33=60

Baseball, more than any other sport, is a game that honors its numbers.  Fans memorize the back of trading cards and recite the record books.   We can recall decades-old uniform numbers and love unique ballpark dimensions.  As kids we kept scorecards, pored over box scores every summer morning, and grabbed our calculators to extrapolate stats into season-long projections.  The game has become even more stat-heavy with the proliferation  of advanced metrics and the ease of internet research.  Today's relevant numbers, though, are 1,33, and 60.  As in, my #1 favorite player, Baltimore's #33, Eddie Murray, turns, 60 years old today. 

Number crunchers are often dismissive of Murray, calling him a classic compiler, consistently posting pretty good stats, while staying around long enough to finally reach milestones like 500 homers and 3000 hits.  I'm not sure when consistency became a bad word; I'll take Murray's Baltimore production any day.  Over the 13 years he played in Baltimore  (including his 60+ games in his brief 1996 return) Eddie's stats per 162 games included 93 runs, 31 doubles, 29 homers, 105 RBIs, and only 83 strikeouts.  Perhaps not the mammoth numbers of steroid bloat, but damn strong.  He was the 1977 Rookie of the Year, a consistent (there's that word again) MVP vote getter, and earned several Gold Gloves.    He was dangerous when it counted the most (19 career grand slams, among the all-time leaders in sacrifice flies, two homers in the Series clincher in '83).  Former O's lefty Mike Flanagan called Murray, "the best clutch hitter I saw during the decade we played together."

I'll let the sabermetricians have their say because the sum total of Eddie Murray's  career can not be measured in mere digits found at Baseball-Reference.com. For me, and countless Orioles fans my age, Steady Eddie's legend was measured in many other ways.  Like how loud we could chant "Ed-die, Ed-die, Ed-die!" from Memorial Stadium's upper deck.  Or the immense joy we felt when he answered our chants with a moon shot over the centerfield fence.  His impact was measured by how many kids imitated Eddie's low, leaned-back batting crouch during neighborhood wiffle ball games.  It was measured by the length of his sideburns and the cool poof of his afro.  It was measured by how many of his cards I could acquire for my card binder. 

Sure, I'm viewing Murray through my nostalgic, orange-colored glasses, but he represents an era when my baseball fandom took root.  He represented the Oriole Way, which in those days was not a punchline.  He anchored a line-up that, along with solid pitching and a healthy dose of Magic, capped a brilliant run of excellence with Baltimore's most recent World Series championship.  Murray was feared by opposing pitchers, respected by his teammates, and loved by (most of) the fans.    For a decade, during the latter half of which I fell in love with the game, Eddie Murray was among the baddest men in baseball.  For this, I am forever grateful.  Happy Birthday, Eddie.

Playboy:Really, Truly Just for the Articles Now

2016 has not been kind to our icons.  Several titans have passed since the turn of the calendar-David Bowie, Justice Scalia, Playboy magazine.  Oh sure, Playboy relaunched this month without nudes, but rest assured, it is a Dead Mag Walking. While I applaud innovation, this seems less like innovation and more like limping to the finish line.

For red-blooded, heterosexual American males there was nothing more exhilarating growing up than stumbling upon some elicit stash of Playboys.  (Well, except, you know, that first time you actually got to touch a real boob.) You were immediately grateful that your friend had discovered this magical pile of glossy magazines in some remote corner of his dad's garage and had dared to share this forbidden knowledge with you.  Flipping open that centerfold for the first time sparked the imagination, opening up a whole new world. A new world you wanted to visit ASAP.  You did not know or care who Hugh Hefner was, but it seemed extremely important to know Miss July's turn-ons and future plans.  And that she looked great wearing nothing but earrings.  Playboy played a fundamental, if perhaps dysfunctional role in shepherding millions of boys through puberty.

The flip side, of course, is that Playboy, and the entirety of Hef's lifestyle and empire, can be considered misogynistic, degrading and encouraging the objectification of women.  It was a symbol of excess and inequality.  Playboy paved the way for other, more explicit, magazines which paved the way for dirty movies and the bajillions of  porn sites that clog the internet today.  Unfortunately I'm sure many of these sites mistreat and exploit young women.  Pornography, it can be argued, gives men license to treat women poorly.

However, is it inconceivable that Playboy also helped women find a voice? Were women in the Sixties able to shed labels and stereotypes as they shed their clothes? Did Playboy help bring nudity and sexiness out of the bedroom and into the light? And, if so, is that a good thing?  I am unqualified to answer those questions as I am neither a female, nor an anthropologist.  But I am the father of a young daughter.   I hope that her mother and I can equip her with the right tools and mindset to value herself and make decisions that serve her best.  Television and the internet don't raise her, we do.  Is it hypocritical of me to hope my daughter never aspires to be one of Hef's Girls of the Big 10, while still thinking Playboy serves a useful purpose in American culture?

Which brings me back to Playboy's current relaunch.  I don't lament the change because it means there is one less nudey magazine on the newsstand; except for flipping through the new issue to see the changes, I have not read Playboy or any porn magazine in years.  I lament the fact that an icon feels forced to change.  Be who you are, Playboy!  There is a place for a magazine that caters to the erudite pervs that want soft porn and interviews with world leaders.  Be who you are!  This is like McDonald's pushing salads.  If I have made the decision to walk into McDonald's, I have already made the bargain with myself to eat garbage.  If I want a salad,  I'll go to the produce section of the market.  If I want an Egg McMuffin at three in the afternoon, I'll go to Mickey D's.  Similarly, if I wanted some nudity, a page of dirty jokes and a preview of the upcoming NFL season all in one place I could grab a Playboy.  Until now.  Now I get some articles, some "artsy" photos of scantily clad women and inane style tips. In other words, I get Maxim or Men's Health.

