lost forever. Stay calm, Bryan. You can do this. Fortunately, my Dad Reflexes, innately reserved for moments like these, kicked in. I made up some bull about Katie missing Grace so much that Katie secretly flew back to be near her. Katie had to stay hidden because she would be in big trouble if Santa found out she had left the North Pole. I think she's buying it! Emboldened, I pressed on. I explained that Katie must keep something like a case file on Grace; that she is in charge of keeping all of Grace's documents with her even when she travels. That was why Grace's letters were in the box. Yes, bore her with details of elfin bureaucracy! I told Grace to say goodbye to her elf because surely Katie would have to fly back toa better hiding place the North Pole that night. Grace's face softened. Her look shifted from confusion to skeptical acceptance. The crisis had been averted, at least temporarily. I felt bad for lying, but order was restored. I'm just glad Grace hadn't peeked in the other nightstand drawer. That would have required a whole other level of explanation.
In case you are unfamiliar with the Elf on the Shelf, allow me to explain this plague. The Elf is a creepy inanimate doll with weird follow-you-across-the room eyes that visits your home daily during December to keep tabs on your child, reporting naughty or nice behavior back to Santa when he or she makes his or her nightly flight back to the North Pole. When the Elf returns to your home each morning, it lands in a different perch where it waits to be found by the child. "Ambitious" parents create a fun, perhaps mischievous, scene each day such as the Elf shitting out peppermint candy poops into the toilet or spilling cereal all across the breakfast table. (Oh, those pesky elves!) Less ambitious parents simply hope they remember to move the elf to a new hiding spot before their child wakes. Is the Elf on the Shelf a delightful family tradition or a shameful extension of bribing our kids to behave by telling them that Santa is watching? Is it fanciful holiday fun or a grim lesson to our children that Big Brother is always watching? You make the call. All I know is there were several mornings I had to sprint out of bed to toss our elf, Katie, into a new hiding spot as Grace was waking. There was at least one morning I had to make an excuse (for which there are entire websites dedicated to assisting you in creating your lie) as to why Katie was hiding in the same spot as the day before. You would think this would have left me prepared when Grace found Katie packed away.
On the afternoon I almost ruined Christmas, I had left Grace upstairs in my bedroom watching tv on our tablet while I cooked dinner. I was downstairs only a few minutes when I heard a mournful wail. "Daaaaaady!" I headed for the stairs thinking something was truly wrong. "Daaaaady, why is she in there? Why is she in this box?" I turned the corner into the dining room to see Grace standing perfectly still, sadly looking at her elf smushed in the box she holds in her hands. Suddenly frozen with panic, my first thought was to chastise Grace for snooping in our nightstand. Then I realized now was not the time to chastise, now was the time for damage control. For I had not only stupidly packed the elf away in the box it was purchased in, but I had packed other important things in the box such as Grace's Christmas list, older letters to Santa and the note she left with Santa's cookies this year. All things, along with Katie the Elf, that should currently be hanging out at the North Pole. Grace unleashed a flood of legitimate questions. "Why is Katie here instead of the North Pole?" "How come Santa doesn't have my letters?" "Has Katie lost her magic?" "Is she even real?" All I could think to myself was, Oh, shit.
As I stood there stammering, trying to formulate a response, I could see Grace's wheels turning. I could see the puzzle pieces clicking into place. The Elf Truth would lead, eventually, to the Santa Truth which would lead to the My Wife Is Going To Kick My Ass Truth. The jig was up. If I didn't act fast, my family's Christmas magic would be lost forever. Stay calm, Bryan. You can do this. Fortunately, my Dad Reflexes, innately reserved for moments like these, kicked in. I made up some bull about Katie missing Grace so much that Katie secretly flew back to be near her. Katie had to stay hidden because she would be in big trouble if Santa found out she had left the North Pole. I think she's buying it! Emboldened, I pressed on. I explained that Katie must keep something like a case file on Grace; that she is in charge of keeping all of Grace's documents with her even when she travels. That was why Grace's letters were in the box. Yes, bore her with details of elfin bureaucracy! I told Grace to say goodbye to her elf because surely Katie would have to fly back to
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