The Shit Happens Doctrine

Nearly two weeks after the Pulse nightclub massacre, I still don't know what to write.  I am unsure of exactly what I want to say or how to say it.  This attack stirs so many emotions within.  Probably because it hits three of the big ol' hot topics we like to argue about: Gays, Guns, and God.  As we mourn the forty-nine victims, most of us are seeking places to channel our outrage.  An act so heinous, so awful, sends us searching for understanding.  We want to know why, we want to know how, and we want to know how we stop it from happening again.  We lash out in frustration, looking for someone to hold responsible, looking for an easy solution.  We blame the NRA, homophobes, politicians, preachers, and Muslims.  Everyone has an angle.  Everyone wants his or her brand of justice.  We "like" memes, post links, and yell at the idiots on television.   Of course, there is no simple answer.  Not one we want to hear anyway.

Of the three big "G" issues involved, Gays is by far the easiest for me to reconcile.  I've written about my feelings on homosexuality before.  Love who you love. The real tragedy is that many homosexuals live in great fear every day, not just on mornings after events like Pulse.  Sadly, fearing ridicule and judgement seems on the low end of a spectrum that runs all the way to being afraid of being murdered because you were born differently.  Some want to celebrate America as this beautiful melting pot, but only if they can control the ingredients.

That brings me to Guns.  The big "G" with which I struggle the most.  I don't struggle with my personal feelings about guns; I abhor them.  I think most of our gun violence directly correlates to a fetishist attitude that guns are awesome and necessary.  An attitude that leads to casual behavior and an ambivalence towards the real repercussions guns carry.  Whether a country fella carries because it makes him tough or an inner city gang banger carries so he looks hard, the gun culture is a foolish exercise that is swallowing us up.  To the responsible gun owners who shoot only for hunting and sport, that keep your guns secured when not in use, that don't carry on your hip like some sort of Barney badass, I applaud and thank you.  Unfortunately, we don't hear enough about you.  Frankly, the dipshits who can't be trusted with their guns are becoming far too prominent.  Toddlers pulling unsecured pistols from purses, idiots brandishing weapons in church to de-escalate a dispute (good thinking!), Chicago men killing each other at a staggering rate - it's enough to make you go crazy.  I know, I know, I know-guns don't kill people, people kill people.  Really, though, it's people with guns that kill people.  Introducing a gun into a dispute can send it from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye.  Guns have one function: destroy the target.  That is why I hate them.  Too often the ramifications are only thought of after the trigger has been pulled.  My store stocks thirty-nine gun magazines on the newsstand.  Granted, that's fewer than the knitting/crocheting section, but Granny is unlikely to wield a half-finished scarf as a murder weapon.  The magazines glorify violence and stoke fear.  They make guns seem like the best solution.  When we celebrate guns, they become mainstream.  When guns become mainstream, we become less vigilant with their use.  When guns are normalized, when the destructive power is made casual, guns seem like the best solution.  So, yeah, I'm not a fan personally.

You know what, though?  I don't make the rules.  That is where I struggle with Guns with a capital "G".  My personal wish that guns would not be fetishized, celebrated and carried in grocery stores at some point intersects with my belief in the Second Amendment.  I don't pretend to have all the answers.  I'm not advocating taking guns away from most gun owners.  Just because I don't think you need an armory in your home, doesn't mean you shouldn't be allowed to have one.  However, something has to give.  If I have to jump through bureaucratic hoops to legally drive (operate a potentially dangerous death machine), you can jump through some bureaucratic hoops to purchase a gun (a potentially dangerous death machine).  Let's close the gun show loopholes.  Let's have mandatory background checks and waiting (cooling off) periods.  Let's require safety courses.  Let's strike a balance between restricting criminals/the mentally ill from purchasing guns and upholding the second Amendment rights of law-abiding citizens.  The tired argument that usually follows is that criminals will always find a way to get guns.  True.  Maybe, though, we can limit the criminals that do.  Maybe we can save a life by restricting someone with a history of domestic abuse from purchasing a gun.  Maybe we can use common sense to help.  Maybe, instead of clinging to divisive soundbites and old rhetoric, we can find the middle ground. 

I used my third "G", God, mostly because I like alliteration.  In relation to the Pulse massacre, I mostly mean the holy war between ISIS and the West.  While I am much more likely to die by handgun violence, I am more frightened of ISIS.  Domestic attacks done in their name really are terror inducing.  Terror has come to our shores in a fashion we are not accustomed to.  Our enemy is incredibly difficult to fight because he is incredibly difficult to find.  We have gone from fighting an army "over there" to fighting terrorists trained "over there" to the guy from "here", the guy walking next to you at Disney World, wanting you dead.   No longer is ISIS recruiting American jihadists to come train at their camps before going forth to destroy.  Now, with only an internet connection and a Twitter feed, they recruit American citizens to attack other American citizens.  ISIS seemingly says, "Go kill a bunch of your neighbors.  We don't really care how you do it, whatever works best for you,  just make sure you tag us in the Instagram so we can take credit!"  How in the heck are we supposed to combat that?

I don't have a good answer on what we should do, but I know a few things we shouldn't be doing.  We shouldn't be dropping indiscriminate bombs.  Unless we are willing to turn the desert into a sheet of glass, we are not going stop the ISIS that way.  We shouldn't use attacks like Pulse as cover to close our borders and be bigots towards all Muslims.  We shouldn't consent to unfounded, generalized wire taps, email searches, and other government overreach.  We shouldn't continue to play the World's policeman, alienating in the process.  We have neither the stomach, nor budget for perpetual war.  We can not continue to incite the very hate that fuels our enemies.  

We may be the lone superpower, but in the Middle East, the United States, just a kid at 200 plus years old, is meddling in affairs that have existed far longer.  It has taken me a long time to come to the realization that maybe the world is just the way it is.  Maybe only time can heal.  Maybe slow tectonic shifts beyond our control are the only forces of change.  Whether across the globe, or in our own backyard, we can not fix everything.  Maybe some things are not to be fixed.  Maybe to live in a free(ish) and open society we must realize that sometimes awful things will happen.  Call it the Shit Happens Doctrine.  I know it sounds callous on the surface.  I know it is of little consolation to the victims of the Pulse attack, or San Bernadino, or Oklahoma City.  It would be of no consolation to me were my family involved.  I don't like it one bit.  I simply fear that no amount of restriction, no amount of legislation, no amount of aggression will ever make us "safe" enough. 

There are, however, things we can do outside of government intervention on any of these three Gs.  We can show empathy.  Maybe we make an effort to know our neighbors whether they be white, black, gay, or Muslim.  We can further educate about the dangers of guns.  I will continue to rail against the fetishists, or, as my friend calls them, "ammosexuals", asking them to stop celebrating the gun culture that takes us on a road to nowhere.   We can demand our preachers and imams promote peace instead of division.  We can set aside the politics of fear.  We can maybe, just maybe, invest a little faith in each other.  Perhaps, together, we can highlight the humanity in Humanity.