Hef's reps argued that eliminating the nudity  would allow Playboy to move from NSFW to mainstream.  Does anybody really think we'll see Playboy sharing space with People and Reader's Digest in the dentist office magazine rack anytime soon?  Sure, circulation has plummeted.   Maybe because we can get our porn anywhere for free.  Maybe because tastes change.  Making the magazine less explicit will not boost sales.  I predict this relaunch is more Willie Mays wobbling in a Mets uniform, than a brand-saving innovation.

Another icon may be on it's way out, I just think it should go out the way it came in: unapologetic and unashamed. Be who you are, Playboy!

The Evolution of (my hatred for) Jaromir Jagr

I have a confession to make. An admission that might confuse my hockey buddies.  Words so contrary  to anything I previously believed.   Words that I may one day regret,  forcing me to say, "Forgive me Dale Hunter, for I have sinned."  Words 19-year-old me could never have envisioned saying: I no longer despise Jaromir Jagr. In fact, I respect him. 

Twenty-plus years ago, I hated Jaromir Jagr with a white hot fury that should be reserved for people that have actually wronged me.  I hated him in the silly way that crazed sports fans hate people they have never met.  Playing Robin to Mario Lemieux's Batman, Jagr and the rest of the Pittsburgh Penguins regularly systematically dismantled my beloved Washington Capitals throughout the 1990's.  Mario with his loathsome cocky smirk and Mario Jr (an anagram of Jaromir, trivia buffs!) with his girlish mullet flowing freely down the ice. Two pricks in a pod.  Those two responsible for so much of the Capitals hapless April mythology. Those two responsible for so many broken television remotes, flung in disgust at another Penguin goal or Penguin victory. 

It was easy to hate Jagr.  He was sooooo good.  (Seriously, YouTube his highlights.  They are amazing.)  Often at the expense of my team.  Hatred could not diminish the appreciation for Jagr's game, though.  He was the total package.  Big enough to protect the puck in traffic.  Powerful strides to rush end to end, blowing by defenders.  And those hands, bestowed by the hockey gods, enabling him to deke defensemen and goalies as well as any player ever.  Statistically, and to the eye test, Jagr is one of the greatest goal scorers to ever skate.  And my buddies and I cursed him for it every step of the way.  We cursed him because we could only dream of our team having a player so great.

Then, suddenly, in the Summer of 2001, Jagr landed in Washington via a blockbuster trade.  Fans did not know how to react.  It is difficult to turn off the kind of loathing that I reserved for Jaromir Jagr.  As my friend Rob eloquently put it, "Look out, the Devil's come to church."  I remember writing an email to my hockey pals about the trade, but I can't remember my advice.  I'm guessing it was something about rooting for the uniform not the player.  I probably talked about giving  the benefit of the doubt.   Yeah, probably something stupid like that.  Fans didn't want Jagr in Washington.  The irony, of course, is that Jagr did not want to be in Washington, either. 

Whether fair or not, Jagr was often tagged with descriptors like mercurial, brooding, and selfish. I would describe his two-plus years in Washington as underwhelming, wasted, and can-we-just-get-this-over-with.  Jagr's play was not awful in Washington, yet he was not nearly the player he was in Pittsburgh.  Was he unhappy? Was he better suited to be Robin than THE guy that a franchise pinned its hopes on? Were his skills diminishing as he reached age 30?  Don't know, don't care.  I simply know that the player who posted 121 points in his final season in Pittsburgh barely matched that total in his two full seasons as a Capital.  By the middle of the 03-04 season Jagr was dealt to the Rangers in the beginning of the fire sale that led to the dark times.  The forgettable pre-Ovechkin era.  The failed Jagr experiment, including the fact that Caps owner Ted Leonsis had to continue to pay a large portion of Jagr's salary while with the rival Rangers, rekindled the hatred. 

Now, fast forward a decade.  After a stint in the KHL and multiple stops with multiple teams, Jaromir Jagr is enjoying a career renaissance.  The once "mercurial" superstar is seen as one of the game's elder statesman.  He is a solid, if unspectacular player regarded as a leader and mentor.  I don't think he was ever regarded as either while in D.C.  He seems to have grown up.

Witnessing this change in Jaromir Jagr, albeit from afar, has changed my attitude towards him. He is the last active player remaining from his 1990 draft class.  He will soon be 44 years of age.  The level of commitment and preparation required to be NHL- fit at 44 is admirable.  That he has become a veteran mentor to his young Florida Panther teammates is equally commendable.  Had it not been for the NHL's bungling of the John Scott situation, Jagr likely would have stolen the show at last weekend's all-star festivities.  As it was, all of his teammates wanted to skate on a line with him.  He smiled more in one tv interview than he seemingly did in his entire stay in Washington.  Good for him and good for the league.

As for my change of heart about Jagr, have I softened with age?  I hope so; that seems the mature thing to do.  Just like I try not to get angry at the nitwit who can not properly navigate a four-way stop, there is no need for me to hate Jaromir Jagr.  Hate is a seed better left unsown.  I can not root for Jagr; his Panthers could be a formidable playoff roadblock for the Caps.  I will always be unhappy about the damage  Jaromir inflicted on the Caps from outside and from within.  I will, however, appreciate his immense talents and be happy to have watched one of the best to ever play.

Adam Levine is Destroying My Family.