  

Droning on and on...

I spent part of my Memorial Day taking my daughter, Grace, to War Memorial services honoring local servicemen killed in the line of duty.   Even though most of the ceremony was probably lost on the seven-year-old, I felt it was important to attempt teaching her respect for the sacrifices of men and women who serve.  As I watched our veterans, so many left crooked and bent by time and battle, I thought a great deal about the human toll of war.  Several other recent events- President Obama's trip to Hiroshima, the D-Day anniversary, even the passing of Muhammad Ali- leave me trying to somehow tabulate that cost.  Our war dead pay the steepest possible price; every veteran who once donned a uniform deserves our gratitude.  That is not debatable.  I wonder, however, if we think enough of the ravaging we do on foreign soil.  Specifically, I wonder if we pay enough attention to the Bushbama Drone Strike program.

I say Bushbama because the program initiated by President George W. Bush (approximately 50 strikes) has been seemingly "perfected" by President Barack Obama (approximately 500 strikes and counting).  For the record, I voted for each of these men once.  This isn't a Republican/Democrat beef; my only agenda is regard for civilian lives.  This won't even be an argument about nation building, regime change, meddling, or generally sticking Uncle Sam's nose where it may not belong.  No, this is simply a question of methodology.

When discussing things of global import such as these, I have sometimes been treated like I just don't get it, like I can't understand the magnitude.  If we are talking about women, what currently constitutes a reception in the NFL, or the enduring popularity of Kanye West then I would agree with you, I don't understand.  But I think I grasp this concept okay.  Using unmanned aircraft in place of pilots and ground troops to kill terrorists? Good.  Killing hundreds of civilians in the process?  Bad.   When I hear presidential candidates suggest "carpet bombing" or torturing and killing terrorists' families I pray those statements are more neglectful rhetoric than proposed doctrine.  I ask them, and the defenders of the Bushbama program, what is an acceptable number of civilian casualties?  What is acceptable collateral damage?  Remember, one man's collateral damage is another man's sweet child.  In this nation, so many fight to end abortion, to abolish the death penalty, to preserve life.  Shouldn't we voice equal outrage at the taking of innocent lives abroad? 

When signing the guestbook at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial President Obama wrote, "We have known the agony of war.  Let us now find the courage, together, to spread peace, and pursue a world without nuclear weapons."  I know our drones don't carry nuclear payloads, but President Obama's administration, his military, and his CIA continue to kill innocents alongside terrorists.  Perhaps, in his words, he could "find the courage" to reign in the drone program as currently constructed, because I assure you the collateral civilians below know full well the agony of war.  I suspect the whine of a neighborhood-destroying drone overhead is a perfect recruitment poster for ISIS, fomenting hatred and creating more of the very villains we seek (rightfully so) to destroy.

It is said that sometimes the ends justify the means.  But if the means are immoral, just what ends are we protecting?  What are we fighting to preserve?  America, lone superpower, global titan, should reach out with its giant hand outstretched, not with clenched fist raining indiscriminate fire from the sky. 

Vampire Weekend

It is usually not a good thing when your wife, very early in the morning, calls up to you from the kitchen asking you to, "Please come down here now."  Her tone suggested not alarm, but at least a sense of urgency.  I immediately scrolled through my memory bank for scenes from the night before.  Had I left the lid off the peanut butter?  Forgotten to flush in the guest bathroom?  Uh-oh, maybe it was the cat.

 Let me back up a step here.  Three days prior, on Memorial Day, our eighteen-year-old cat had some health issues.  Like maybe end-of-life health issues.  Vomiting, labored breathing, and lethargy led to a trip to the animal  hospital.*   There she was subjected to diagnostics and treatments more befitting Colonel Steve Austin.  Luckily, the bill came in at (barely) less than six million dollars  and Mama Cat returned home, perhaps not better/faster/stronger, but, to Amanda's and our daughter Grace's great relief, healthier than Monday morning.  Forgive me for thinking of our two cats in terms of $$$$$; I'm just a little jaded by years of eye surgeries, specially formulated senior cat food, and a visit to a kitty orthodontist. (Yes, that's a thing.  No, we did not go all in to get the kitty dentures.)   Our cats feel more like mail order brides - we pay a lot for companionship.  So when I heard Amanda calling from the first floor, I wondered if Mama had suffered an expensive setback.

Fortunately, Mama was okay.  Instead, upon entering the kitchen, I found three animals.  Our two cats and the dead bat they had apparently killed overnight.  Yes, a bat.  Winged demon of the night.  Purveyor of nightmares.  Flying rodent.   In other words, not a guest I want in our breakfast nook.  I guess the vets really were miracle workers.  Two days earlier, this cat could barely breathe on her own, now she is Mama Cat: Vampire Hunter.  I promptly scooped up the rug on which the bat was laid out placing it gently (alright, with a slight thud) in the outside garbage.  I am not squeamish, but I am, as I may have written about a time or two, a giant germophobe.  I panicked a little, wondering exactly what the dark beast hand landed on while in the house.  Did it play around in the fruit bowl?  With no air traffic controller awake to tell him, "Negative Ghostrider, the pattern is full", did he buzz the toaster and drop guano bombs in the bread slots?  With my mind racing, I ignored more important questions.  Amanda brought me back from the brink momentarily, then pushed me right over.  "I'm curious how he got in here," she wondered aloud, "and we need to think about rabies."  RABIES?!?!  Suddenly, I heard nothing but the insistent belch of a submarine dive horn.  Yes, indeed, we should think about rabies.  I don't want rabies.  I don't want our cats to be rabid.  Methinks that would make them more annoying than usual.  Of course, that would be about my luck to have the cat gingerly and expensively nursed back to health only to be felled by rabies days later. 

What's that you say? Shouldn't the cats be fine because they are up to date on their rabies vaccinations?  Not so fast, my friend.  Our cats our indoor cats only.  Assuming there was minimal risk, we gambled figured there was no rush to get their most recent shots.  The vaccinations have lapsed by a bit.  Only a problem when the outdoors comes inside like it did this week.  Genius.
 
To ward off the hypochondria, I set about figuring out what steps we needed to take to make sure our family is safe.  The health department told me we are not in an emergency situation; we can afford to get test results back on the bat before proceeding.  I fished the deceased bat out of the garbage so he could be shipped off to Baltimore for testing.  Then I made the terrible mistake of jumping on the Googles.  I read stories of humans contracting rabies because it is possible that you can be bitten without feeling it.  Seems suspect to me, yet if it's on the internet it must be true.  True enough, anyway, to plant the seeds of hypochondriac hysteria in my brain.   I managed to steer clear of reading about symptoms of rabies in humans, otherwise I would feel all of them within minutes.   The health department informed me we would have test results by today or possibly not until Monday.  If the bat is rabid, we learn the protocol of what happens next.  Thus begins our weekend of waiting.  If you need me, I'll be over here expecting my salivary glands to kick into overdrive, or my face to melt off, or whatever other horrible things I imagine happen as you grow rabid.  In the meantime, please pass the Count Chocula.  