Maroon 5 frontman Adam Levine is destroying my family.  A bold statement, to be sure, but consider the evidence.  My wife is infatuated with him and he is poisoning my daughter's brain with his dangerous, insipid lyrics.  This doughy, fortyish father may be no match for you, Levine, but make no mistake, you are my new nemesis.

I am not bothered that my wife has celebrity crushes; most all of us have them (Call me, Mary Louise Parker.) Yet Adam Levine is a puzzler.  His voice is annoying; his high-pitched whine an assault on the ears.  He's boastful. Moves like Jagger? You should be so lucky.  And isn't he so cool with his stubbly beard and carefully curated bedhead?  He kinda looks dirty, if you ask me.  Are we even sure he wears deodorant?  Of course, when I mention him looking dirty, my wife looks away and mumbles something about, "yeah, the right kind of dirty."  Even walking through the mall Adam taunts me, his giant four-foot-tall head staring seductively at me from the Proactiv advertisement.  Whatever.  Perhaps I am just jealous, with my voice like an out of tune foghorn and my moves like William "The Refrigerator" Perry.  Do I think if Adam rolled up in his douchewagon that Amanda would really hop in and ride off into the sunset? No, but let's keep him on the West Coast just in case.

The more problematic reason to loath Mr. Maroon 5 is that my seven-year-old daughter knows all the lyrics to his tawdry songs.  I like songs with no ambiguity in the lyrics. If Bad Company's "Feel Like Makin' Love" or Madonna's "Like a Virgin" come on the radio, I know to flip the channel.  But with my lyrical impairment, I sometimes don't pay enough attention or recognize the trouble until I hear my daughter singing along. 

Saturday, on a family road trip, Grace was singing along to Maroon 5's "Sugar".  I was daydreaming, watching the scenery fly by at 70 MPH, until I hear Levine (and my seven-year-old) singing, "I want that red velvet. I want that sugar sweet. Don't let nobody touch it, unless that somebody's me."  Whoa, Doctor!  I looked, wide-eyed, at my wife and mouthed, "Vagina.  He's talking about a vagina.  He ain't talking about a  cupcake, he's talking about a VAGINA!"  Now, I understand Grace doesn't understand the subtext.  I also understand that most songs contain sexual innuendo.  After all, most male rock stars probably got into music to get laid.  That doesn't mean I want Grace singing along to poetic euphemisms for "down there."  Most importantly, I know my radio has an off switch.  I considered turning it off and never turning it back on lest Grace be subjected to someone crooning about a "honey pot" or "love spot."  Instead I switched over to another station, one playing AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long", which is just a quaint song about dancing, right?  Right?

I know this is just the beginning of an uphill battle.  As Grace gets older, it will grow harder to filter content.  Amanda will continue to swoon at Maroon 5's silly songs.  Be warned Sexy Rock Star Boy: I will never stop trying to protect this house.  STAY AWAY FROM MY FAMILY, ADAM LEVINE!

Follow the Nose! Ever Forward! 'Merica!

Alright, America, I'll do it.  As Republican Primary turmoil inches toward back-room panic, a brokered nominating convention seems increasingly possible.  Therefore, I stand ready  to step in and save  the Republican Party from itself.  With this awful roster of candidates, we can just fast forward to Cleveland in the Summer. (Incidentally, have you ever heard a more romantic phrase?)  We can have a few rounds of meaningless delegate votes for funsies before we get down to business. And that business is the business of moving America Ever Forward!  Nominate me and I will heal this party and sweep to victory in November.

That is some fancy talk, but what are your qualifications?

Here are but a few:
*I have been a Tea Partier for years. (My daughter throws delightful shindigs for me and her imaginary friends.)
*The only time I flip-flop is when on the beach.
*I have never had , and solemnly swear to never have, an abortion.
*I have lots of experience negotiating with the Chinese (food delivery guy).
*I have a firm grasp of the way government works after years of studying George Lucas' documentaries on the Imperial Senate and watching The West Wing in its entirety. (Twice!)
*I have more energy than Jeb, I am less smarmy than Ted "the next George Washington" Cruz, and I will never be accused of wearing a hair helmet. (In fact, look at my photo.  When was the last time you saw a candidate with a bad beard and rumpled red pants? I am the change you need America.)

Okay, so you seem at least as qualified as the current front-runner.  But what do you bring to the table?

I'm glad you asked. 

*At least four years of dad jokes. (Ex.- Winning in November will be no picnic, but I will not act like a hot dog beacuse I relish the opportunity to  ketchup in the polls so I may serve our great nation.)
*Guns for everyone! Especially the most demented and mentally challenged among us. I support the right to bear arms. And bare arms. Sun's out, guns out, amiright?
*Less of that hard, thinkin' stuff like healthcare reform and how to save Social Security and more meat and potatoes issues like making the day after the Super Bowl a national holiday.
*An executive order that states only Republican presidents may issue executive orders.

Well, your platform is no more shallow than the current front-runner's. Do you have any hats that say anything about making America Great Again?  Wait a minute...aren't you registered as an Independent?

Yes, but I see this as an opportunity.  An opportunity to bring me fame and fortune and everything that goes with it. (I thank you all.)  I see this as an opportunity to right the ship, to take back a party that for too long has spit in the face of moderates with its war mongering, world policing, free spending, Palin nominating , gay bashing, wall building disrespect for the center.  I see our opportunity to beat the other guys.  Feel the Bern? It sounds like we'll all have gonorrhea by 2017.  Mrs. Clinton?  A lady President?  Ewwww.   But we are not going to beat the left with the hobgoblin lineup you guys are trotting out there now. 