*Holiday rates may apply.

The Enemy Among Us

Friends, we are in danger.  Dark forces assemble at the gates.  The enemy looms above, threatening to overshadow all that is good.  An enemy so sinister it can destroy what is most important to you.  This is a call to arms, a call to prepare yourself.  What foe lurks nearby?  An unchecked Obama making it unsafe to pee in public?  Hardly.  A Trump presidency? Nope.  I told you how to thwart that months ago.  No, it is a simpler menace, more insidious because it hides in plain sight.  A peril both universal and personal: Beware the "tyranny of the everyday grind."  I wish I had coined the phrase; I only heard it on the radio.  It was sort of a throwaway line from the host as he told a story, but it resonated with me.  This is a phrase I love and hate at the same time.  I love it for its sharp descriptiveness and hate it because I have felt the weight of its oppression. 

The "Everyday Grind", sadly, is not the name of my daily televised hip-hop dance program.  (Tell me  you wouldn't watch that!)  No, the Everyday Grind is the trap of the routines and patterns of living we fall into.  The Grind has many faces; it is different for everyone.  Maybe it is banging your head against the wall at a job you hate.  Maybe it is playing chauffeur for overscheduled children.  Maybe taking a spouse for granted.  It is not always something inherently negative that grinds us up.  Perhaps it is a career we enjoy, but to which we dedicate too much time.  Perhaps spending every waking moment with a new love until we feel smothered.  Perhaps the unfulfilled boredom of retirement.  If we are not careful, if we don't pay close enough attention, the monotony slowly builds, piling up until it topples us over and pins us down.  Being mired in the mundane, swept up by repetition, can leave us in poor health physically, mentally, and emotionally.  If you don't think the emotional part is a thing, then this post is for you.  To combat the Grind, to break out of the SAME THING day after day, you must find an outlet.  Go running.  Get shitfaced with old friends.  Crank the knob on your amp and blow away the neighbors with a jam session.  Find some way to turn the page, if only for a few hours.  Find an escape; your health depends on it.

For me, the escape is the beach.  Warmed by the sun and rocked to sleep by the lullaby of breaking waves, my troubles are carried away on a balmy ocean breeze.  What is it about the sea that calls to us?  Is it the unbroken horizon, abundant with possibility, stoking our adventurous spirit?  Is it the healing waters ready to wash us clean?  Is it the delicate balance of powerful beauty and complex mystery, at once life-giving and capable of destruction?  When we head to the coast  we are able to, literally and figuratively, shed our real world constraints.  I race to the ocean seeking renewal.  I never fail to be soothed by the steady, constant rhythm of surf meeting shoreline.

I beg you to find a way to avoid the stale muck of the mundane.  Remember life is to be lived, not endured, not tolerated, not muddled through.  Find your outlet, find a getaway.  And if you can't think of anything, come join me "down the ocean" for some sand, surf and sun.

PG-Parental Guidance Suggested

Internet, I am going to let you in on a secret.  Most of us working in retail management did not aspire to these great heights, it just sort of happens.  But now that I have reached this career pinnacle, my Olympus, if you will, I figure I have earned the right to lob a few Zeus-ian (or is it Gene Simmons-ian) thunderbolts of advice.

You see, retail managers burn out from equal parts customer shenanigans, corporate bunk rolling downhill, and having to babysit smarmy, lazy, know-it-all twentysomething shithams.  It is the last of these I would like to address directly:

           Hi guys.  I don't know what kind of leadership you have been given previously, and, truthfully, I can't promise what type you'll always receive here, but I have a few tips for you.  Dress up for an interview.  Shorts are not appropriate.  Look people in the eye.  Unless you set it up for Minute Maid, you may want to leave your lemonade stand off your resume.  Act like you care, even when you don't.  It takes more than showing up to earn a paycheck.  Speaking of showing up, you may want to do that (on time) every time you are scheduled.  You may (Gasp!) have to sacrifice something fun because you are scheduled to work.  Guess what?  I do it all the time.  Listen, remember, write it down; I am not teaching you how to do something for my health.  I actually expect you to retain and use this information.  Don't bullshit me; I have been lied to by better than you.  Don't tell another manager one thing and tell me the opposite.  Why yes, we are open every day except Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Yes, we do need to staff the store on Christmas Eve.  I also want to see my family, but we CHOSE to work in retail.  Praise is necessary, but don't expect me to hand you a cookie or do a touchdown dance every single time you complete a task that is a minimum expectation of your position.  If you don't know or remember how to do something, ask.  You may think you are saving face, but I assure you that you look twice as stupid trying to fake your way through something and doubling down by lying to me about it.  Don't be so stupid as to doodle, sit down,  ignore customers, text on your phone or steal(!) on camera.  Don't act offended when I correct your behavior.   And, PLEASE, for love of everything holy, please don't tell me how to do my job on your first day. 

I know this post will be dismissed by some as a "Get off my lawn/When I was your age/Kids these days" rant.  To me, it is more a call to action.  Kids unprepared and/or unwilling to work hard are not Bernie Sanders' fault.  They are not this way because "everybody gets a trophy."  That's too easy a narrative to slip into, too broad a brush with which to paint. I will not lay this at the feet of Millennials and Generation Z.  I know plenty of young people that are killing it. Frankly, killing it with passion, direction, and effort that I did not possess at age twenty-three.  I work with some young people who attack even the most mundane of tasks with enthusiasm, hard work, and a smile.  They do what is asked of them and more.  Sadly, in my experience, there is not enough of them.  

No, this is not bashing all young adults; it is a call to action for parents. The problems I described are not endemic to an entire generation; they are born in the home.  Mom and Dad must lay the foundations of responsibility, work ethic, and sense of right and wrong.  Our observant children learn from us their social cues and behavior modification.  Parental Guidance isn't just a label on a movie poster.  Only through our lead, will our children be receptive to criticism and lessons from teachers and coaches.  Parents, I beg you, let your children be disciplined in school, let them be coached on the field, reprimand them at home.  You are doing them a disservice if you don't. 