So, do what's right.  No more Trumper Tantrums, no more singing the Cruz blues, no more sleepy brain surgeons.  I'm here to help, so Follow the Nose.  There's a Hail-storm moving in, make sure you're on the right side of the umbrella, America. 

Hailey '16
Ever Forward!

Of Bullies and Bomb Threats.

Being a kid today seems like a good gig.  Vaccines ward off disease, technology advances at light speed, yogurt comes in a tube that requires no spoon.  But some childhood challenges cut through all generations.  One of those is bullying.  Our family is dealing with my daughter's first experience with the subject. As a parent, it is a little daunting, as this seems like such an opportunity to get things right, to have those teachable moments, to lay a foundation for Grace to learn how to handle these situations.  Grace, a first grader, is getting picked on by another passenger on the school bus.  It seems like a minor deal, some name calling and a little hair pulling, but it bothers her enough that she brought to our attention.  Minor, though it may be, it is something I want to nip in the bud because she does not have to tolerate it.  I don't need a PSA or an after-school special to tell me bullying is real.  I was picked on as a kid (not anything too terrible) and probably passively endorsed other kids getting bullied by laughing along, or worse yet, not saying anything at all.

My first instinct, of course, is to protect Grace.  Protect her from harm, protect her from bad feelings, protect her from the anxiety that can come from worrying about harm and bad feelings.  This is tricky to navigate. For one, I want her to be tough enough to withstand some name calling.  Secondly, she is being raised by two sarcastic parents who are products of a sarcastic, insult comedy generation.  We joke with Grace, often trading barbs with her that are really quite funny.  I have worked at jobs where we said terrible things to each other.  The employees NOT getting picked on were the outsiders.  I guess what I am saying is that I need to make sure I have my bullying recognition calibrated correctly.  I don't want to overreact, nor do I want to downplay a real problem.  I want Grace to be able handle herself, but I must make sure I do not minimize what she tells us.  I  also know the best way I can help her is teach her the tools she can use to try to resolve the situation herself.  If we want to raise a resourceful, resilient kid, we can't fight her battles.

So what are the tools with which we should equip Grace?  I want to tell Grace the next time the girl pulls her hair she should pop the bully in the mouth or least give her a good facewash (I watch a lot of hockey.)  That, however, seems a little counterproductive.  After all, we are looking to defuse, not incite the situation.  In fact, I am proud of Grace for not retaliating.  We told Grace to ask the bully to stop and warn her that if she didn't then Grace would tell the bus driver.  Grace, as shy as she is in certain instances, doesn't want to rock the boat.  She also doesn't want to be a tattle-tale.  How do we instill, in our quickly -growing girl, the confidence to stand up for herself?  Obviously, if she makes no headway with the bully or the bus driver, I will step in.  Because the  only anxiety a student should feel about going to school is whether or not she studied enough for her spelling quiz.

Which is why these cowards calling in bomb threats to schools piss me off so badly.  Kids should be able to walk into school free from "real world" worries like active shooters, bombs, and terror threats.  In effect, the callers, whether they be pranksters or terrorists, are bullying an entire community of children.  At the very least, these calls are disruptive.  At worst, as highly unlikely as it seems, they are the first act of a terror plot.  Who really knows the scoop with these calls that have happened up and down the East Coast?  If the FBI does, they are not saying.  I know investigations take time.  I have faith in the investigation. What I have less faith in is the response of the school board and local officials.

I believe local law enforcement has student safety as their top priority.  If it pleases the court, I will stipulate that, indeed, I have no law enforcement training.  I will concede that, as Sheriff Lewis pointed out in his press release, law enforcement possesses preliminary information that I do not.  But for my money the only information necessary to decide to evacuate a school is that there has been a threat.  Do I really think these robocalls are ISIS probing for information about response times and tactics? No. But you never know.  I understand that it is incredibly disruptive,  but why not evacuate a school every time one of these calls come in?  It only takes being wrong once for an awful tragedy to occur.  Fortunately, the school system has wised up (It only took a bunch of parental complaints, right guys?) and is now informing parents as these problems occur, not well after.  So far, Grace's school has been unaffected.  I suppose if her school is threatened I will have to make the choice of whether I go get her or not.  As far as I know, she knows nothing of the threats at other schools.  She has no anxiety in regards to these threats.  Other students are not so lucky.  It is a damn shame that, whether because of bullies or worse, our children can not go to school feeling safe, secure and ready to learn.

Ziggy and Me

Last week, I solicited Facebook friends for writing ideas.  I was subsequently challenged, based on the fact that I don't seriously listen to music or know much about it, to write a music review.  Another friend liked the idea and suggested I start with David Bowie's music since, upon learning of Bowie's death, I had mentioned I was not saddened or as touched as so many others.  So, this is where I begin.  Being too cheap to actually pay for music, even for this experiment, I listened to most of Slacker's David Bowie Top 33.  I'm sure by not listening chronologically or by cohesive album I am missing out thematically.  Oh well,  this is the best I've got.   Baby steps, people.

Perhaps this is where I should set some expectations.  I know little musical jargon; I don't know how to talk about music beyond the way it makes me feel.   This entire exercise is akin to sending a person who eats nothing but Spaghettios and franks  in to critique a five star French restaurant.  He may be able to say, "oooh, that tastes good," but he'll lack the ability to make distinctions in the palate, he may not be able to describe the subtleties and textures.  I also have always had trouble deciphering lyrics.   I don't mean analyzing their subtext, I mean literally picking out the words sometimes.  (Example: At least into my twenties, I thought Neil Diamond was singing about some overly casual preacher, Reverend Blue Jeans.)  My wife makes fun, but sometimes the volume of the music or the singers voice (I'm looking at you Eddy Vedder.) make it impossible for me to hear the words clearly.  So with this info as the backdrop, I put on my headphones, grab my Spaghettios-eatin' spoon and press play.

My Rather Short, Totally Uninformed Review:
I get it now.  I get why people felt a genuine sense of loss when hearing of Bowie's passing.  It is more universal than I realized, I guess.  There were several recognizable songs where I said, "Huh, so that's Davis Bowie, eh?"  There is a little something for everyone in his music.  Some of it is fun.  Fun in a way that makes we want to dance like I would never let ANYBODY see me dance.  (Me doling out moves like Jagger would be a true assault on the eyes.) 

Some of the music practically pulsates with urgency.  There is a yearning driving so much of it.  A yearning to escape, a yearning to be understood, an urgent yearning to stand up and shout, "Look at me.  This is who I am. Tough shit if you don't like it!"  I have long said weird is the new normal.  Weird should be celebrated.  I suppose we have  ground-breaking artists like David Bowie to thank for that.  He made it okay, through costume, through lyrics, and through deed, to be different.  He brought outsiders in.  I understand how relatable he must be to so many who struggled with identity, who struggled to gain acceptance.

Beyond what his performances represent, of course, there are the performances themselves.  The music seems complex, at least to my simple reptilian brain.  The change of pace, the "arrangements"(?) keep you on your toes.  And that voice.  The voice of a chameleon, ever adjusting to mood and theme.   A voice sometimes beckoning, sometimes powerful, sometimes playful, but never timid.  A voice stretching through the stars to entrance and entertain.  I get it now.  Bowie still would not be my first choice when reaching for a cd, but I understand why he might be yours.

So, how'd I do? I don't suppose I'll be hired by Rolling Stone anytime soon. Send all hate mail to the That's No Moon World Headquarters.  Maybe, if you are lucky, I'll make music reviews a regular thing.

Thank You, JJ Abrams.

Nerd Alert: Now that the movie has been out for two weeks, I think it is safe to deliver my official, way too long Star Wars thoughts/review/breakdown.  It will include an asteroid belt's worth of spoilers, so don't read on if you have not seen the flick yet. 

Let's start with my expectations. I was super excited to see the movie, but tried to keep my expectations and preconceived ideas reasonable.  There is a set of fans so rabid that they would have cheered anything short of Jar Jar Binks.  Fans that would have clapped had Han and Chewie  shown up wearing clown suits while riding minature ponies; that's not me.  But I also did not expect an Academy Award winner.  Why would I, this is Star Wars?  What I hoped for was a warm glass of a galaxy far, far away.  And that is exactly what JJ Abrams delivered.  He made a movie that entertained 41-year-old me and, just as A New Hope did, would have entranced 5-year-old me.  Yes, I am reviewing through nostalgia-colored glasses, but I think that is the whole point.  Star Wars is a community, a cultural touchstone, a common bond.  It is a mix of movies, quotes, toys, and playground adventures woven into a cozy blanket in which an entie generation happily wraps itself.  So, was I delighted that there were so many nods or homages to the Original Trilogy? Damn right!  I expected nothing less; JJ Abrams is a fan just like me and my friends and millions of others who were blown away the first time we watched Darth Vader step through the smoking hatch of the Tantive IV. 

I literally had goosebumps when the  Lucasfilm logo appeared onscreen.  I got a little emotional when the crawl began.  I had a moment of prequel panic when the crawl ended.  What if like Episode I, it was all downhill after the crawl?  Fortunately, the fears were allayed almost immediately.  Where the prequels were wooden, boring and dense with political explanation , The Force Awakens was fast, fun and pleasing in a raw, visceral this-sure-feels-like-a-Star-Wars-movie way.  Is it flawless? Hardly.  There are cheesy moments and there are plot holes and there are convenient things that advance the story just like, oh I don't know, all three movies of the Original Trilogy.  If you love IV, V and VI despite their "flaws", I don't know how you could not enjoy The Force Awakens.

On to the specific highlights/questions/criticisms:

Kylo Ren: I admit, upon first viewing, I was only lukewarm (you know, like the internal temperature of a tauntaun) to Ren as a villain.  Part of it was casting; I am not a big Adam Driver fan.  Part of it was seeing another sullen, whiny branch of the Skywalker family tree. (If you haven't already, check out the funny Emo Kylo Ren twitter feed.)  Upon subsequent viewings, I realize he is just a boy out of his depths.  Powerful, yes (freezing a blaster bolt in mid-air!), but not fully trained.  He's a poser trying, but not yet qualified, to fill Grandpa's boots.  I am guessing in Episode VIII we will see, through back story and training montage, a more fully formed villain.

Who is Rey? The internet is filled with theories ranging from the interesting to the preposterous.  My bet is the safe one that the movie seems to lead us to, that she is Luke's daughter.  This raises so many questions that eagerly await being paid off in the next two movies.  By the way, Rey was  by far my favorite new character.  A strong female protagonist that my daughter can root for? What's not to love?  Daisy Ridley did more acting with her eyes than the entire cast of the prequels did in three movies.  Now, if we could just get more of her toys on store shelves.

Han Solo:  Let me just say that the scruffy-looking nerfherder is my favorite movie character ever.  I collect his toys, I have quoted him endlessly and I have pretend flown the Millennium Falcon more times than I can count.  Of course, I was sad to see him killed off, but it worked with the story.  And if he had to die, this movie was a terrific sendoff.  Harrison Ford actually looked engaged (a real concern of mine going in) and gave a strong performance.
He was the heart of this movie, providing the perfect bridge between old and new.  Han was basically a dopey prop in Return of the Jedi.  Here he has a legit role as mentor to Finn, father(?)figure to Rey, heartbroken father to the villain, and one last run as the galaxy's coolest smuggler.  Godspeed, space pirate.