I hear, almost daily, complaints from parents about the roadblocks thrown in front of their kids by the "system."  Parroting critiques of Common Core and whining about summer reading assignments.  You would think the parents themselves were being asked to turn off Netflix and pick up Hemingway.  I witness incredulous mom after angry dad try to find the shortest books for their child.  God forbid we expect our child to work their way through 300 pages of  Austen or Faulkner.  Hell, we should be encouraging it.  What rankles me more, though, is that I am even speaking to the parent.  Why isn't the sixteen-year-old asking me for help instead of standing nearby rolling his eyes or scrolling through her phone with the bored countenance of a Kardashian?  Little pleases me more at work than when a young child, empowered and encouraged by their parent, asks for help locating a book.  I have to restrain myself from high-fiving that parent.  Such small steps can make a huge difference in preparing a child.  It is not that far a leap from confidently asking me for help as a kid to being able to look me in the eye during a job interview as a college student. 

Mom and Dad, you want your child to be good citizen?  Act like it.       

Dad Plaid

This may come as a shock to you, but I have never been considered stylish.  Mostly because I don't care to be considered stylish, especially by today's standards.  Man buns, skinny jeans, and fedoras?  No thanks, I'll pass.  More power to you if you can pull it off; I'll be over here dressing a little more pedestrian.  It is fair to say my style evolution has not progressed past Cro-magnon.  In elementary school I was the whitest kid to ever rock parachute pants, break laces, muscle shirts to reveal my twig-like arms, and, of course, Jams.  Junior high brought attempted preppy with some tight-rolled jeans thrown in.  High school dress code was acid-washed jeans, high tops, rugby shirts, college sweatshirts, puffy Starter jackets, and whatever semi-profane t-shirts we thought were clever (they weren't) at the time like "Big Johnson's" or "You can't beat the meat at Alan's Deli!"  Oh, early 90's you were so silly.  I skipped Grunge, never owning Doc Martens, baggy jeans, or a wallet chain.  No, I spent college in lacrosse shorts.  Never mind that I never played lacrosse or that the shorts were completely impractical with no pockets.  Since college, it has been a steady diet of long sleeve t-shirts and khakis with some ugly Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts mixed in for "variety."  Not exactly the makings of a GQ photo shoot.

Recently, I looked in my closet and realized I have unconsciously altered my wardrobe a bit.  I have developed a uniform.  I still have Converse and flip-flops, and plenty of khaki shorts.  I also saw an alarming number of plaid shirts.  I'm not complaining, I was just surprised at how many plaid shirts were populating my closet.  Long sleeve, short sleeve, lightweight cotton, heavier flannel, it is a rainbow smorgasbord of Dad Plaid.  Dad Plaid- the mid-sized sedan of men's attire.  Like a white picket fence you can take with you wherever you go.  Dad Plaid- timeless, efficient, dad-like.  Timeless?  Heck yeah.  Dads throughout history have sported the plaid, linking fathers across generations.  Efficient? You bet.  It allows dad to be comfortable, colorful, and boring simultaneously.  And, yes, a plaid shirt is dad-like in its versatility.  Tuck it in for instant Business Casual.  Untuck for Casual Casual.  Perfect for a picnic. (Sometimes you even match the tablecloth!)  It is lightweight enough to throw on at the beach.  Your plaid shirt is dressy enough for dinner somewhere nicer than Taco Bell, but is not formal or stuffy.  Its handy single front pocket is great for stashing a pen at the office or protecting whatever random piece of jewelry your daughter asks you to hold while she twirls/flips/barrel rolls across the playground.  Untucked, it hides (I hope) the flaws of my dad bod better than a clingy golf shirt.  Although, that is a lot to ask of a shirt.  There is only so much masking you can do when you are a man of larger carriage.  Plaid is, indeed, rad.

A closet full of Dad Plaid indicates you have settled into that sweet middle ground of somewhat giving a shit.  Your fraternity days are long passed.  You have places to be where you can't show up looking like a total slob.  Dance recitals, preschool graduations, homeowners association meetings.  But if you want to spend your day off binging on hot wings and ESPN 30 for 30 documentaries, well your plaid is quite the comfortable choice of garment.  Just pop an extra button and settle in.  Yes, a closet full of plaid shirts indicates I have landed where I want to be: a gentleman of leisure, a suburban stalwart, a DAD.

Indiana Votes and the End of the Republic!

Indiana Votes and the End of the Republic! No, unfortunately, this is not a Harrison Ford adventure movie; this truth is stranger than fiction.  Today's Indiana primary will likely lock up the Republican nomination for Donald Trump.  It doesn't have to be this way, America.  If we can prolong the contest until the convention, we can shake things up, getting your dream candidate. Ted Cruz? Heaven's no, he's more dangerous than Sarah Palin at a geography bee.  No, not Trump or Cruz.  It's me; I'm the man for the job.  I've previously told you why I am better than the current front runner.  Now allow me to explain why I am a better candidate than Mr. Cruz.  I suppose fireside chats are obsolete, so cozy up to your phone or laptop for the modern day equivalent.  Learn why I, Bryan Hailey, will move America #EverForward.

How do I differ from Senator Cruz?  Let me count the ways.  First, to my knowledge, I've never been referred to as "Lucifer in the flesh".  Fortunately for the world at large, most people, my self included, refrain from mentioning my flesh at all.  I don't even show off this doughy dad bod at the beach. You're welcome.  Secondly, I have yet to demonstrate enough hubris to select a running mate before being nominated.  Who does this guy think he is?  Maybe he has read The Secret one too many times.  Wishing hard that you are the nominee does not make you the nominee.  You have to be patient like me, attempting to steal the nomination at the convention.  Duh. (However, I will break a little news.  Currently on my VP short list: Peter Dinklage, Spud Webb, and Kevin Hart. Dad jokes!)  Thirdly, unless you are my seven-year-old, I have not lectured you in a pretentious, condescending, speaking-slow-so-you-can-keep-up manner.  Fourthly, have you ever seen Senator Cruz in red pants?  Look at the picture up there; they are magnificent!

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I am not a fear-mongering, hate-fomenting scare tactician trying to drum up votes on the backs of people already bullied enough.  This transgender bathroom nonsense has to stop.  People choosing to use the public restroom assigned to the gender they identify with pose no more harm (probably less) to our children than a non-transgender person.  I have given this matter much consideration.  I have debated it with smart people.  I don't know what these smart people can't see about the situation.  The people I have debated are not bigots. Perhaps they are scared of what they don't know or understand?  I simply don't get it. 

My favorite part of this argument and these proposed laws is that many of the proponents, sponsors, and supporters of these bills identify as small government champions.  It is hypocritical on their part to propose unnecessary laws.  Laws which will be enforced how?  Oh, oh, I know!  We can expand government further by creating a Potty Police Force to perform cup checks in every public restroom nationwide.  Give me a break.