New characters:  Rey was awesome, Poe was cool, if inconsequential, and Finn was okay.  I liked how Finn was sort of the conscience of the film. However, when the movie veered towards being too jokey it was usually because of Finn.  I felt Finn was aboard solely to shepherd Rey into the larger story. I don't see where he has much to do going forward.  I hope JJ comes up with something neat for his character.

Death Star 3:  Probably the weakest part of the film.  I know the heroes need something to attack/climb on/be threatened by, but Come On!  We can't come up with a different type of peril?  That being said, it hardly ruins the movie.  The second Death Star was dumb too, yet that is not why I ding Jedi (that would be the Ewoks).  And I did love that they called it StarKiller Base.  A nice nod to George Lucas.

Fan service: One of the big criticisms is that the movie is too much like A New Hope, that it  has too many Easter Eggs and too many throwbacks to the Original Trilogy.  I know one guy who was annoyed that fans cheered every time a fan favorite from the OT first appeared on screen.  That stuff was exactly why I enjoyed going opening night with a theater packed with true fans.  The reveal of the Millennium Falcon, though only ten minutes in, was my favorite part of the movie.  I thought Abrams found the right balance between old school and introducing the next story line.  Critics should remember that this film had to lay out a ton of exposition as part one of the larger three film story arc.  If VIII and IX mirror Empire and Jedi I will be disappointed.  Until then, however, I trust great things are in store come May 2017.

The bottom line is I was looking for a palatable, prequel-erasing movie and got that and more.  There was love for the originals with enough mystery built in to whet the appetite  for what is next.  Luke on the hill was a perfect ending.  I can't wait to read the next crawl as it recedes into space as John Williams' score blares in sweet Dolby surround sound.  I don't know what else JJ Abrams has in his plans, but after resurrecting Star Trek and Star Wars I will follow him anywhere.  What else from my childhood can he fix? CHiPs?  Thundercats?  Laverne and Shirley? Until he decides I am content to watch the Force awaken over and over again.

The Stocking Suffers

Working in retail certainly has its ups and downs. One of the bright sides is having an unusual, flexible schedule that sometimes makes things easier, like being able to go to a less crowded beach during the week or not having to request time off for doctor's appointments or your children's school functions.  That schedule becomes more daunting during the holidays. Even though our team has been planning and working for months towards our goal of selling everything by December 24th, Christmas still snuck up on me. Working fourteen of the fifteen days preceding Christmas tends to make them blend together.  You sometimes lose track of what day it is. And that is how your kid almost gets a Gas Station Christmas.

I am exaggerating a bit, of course.  Though it took more last minute shopping than usual, we had purchased Grace's gifts by Christmas Eve.  As we were wrapping them around 10pm we realized, however, that we had nothing for her stocking.  This was a problem for two reasons. We like to fill Grace's stocking with small treats because we don't go crazy with Christmas presents.  She gets a handful of gifts from Santa and a handful of gifts from Mom and Dad - we never have the tree that looks like it has barfed up presents everywhere. Also, we always pretend the stocking is filled by Santa. An empty stocking would indicate an insufficient Santa delivery and lead to questions I don't feel like answering at 7am Christmas morning.

With even Walmart closed, the lack of proper planning led to a late night run to the only place open.  As this elf plodded slowly through the gas station hoping for a miracle, it quickly became apparent that this might be the first time Santa had filled a stocking with Slim Jims, off brand motor oil and a tin of Skoal Bandit.  Throw in a Penthouse and you might have a redneck's dream stocking, but I was shopping for a seven-year-old girl.  I settled for a toothbrush (pink, at least), lip balm, and candy, lots of candy.

After leaving the gas station dissapointed, but not surprised, I drove a different route towards home.  A route that delivered the blessing of a Walgreen's that was still open.  Against my better judgement, I went in Walgreen's, which to my surprise was open until midnight (midnight!),  and became what I despise.  Despite there being many other shoppers in the store at 11pm,  I could feel the clerk's white hot glare.  Here I was, his brother in retail, irresponsibly making his life miserable as I swept through my last minute shopping.  I could hear the things he was mentally shouting at me because I had been mentally shouting them at customers mere hours earlier.

I have to be here.  Why are you here? Have you no family?  Have you no soul?  I just want to peacefully wile away this last hour until I can go home to MY family. WHYYYY ARE YOU HERE?!?

I kept my head down, picked up a few things more Christmas-y than Marlboro Reds, including some Disney pet that was actually on Grace's Santa list, and headed home.  For I had much more to do.  There was wrapping to finish, eating Santa's cookies (not such a chore, I suppose), putting away the Katie the Elf (I did better than last year), and sweeping up the reindeer food from the sidewalk.   My neighbor, catching a smoke on his porch, must have thought I was nuts to be sweeping my sidewalks at midnight, but never made eye contact or said a word.  Yes, the ever-expanding illusion of Christmas is getting harder to keep up. The man behind the curtain is getting tired.  I can't say I will be totally dissapointed when Grace discovers the truth.  I will be a little sad, but at least I can spend the wee hours of Christmas Eve at Midnight Mass not combing gas station shelves for "gifts".