Of course, the biggest outcry from supporters is,"What about the children?!?!"  Yes, the world is a scary place.  We venture out into this frightening place every day and face much bigger obstacles than what may trans-pire (See what I did there?) in a public restroom.  Here's a few things about the fear Cruz and his ilk try to drum up. My daughter uses public restrooms A LOT.  In fact, Grace has never met one she didn't "need" to use.  I am frightened of public restrooms because they are fetid bastions of germs and piss-covered toilet seats.  I also think about who could be lurking inside.  I send my daughter into the ladies' room knowing full well someone in there could be shooting up, could be a homeless person setting up camp, could be a lesbian "allowed" to be in there waiting to prey upon a girl or another woman, or could be a lady filling a stink bucket with a nose-wrinkling load.  And, you know what?  There could even be a dude hanging out in there waiting to pounce.  Because if a dude has already made the deal with his moral code that he is going to rape or molest, do we really think he will be deterred by a symbol on a bathroom door?  I ease my fears by teaching my daughter to be aware of her surroundings.  I tell her to scream her head off if something goes South.  You can believe I will kick in the door of a ladies' room if I heard Grace scream out.

My point is, Grace is in no more danger than normal because a woman born in a man's body shares a bathroom with her.  She has probably already been in restrooms with ladies who were born dudes.  I have probably shared restrooms with dudes who were born ladies.  Why do we care?  Think about how scary the world might be if you were transgender.  Think about how scary life might be if you truly felt you were born in the wrong body.  How scary it might be if at every turn you were ridiculed (or worse) because of it.  If using a certain bathroom gives these folks a slice of peace and comfort, then I am all for it.  It doesn't harm me (Or you, America!) in the least.  I'd venture to say transgender people know themselves a whole lot better than the rest of us.  Maybe we should invest in a little more introspection.  Or better yet, maybe introduce yourself (preferably not in the restroom) to somebody who is "different" than you.  White, black, gay, straight, mentally ill, in a wheel chair, nerd, Republican, Democrat, introvert, Kanye, transgender...we're all "different".  All with more in common than what divides us.  All deserving of dignity and respect.

Now, come on, Empathy, Introspection, Red Pants...are these not the things you seek in a candidate?

#Hailey2016  #EverForward

It Ain't Easy Being Red.

Hi, my name is Bryan and I am a Cap-oholic.  The internet has likely tired of my Washington Capitals jabber, but I can't help myself.  Asking me to stay silent during a playoff showdown with the Pens is akin to expecting an alcoholic to stay sober on Nickel Draft Night.  I'd like to think, despite my Cap-oholism, that I give coherent, objective analysis and opinion.  Read on if you care to find out.

After Game 3, I feel there are, once again, mystical powers at work.  Forces that we can not explain with rationality, common sense, or logic.  There will be no dictating circumstances; we all, players, fans, announcers alike, are just along for the cosmic joyride.  Two specific areas of this series are currently up in the air, beholden only to the whims of the Universe.  One, is how the Capitals respond to the seemingly annual tradition of failing to win a playoff game they dominate.  The second is the impossible task of trying to deduce how the NHL will deal with Kris Letang's dirty hit on Marcus Johansson.

Longtime readers likely assume that on Point One I am feeling as dreary as this morning's downpour.  A safe bet, to be sure, but one they would lose.  Yes, virtually everything that transpired during last night's game would suggest that these are the same old Caps: plucky buggers who simply will not overcome the Hockey Gods that perpetually conspire against them.  Yes, the Caps peppered the latest "hot goalie", Matt Murray, with forty-nine (49!) shots only to come away with a paltry two goals.  Yes, presumed Vezina winner Braden Holtby gave up goals on two of the first three shots he faced, including a tip-in and a deflection off a forward's back.  Yes, our boys in red finally played the full sixty minute game we have been begging them to bring.  Yes, the Caps did everything correct EXCEPT WIN THE GAME.  These are all evidence that this series is another in a string of playoff misfortune that routinely befalls this franchise.  All omens, talisman, or signs that "here we go again."  Fellow fans, I can't blame you if you feel that way.  It makes sense.  Well, nothing about Washington's postseasons ever make sense.  I simply mean I understand why you would feel that way. 

It is also a line of thought of which I have grown tired.  Maybe I'm delusional.  Maybe I'm drunk on Red Rocker Kool-Aid.  Today, I choose to see the good.  To see the sparks of hope from Game 3.  I must admit, it feels weird, like when you drive someone else's car.  You know how, it's just not what you are used to.  I know the Pens, the League, or the Caps themselves could snuff out those sparks of hope quickly tomorrow night.  However, if you look objectively, not through "The Sky Is Falling" lenses, the omens of the tide turning were present.  First, Alex Ovechkin was everywhere last night.  He scored his first goal of the series, which was also his first against the Penguins all season.  He looked like he could have scored a half dozen more. (That would have been nice, eh?)  He was destroying people with huge, clean hits.  He skated, competed like a champion, and LED this team.  Secondly, Justin Williams hopped off the side of a milk carton and into the series.  His first goal was a big one.  If he can continue land on the score sheet for something beyond a penalty, our guys might be okay.  Thirdly,we have a coach that exudes confidence.  For all I  know it is an act, but Barry Trotz looked comfortable in the postgame press conference.  He knows his guys are good.  He knows they face only a one game deficit.  He knows it is a BEST OF SEVEN.   I trust Barry Trotz.  (Though, I do have one small piece of advice for him.  Unlike fans, coaches don't usually believe in superstitions. However, I have noticed, largely through no fault of his own, that the team is now 0-4 in the playoffs with Taylor Chorney in the lineup.  Just sayin...)  Maybe he hasn't yet been swallowed by the Caps Curse, but I will take Trotz's mindset over Bruce Boudreau's red-faced uncertainty any day.  Finally, and this will sound ridiculous on the surface, by losing Game 3, it is now mathematically impossible for the Caps to blow a 3-1 series lead.  Silly, right?  Who wouldn't want to be up 2-1 or 3-1?  Maybe these guys.  This team plays better when desperate.  Playing from ahead, listening to the whispers of playoffs past rarely works for them.  If they can escape Pittsburgh with the series tied 2-2, the Caps will be looking good. 

Winning Game 4 may be a task made easier if Pens defenseman Kris Letang doesn't play.  Whether or not he is suspended is the second great mystery coming out of Game 3.  In the first period he caught Marcus Johansson with a high, late hit to the head.  The shot was as dirty, as unnecessary, as punishable as Brooks Orpik's hit in Game 2.  As of the time I write this, the NHL has not levied a punishment for the hit.  I thought Orpik deserved a one game suspension.  He received three.  Because I think the hits are equitable, I would lobby for Letang to also receive three games.  Unfortunately, several factors lead me to believe the NHL will not drop the hammer on Letang.  One, he is a star player for the Pens.  It shouldn't matter, but it does.  Secondly, even though he has one prior suspension, Letang does not have the same headhunting reputation that Orpik carries.  Finally, from what I have read from hockey writers since the hit, the league's Office of Player Safety factors the extent of the injuries sustained into the equation.  The thinking goes that since Olli Maata has missed time from the Orpik hit, Orpik's suspension may be longer than Letang's because Marcus Johansson was able to stay in the game last night.  Personally, I feel this SHOULD NOT factor into the decision.  If the league truly wants to eradicate these head shots it must punish the act, not  the intent of the checker or the extent of the injury.  We will see how the NHL acts later this afternoon.  My prediction is a one game suspension.   Let's just say I have more faith in my Caps, even with their record of failure, than I do in the often inconsistent Office of Player Safety. 