Don't Get Run Over By A Reindeer

Can you feel it?  I can.  It started as a little wisp in the back of my mind.  Then it grew bigger and heavier; now it presses down on my shoulders.  Sweat accumulates on my brow as I work to keep it from crushing me.  'Tis the season and IT is the pressure to provide the perfect Christmas for my kid.  Make no mistake, it is a self-induced pressure, but a pressure nonetheless.  Maybe it's just me. After all, creating my own stress and anxiety comes as natural to me as walking and talking.  Maybe being in Retail Christmas Preparation  Mode for weeks has made me more sensitive to the subject.  However, as I watch other parents scurry from activity to activity, cramming their schedules with the joys of the season, I am convinced it's not just me.    As parents we are bombarded with "opportunities" to create memories that our children will forget by next week cherish forever.


You know the list: parades, pageants, plays, Secret Santa exchanges, tree lightings, breakfast with Mr. and Mrs. Claus, special pajama story times.  Want to ride the Polar Express?  We've got you  covered.  Want to meet Santa  and other costume characters?  Easy as fruitcake.  Stand in line for an hour waiting for a ten minute train ride through the same lights we looked at last year?  Sign me up!  I bet, if you so chose, you could find a holiday themed activity for your children every day between now and Christmas. Most will only cost you a small fortune.  And those are just activities outside the house.  Don't forget to squeeze in all our household traditions.  Decorate the tree, hang the lights,  build the gingerbread houses, make the wreaths, mix the reindeer food,  send the cards-eventually they all blur together. This year, I got the  nutty idea to go cut  down our own Christmas tree.  I have about as much business chopping down a tree as I do trying to land an airplane. And don't even get me started on my escapades with that damn Elf.


So, why we do it?  Obviously, calling it a shoulder-crushing pressure was a bit of hyperbole, but we do put undue stress on  ourselves to make the holiday season magical.  There are lots of reasons why we do it.  For one, we've been programmed that if we don't max out our kids' schedules there is no possible way they could figure out how to entertain themselves.  This is the same reason we race from dance class to scouts to basketball practice to underwater bowling to travel bingo tournaments each and every week.  We want the best for our kids; we want them to experience everything (except down time, apparently.)  Each of these activities has merit; trying to squeeze them all in is silly.  And taxing.  We are also told by commercials from every retailer from Folgers to Dick's Sporting Goods that Christmas is a special time.  Sure I get a little weepy when that grandfather-to-be opens those tiny Adidas sneakers, but it doesn't mean we have to find meaning in  every December moment.  Though, if we don't create and document a slew of magical moments how will we fill Facebook? How will you know what an awesome dad I am?  If I don't post photos of my daughter enjoying the lights or hand crafting an ornament what will I have left to post, Star Wars memes and shameless links to my curmudgeonly blog? 


I think the truth is we parents are simply trying to fulfill our parental commandment.  Not long after Keep Your Child Safe and Love Them More Than Anything In This World  is the directive Thou Shalt Not Ruin Christmas.  Despite my Bah Humbuggy tone thus far, I actually love Christmas.  Creating new traditions and carrying on beloved family traditions is important.  Too often, though, we force things. When everything is special, nothing is special.  Christmas magic should be organic, borne out of the simple, precious times we spend together.  A quiet night sipping homemade hot cocoa by the fire might just  be as memorable as sprinting from event to event (Except for story time at my store. You should definitely come hear the story then purchase every single item your kid asks for on your way out the door.)   I encourage us all to slow down and relax this Season.  I am going to start as soon as I get this tree chopped down and tied to the roof of my car.  Stay tuned for the lumberjack selfies.

Immigration Nation

Following the terror attacks in Paris, a friend and I engaged in a long chat about the ramifications in this country.  Specifically, we discussed what to do with our borders. I love this friend like a brother and am grateful that we can discuss these issues civilly, with the ability to "agree to disagree".  And, boy, do we disagree on this one.  The discussion was prompted by an internet meme (that ever thoughtful tool of debate) suggesting, that in the wake of the Paris incidents, Donald Trump's plan to build a wall didn't look so bad now, huh?  A simplistic meme that led to a substantive, nuanced discussion between us. Said friend wants to close our borders.  Lock them up tight for an undetermined period of time, even temporarily suspending the approval of legal immigrants already in the pipeline.  I think this is a terrible idea.  Basically, we argued back and forth for the better part of an hour, as fast as our fingers could type.  The fun I had debating him belies the seriousness of the situation, a situation which weighs heavily upon our future and potentially possesses grave consequences.




I have thought deeply (yes, I am capable of that sometimes) about our conversation and would like to share some thoughts it sparked in me.  I know many will disagree with me, perhaps even think me naïve, too idealistic, or foolish.  Think away, for I am confident in my beliefs.  But also, challenge me if you disagree, because these things are too important to not discuss.  Intelligent, relevant, willing-to-actually-listen-to-a-counterpoint conversations are refreshing and necessary.  And so much better than sticking our heads in the sand, calling each other names, or worrying what the Kardashians are up to.




To be blunt, I disagree with the notion of closing the borders.   Safety is always provided as the reason for such an action; we don't know who is coming in.  The problem with this argument is those who wish to do us harm are already here.  ISIS has been recruiting with a scope rarely seen before.  Their reach, through the internet and social media, means they can recruit  anywhere, anytime.  They prey upon the gullible, the weak-minded, those made malleable by feeling disenfranchised or hopeless. They can foment hatred and disdain from a laptop.  ISIS doesn't have to send in boogey men from a desert  stronghold, they are planning and plotting with people either already here or people born here.  Home-grown terror plots frighten me.  Putting up a wall or telling a Swiss family preparing to legally emigrate that they must wait will not likely keep out any Trojan Horses.  If the thought is to only close borders until we figure out a better screening process I fear we will never get there.  Where is the line? When would we be safe "enough"?




Elsewhere on Facebook this week, I saw another meme designed to scare.  It was a photo of a person dressed in traditional Muslim garb, in this instance with only the eyes uncovered.  The text accompanying the photo read, "Who is behind the mask? Man? Woman? Terrorist? You don't know do you?  This is a risk to our security and should be banned in all public places.  Share if you agree!"  Are we serious with this?  Let's break this down.  One, terrorists come in all shapes and sizes, not just dressed like Hollywood's stock version. Two, can I not wear a ski mask out when it is cold or cover my face on Halloween because I might be mistaken for a terrorist? Three, are there not many articles of clothing that could obscure weapons?  I don't see a great rush to  ban trench coats or backpacks in public.  Oh man, that nun might have a shotgun in her robes, we'd better not let her wear that in public!  Look, that judge might have a bomb under there, let's force him to preside in his underpants!  Folks, this type of fear-mongering prejudice is disgusting and shameful. A little green friend once cautioned an entire generation that, "Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering."  Let's not give in to our fear.  I thought I covered this way back in 2006.  Maybe if I had more than four readers I could have gotten the message out.
 


So, why is it important that we don't close the borders, or ban burquas or vaporize the entire sandy desert of the Middle East into a sheet of glass?  Because we are America, dammit!   Donald Trump wants to make America great again, but I submit what made America great was taking in "your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.  Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door."  America has been, and must remain, a beacon of hope.  We must never compromise our ideals.  If we are willing to be anything less than the place the world seeks out to pursue their dreams, then what are we even fighting for?  What will we mean when we say ,"The American Way"?  We are a nation of immigrants that is neither infallible, nor perfect.  If we forget this, we have already lost.

Stall Tactics

"I am calm!", she screamed at me, tears streaming down her red face.  Clearly my seven-year-old and I have different definitions of calm.  One thing we can agree on, however, is that getting ready for school shouldn't be this hard.

Many mornings start quaintly,  the morning sun streaming through the window, the intoxicating scent of bacon wafting through the house.  Smiles, high-fives and laughter are our currency.  Then at some mysterious moment that I'll be damned if I can identify the entire "transaction" of school preparation turns South.  Maybe at some point my sweet kid goes off the rails because she is seven. Or because she is female. Or because she is a tiny psycopath in panda pajamas. 

I say the cause is mysterious, but you don't have to Andy Sipowicz to figure out almost every time a morning hits the skids it is when Grace is asked to switch from Gracie Time to Real World Time.   Grace could la-dee-da her way through an entire day.  Believe me, I wish I could too.  Yet, the pesky school system decides when school begins, not Grace.  The girl refuses to bound by time constraints.  When I tell her we have to leave in a half hour, I might as well tell her we have to leave in six months or 12 parsecs.  And this is why we clash.  Despite learning in therapy to ease my anxiety by relinquishing the idea of controlling every detail bouncing around in my head, I hold on to the notion that getting out the door on time is one thing that I can control. If only my stubborn, independent, free spirit daughter would co-operate.  (I chuckled simply typing that sentence.) Normally, I love that Grace is independent and care-free, but sometimes when it is time to go, IT IS TIME TO GO. 

When faced with a deadline Grace slows the pace.  I don't necessarily mean she moves slower, she just stalls by doing everything but what she should be doing.  Former Major League baseball player Mike Hargrove earned the nickname The Human Rain Delay with his habit of stepping out of the batter's box between each pitch to engage in a ritual of adjusting his equipment thereby grinding each at-bat to a snail's pace.  Grace is my personal Human Rain Delay.

A typical sideways morning goes something like this:
Me: "Grace, please finish your cereal so you can go upstairs and finish getting ready."
G: "Can I have a piece of candy?"
"Of course not, candy is not a breakfast food. Please finish."
" But you gave me like a hundred grapes."
"It was 10. Please go upstairs to get dressed."
"Okay, Daddy. First, may I show you my new cartwheel/somersault/jumpkick/dance move?"
"No, please go upstairs to get dressed."
*Does cartwheel/somersault/jump kick/dance move anyway.*
"Please go upstairs."
"Okay, Daddy. As soon as I say good morning to Mama Kitty."
"Please go upstairs."
"Okay, Daddy. Let me just clean up my markers."
"No. Please go upstairs."
"Right after I put on these fifteen bracelets."
"Why are you not walking up the stairs?"
"Because I am waiting to walk up with you, my special daddy."
*Deep breath, choke down the rage, trudge upstairs, send her into her room to get dressed.*
Ten minutes later...
"Why are you not dressed?"
"Oh, I have been standing in the mirror practicing every hair style I will need,like, ever."

This invariably leads me to shout something  extremely helpful like "JUST BRUSH YOUR DAMN TEETH!" or "WE HAVE TO GO. FOR THE LOVE OF CHEESE, FIND SOME SOCKS!" To which she starts whining about needing help putting on her socks. Putting on her socks? If I had said we had two minutes to get to the playground she could have pulled off a Houdini underwater straight jacket escape, but something I need her to do? Forget it.  At this point, Grace is lucky I don't possess the Force. If I did, she'd be gasping and clawing at her throat like one of Vader's Imperial flunkies.  So we clash, we get pissed over socks, and she ends up red-faced professing her calmness. 

I struggle to find the line between running an efficient, disciplined household and having a happy-go-lucky child. Today, I think I will look for it at the bottom of a beer mug.

Stop and Smell the Eclipse

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.

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.

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, or day 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.

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?

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.

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.


    

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!

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.