Maybe Kris Letang will be suspended, maybe he won't.  Maybe the Caps will be swept up in another doomed postseason, maybe they won't.  The signs are there to be read however you'd like to see them.  Today, I look to the positive.  Today, I Rock the Red.  Let's Go Caps!

Supersonic Seven

My daughter, Grace, has always reminded me of the line from A Midsummer Night's Dream, "Though she be but little, she is fierce!" (I see those quizzical looks out there. No, I don't read a lot of Shakespeare.  I probably saw the quote on a t-shirt or bumper sticker.  Just go with it.)  Lately, I have been forced to recognize that, though she is still fierce, Grace is not so little anymore.  I had a sappy dad moment last night at the supermarket, a tiny reminder that Grace is growing up.  I was shopping alone in Giant.  (Well, not alone.  There were approximately a billion people with me in Giant last night, only two of which were cashiers.  I thought I was going to have to recreate the end scene of Crocodile Dundee,  walking on people's shoulders to get to the frozen food aisle.  I had a similar embrace with the Hot Pockets when I finally reached them.) Anyway, I was shopping alone in Giant when I passed a guy pushing a small girl in one of those carts where the child sits in a plastic car mounted to the front of the cart so she can pretend to drive.  I was taken off guard by the tiny wave of sorrow that struck me when I realized Grace has grown too big to pretend drive one of those carts.  (Not that she wouldn't try to squeeze in one.)  As much as I enjoy watching Grace grow, I sometimes miss my little baby girl.

At age seven, Grace has reached the point where she is caught in between stages.  No longer a loony, id-driven toddler, yet not a pre-teen.  As she walks that line, she bobbles back and forth between each side.  She is still genuinely excited to see me and often jumps in my arms when I get home from work, but is embarrassed if I use my thumb to wipe her face before she walks into school.  She likes to sometimes sing silly songs together, yet rolls her eyes if I start jamming to one when she doesn't feel like it.  She often could use a nap, yet rarely takes one.  (Sigh.  Remember naps?  Those glorious times where you could get things done on a weekend, like watching something with colorful language on Netflix.  "Quiet time" isn't quite the same.)  Grace can easily tie her own shoes, but must be asked a thousand times to find them and put them on.  She is perfectly capable of fixing her own lunch, yet whines there is not a "single thing to eat" in the fully-stocked cabinets or refrigerator.  Helping Grace navigate the between stages line is quite a ride.  A ride I assume only gets bumpier as we hit the teen years.  My father-in-law takes great joy in telling me I ain't seen nothin' yet.

I acknowledge growing up is tough for the kids, too.  Just a few years ago they were drawing cheers as mundane acts like walking, talking, and not crapping their pants were seen as major milestones.  As you age, the bar is raised.  I am a tougher audience today.  "Oh, you finished reading Green Eggs and Ham all by yourself?  That's nice.  If you really want to impress me, Sam-I-Am, go grab some Dostoyevsky off the shelf and give that a whirl."

Of course, there is also great upside to Grace growing up.  We haven't watched Frozen in months.  We have hilarious conversations.  I love her curiosity.  We are beginning to share sports fandoms.  It is heart warming to watch her be a good neighbor to her younger friends.  And every once in a while, amidst bedtime arguments and soliloquies about why she should be allowed to wear high heels to the playground, Grace will give Amanda and me a sign that we are doing things right.  Two small, but cool things recently made me proud.  For Christmas, Grace had the idea, completely on her own, to use her leftover birthday money and gift cards to buy gifts for some family friends.  A generous and unselfish act.  Then, earlier this month, Grace was honored at school for raising the most donation money in her school for Jump Rope for Heart.  As she handed Grace her prize in front of the entire school, the vice principal put a live microphone  in Grace's face.  In that split second, I wondered how Grace would react.  Would she turn and walk away?  With the gross, gassy kick she has been on, would she belch the alphabet?  No, she responded with a simple, polite "Thank you."  It was a small thing, but it made me realize that our conversations about manners seem to be sinking in.  

So, even though I sort of long for the seven and a half years that have passed with supersonic speed, I can't help but look forward to the fun ahead.        

On to Round Two

We don't yet know when the series will begin, but that won't stop me from starting the Caps v Pens chatter.  It's never too early, Caps fans.

Fact: I hate the Pittsburgh Penguins.
Opinion: They are Grade A, USDA-certified, notarized, card-carrying douchenozzles.

Fact: The Washington Capitals were the best     team in hockey for the first half of the season.
Opinion: They are no longer the best team in hockey.

Fact: The Pittsburgh Penguins were the best team in hockey during the second half of the season.
Opinion: They still are.

Fact: I am worried about this series.
Opinion: You should be too.

Fact: My friend Eddie has always been, and remains, the sunniest Caps fan I know, always finding hope among springtime doom and gloom.
Opinion: We should applaud his optimism and follow his lead.

Fact: The Penguins will be called for some penalties this series.
Opinion: The Capitals will be called for many more.

Fact: My playoff beard continues to grow.
Opinion: It still resembles a defective Chia Pet.

Fact: My friend Roberto thinks Barry Trotz looks like George "The Animal" Steele's little brother.
Opinion: It would be awesome if, during Game 1, Trotz took a huge bite of the turnbuckle-like  pad at the end of the bench.

Fact: This series will garner much national coverage.
Opinion: I hope on the national broadcasts we get more Kenny Albert and less of the more celebrated Doc Emrick.

Fact: We fans will cheer like crazy and adhere to all our nutty superstitions despite the fact neither will have any bearing on the outcome of the games.
Opinion: We must never stop Rocking the Red.

Fact: In five games against the Penguins this season, Alex Ovechkin had zero points.
Opinion: In this series, The Great 8 will elevate his game in an epic battle with Sidney Crosby.

Fact: I was convinced that today I would be writing about fretting over a Game 7.
Opinion: In about two weeks, I will be writing about fretting over a Game 7.

Fact: There will be much teeth-gnashing, nail-biting, curse-pondering, hockey gods-begging watching the games through our fingers over the next couple weeks.
Opinion: We would not have it any other way.

Fact: The Caps CAN beat the Pens and win the series.
Opinion: The Caps WILL beat the Pens and win the series.

Fact: I've been wrong before...

Puck You, Flyers.

Well, I suppose it is time to climb up on my high horse.  I wasn't going to weigh in on the ugliness in Philadelphia Monday night, but the comments of Flyers General Manager Ron Hextall have called me to action.  Before I get to his comments, a little history lesson is in order.  I was raised on the battles of the old Patrick Division.  The first NHL game I attended in person was Caps vs Pens, but my true Patrick Division baptism occurred soon after when the Flyers came calling to the Capital Centre.  That afternoon was educational.  Barely in the arena, walking down to our seats, I heard a fan profanely informing Flyer goalie Ron Hextall about the sexual abilities of Mr Hextall's sister.  The game itself was a penalty filled bloodbath.   Dirty hits were leveled, blood shed, teeth dislodged.  The main event, a twelve player brawl, included one goalie beating another, required blood be scraped from the ice before play could resume.  The box score read like a career criminal's rap sheet.  That game served as a portal to my hockey fandom and to a not-yet-relinquished hatred of the Philadelphia Flyers.  Plenty of other Caps/Flyers moments that stoked the hatred followed: a game with more fights in the stands than on the ice,  Hextall wielding his goalie stick in a menacing, dangerous way,  handmade "Flyers Suck" t-shirts, Eric Lindros, Overtime Elimination in 2008, watching a car full of Flyers fans nearly intentionally hit a female Caps fan with their car.  So I have seen, and participated in, the ugliness of the rivalry, including moments I am not proud of personally.  I know of what I speak.

Fast forward to this current series.  Most Caps fans expected the Flyers, if they were being outclassed on the ice, to resort to the time honored tradition of "If you can't beat 'em, beat 'em."  After two close losses, it appeared the Flyers were desperate in Game 3.  Ryan White, chief complainer about no-calls, wrecked Brooks Orpik on a questionable hit.  Once the game was out of hand on the scoreboard, the Flyers did what they do best: devolve the game into a scene from Slapshot. 

It's as if every Flyer squad is playing the ghost of their ancestors, the Broad Street Bullies.  Those Flyer championship teams of the 1970's were skilled and barbaric. They also played a style that has long since gone out of favor. The current Flyers make a cowardly, clumsy attempt to honor this timeworn tradition.  After Pierre-Edouard Bellemare's plainly dirty hit pasted Dmitry Orlov, two other Flyer players started beating on Capitals without provocation.  As I said earlier, I loved the brawls of the early '90s as long as there were willing, evenly matched combatants. It was the cowardice of the hit on Orlov that got me going.

What kept me going, pushing me to write, were the comments Wednesday from Ron Hextall.  You can find the full comments here. Hextall said after watching the hit fifty times, he believes the blame lies with Orlov for not protecting himself.  I am glad better hockey observers than I, like former players including Jeremy Roenick , have blasted Bellemare for the cheap shot.  I know Hextall is protecting his guy, lobbying for a reduced sentence, but to defend Bellemare at such length is disturbing.  Bellemare may not have intended to hurt Orlov. His reckless action, though, could have been catastrophic.  Players need to respect each other. If you see a guy's numbers, you can not ram him into the boards.  Hextall's garbage defense of the play proves he is the thug we always called him during his playing days.  And the one game suspension levied on Bellemare by the NHL?  A total joke.  If Tom Wilson were guilty of the same infraction the NHL would have ordered him tied to a car bumper and dragged down the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Finally, the fact that the Flyers goons were out at that stage of the game further cements that they had far more intention of being disruptive than making a comeback.

With Ron Hextall sanctioning thuggish behavior on the ice, is it any wonder that Flyer fans take license to act like assholes in the seats?  As I said earlier, I have done and said regrettable things in the hockey bleachers.  Except for a hat trick-celebrating hat toss, I have never thrown anything on the ice.  Monday night, bracelets designed to celebrate the life of Flyers founder Ed Snider were tossed on the ice by the dozens.  At least one Caps player was hit and the game was halted for cleanup.  Nevermind that someone, fan or player, could have been hurt, this is just childish stupidity of the highest order.  Boo like crazy, but keep your hands (and your bracelets) to yourselves.   If this were an episode of Law & Order, you would hear a bunch of fancy talk from Flyers fans, lawyerly  misdirection about the Caps getting too many power plays and benefit of the doubt. Since this isn't Law & Order, what you hear is Flyers fans using their usual grunts and booger flicks to communicate how poorly their players have been treated. (To be fair, I know several Flyers fans who happen to be classy, erudite citizens of the world; I'm surprised they have not been asked to turn in their orange replica sweaters.)   Philly fans, notorius for booing Santa, throwing battery filled snow balls, and cheering Michael Irvin as he laid motionless on the Veteran's Stadium turf with a possible broken neck, have long been a scourge on the sports world. Forever classy.   I am all about making an arena a "hostile" environment, but it should not be literal.

Where does that leave us for Game 4? Likely more Broad Street shenanigans.  Hopefully, the Caps remain poised.  As much as I would like to believe otherwise, this series isn't over yet.  Philly won a series after being down 0-3 just six years ago.  I have witnessed the Caps choke away more commanding leads than I care to remember.  The Caps would be wise to keep their heads, stay focused and finish this thing tonight.  Then maybe they can quote Grand Moff Tarkin by saying, " The last remnants of the Old Republic  Broad Street Bullies have been swept away."

Good Cap, Bad Cap:A Brief Hockey Noir

Setting: A small, dank interrogation room illuminated only by a single bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling.  Below the bulb sets a stark metal table covered  with neat piles of papers, maybe financial reports, and assorted memorabilia: bobbleheads,  t-shirts, a silver trophy marked President's something or another.  On one side of the table sits Washington Capitals owner Teddy L wearing a Winter  Classic sweater and a satisfied grin.  I, Detective A. Capsfan, sit across the table from Big Ted, cloaked in skepticism and a lack of sentimentality that I wear comfortably, like a favorite pair of shoes.  To my left is my partner, Detective Red Rocker.  I'd rather be out investigating a dame with great gams, but we all gotta play the hand we're dealt.

"Thanks for coming downtown, Mr. L" says Red. "Can I get ya anything, maybe some Kool-aid to drink?"

There goes Red, always trying to make nice.

"No, I'm fine, thanks.  I just want to answer your questions," says Ted.

"Really, it's just one question, Ted" says Red, "how would characterize this season for your hockey club?"

"Oh man, where to begin?   So many great things happened this year.  Let's see, we sold out every game; we've got the best fans in the league.  Braden Holtby has a real shot at winning the Vezina Trophy.  TJ Oshie scored a career high in goals."

I detect the slightest taunting nod from the Oshie bobblehead setting on the table.

Ted continues, "Ovi scored his 500th goal, Kuzy made a ton of sick backhand passes from behind the goal.  The list goes on and on."

I wonder if he believes the shit he's shoveling.  I unbutton my cuffs and roll my shirtsleeves to the elbow.  It's getting a little warm in here.

"We, uh, set a franchise record for wins in a season," says Ted.

Listen to this guy, telling us what he thinks we want to hear.  I feel the familiar eye twitch, an old friend I first met after the Easter Epic back in '87.

Red says, "Ted, I think I'm gonna step out and get you that Kool-aid."

Ted's nervous eyes follow Red out the door then lock on me.

"You were saying, Ted?"

"Yeah, I was just going to say that, you know, Coach Trotz has a strong chance to be Coach of the Year.  We earned this here President's Trophy.  All in all, I think the 2015-2016 season has been a wonderful success."

That's it, I've heard enough.  I am out of my seat in a flash, sweeping the table clean with an angry swipe.  The contents of the table fly across the room, little TJ tumbling to the floor, head bobbling all the way.  " Wrong answer," I hear myself roar.

"You just don't get it do you, Ted?  None of you losers over at Kettler do.  All that stuff you just listed is window dressing.  It's all sizzle. I'm ready for big bite of Lord Stanley steak, dammit.  All that great stuff, the records, the awards, they don't mean a thing if you ain't got that ring, Ted.  Don't you see? The people want to love you.  This town is starved for a winner.  If you guys brought a Cup home, you would be kings.  The parade would make an Inauguration look like a little church picnic.  (I know that is an exaggeration, but I 'm on a roll.) Instead, since you guys can't get your crap together in April and May, Bryce Harper is getting a key to the city for swatting a few home runs."

Ted looks like he wants to say something.  Before he can open his mouth, I press on.

"Every damn year I sit here watching you blow sunshine up Red's ass, getting his hopes up.  Sweet talk about Hart Trophies and high seeds.  Drivel about multimedia empires and Winter Classics victories.  Yet every spring ends the same: me choking down the anger as you guys choke away another series lead.  You always run into a hot goalie.  Or lack veteran leadership.  A hundred other reasons for falling short.  Now, you are out of excuses, Ted.  You tell me you were the best team all season. You tell me you have the best goalie.  You added Mr. Game Seven, Justin Williams.  This is this team's best chance to win, but I'll believe it when I see it.  The previous 82 games don't mean squat.  I've been down this road too many times.  All I care about is 16 more wins.  Show me, Ted.  Prove me wrong.  Show me."

I realize I am pacing, fists clenched, sweat dripping from my red face.  Why the hell do I even care so much?

After a few quiet moments, Ted speaks in a low, defiant voice, "Do you think you might secretly want us to fail so you can keep on being miserable?"

That stings.  If only because there might be the tiniest kernel of fact buried in there.  It's not that I want the Caps to lose when it counts, it's just that I know no other way.  It's been so long, the misery feels right.  The truth is I don't know how I would feel if the Caps hoisted the Cup, but I would sure like to find out.

The door swings open.  Red walks in, completely unsurprised by the scene before him in the tiny room.  He places the cup of Kool-aid on the table for Ted.  A Kool-aid that I am desperately thirsty to drink.  But I know better.  I adjust my tie, straighten my sleeves, and button my cuffs as I head for the door.

"Show me, Ted. Show me."

Alarming.

Being a light sleeper with an overactive imagination is never a great combination, let alone when things in your house start beeping  in the middle of the night.  With so many phones, tablets, and other electronics about, when the beeping started the other night, I figured I had incorrectly set my alarm or someone was texting too late.  My foggy brain ran through the checklist of possible beeps until I realized the source of the noise was the carbon monoxide detector downstairs.  It is safe to say, after that, my brain was no longer foggy.

I rushed downstairs hoping the pattern of beeps was only a dying battery notification.  A quick scan of the legend indicated it was not a battery problem. Crap.  Okay, four beeps means a CO problem, five chirps indicates the device is dead.  Discerning the number of beeps isn't as simple as it sounds, especially when anxiety is threatening to take the wheel.  The beeps (Or are they chirps?) are so close together I really was having trouble counting them.  If they were beeps we have a problem.  If I am listening to chirps then I think we are okay.  The purchase date etched on the back of the device read 2009.  Certainly old enough that this thing has simply quit on us.  But no self-respecting worst case scenario guy can leave it at that.

I walk the beeping menace upstairs for a second opinion.  Always thrilled to be awakened by anything, my beautiful wife assures me it is five beeps and rolls back over.  I, of course, remain unconvinced.  I consider the options.  1)Move the family to fresh air and call the fire department to investigate.  2)  Turn off the heat, smash the faulty detector, sleep with the windows open for fresh air, deal with in the morning.  3)Assume it was five harmless beeps, trust the upstairs detector that has not sounded, and take our chances.  4)Fret about making the right decision, endure paralysis through analysis. 

As usual, I choose Door Number 4.  Amanda, now wide awake thanks to the incessant beeping and my pacing and muttering, comes downstairs wearing a look somewhere between Bemused and What the F@*k Are You Doing?

Hey Lady, I am just trying to keep our family safe!
The ensuing discussion was a microcosm of our twenty years together.  My wife: rational, practical, calm.  Me: worried, fretful, certain we're doomed, saying helpful things like, "Why does this never happen at three on the afternoon?"

Me: I still don't know how many beeps that was.  Why can't they make it like 4 vs 12 beeps?

Amanda: It was five, Bryan.

Me: Ummmm, you might be right, but I am just not sure.

Amanda: Count. The. Beeps.

Me: Five. No, four. Or maybe it is five.

Amanda: Bryan!

At this point, I am looking through YouTube demo videos of our brand of detector hoping to hear the difference between a beep and a chirp.  Guess what? They sound EXACTLY THE SAME.  How is that helpful?  Thanks Internet for failing to solve my problems!  Never one to be afraid of making a mountain out of a mole hill, I decide our course of action.  I reign in the crazy long enough to not dial 911.  No, the solution is to go buy new detectors.  And that, kids, is how I ended up at Walmart at 1am. 

Dodging floor waxers and shelf stockers, I found, much to my sweet relief, that they now make CO detectors that talk to you.  There is no ambiguity in a robot voice imploring you to run out of the house.  I rush home, plug in the new detectors, close the windows, and cross my fingers.  I decided to stay up a while to make sure all was well.  While my family slept peacefully, I sat vigilant watch.  Unfortunately, the crazy crept back in.  As any hypochondriac knows, the symptoms you are worried about are the symptoms you feel.  I started to feel some of the main symptoms of CO poisoning: headache, cloudy mind, sleepiness or, you know, the exact way you feel if you are awake at 3am.  With my new monitors remaining silent, I finally settled the anxiety, left the rest to the Big Man Upstairs, and grabbed a few hours of fitful rest.  We all woke up in the morning, so I guess all is well.  Safety first, even I was a bit tired in the morning.  At least I didn't have to sit through hours of boring testimony during jury duty the whole next zzzzzzz....

Buck-le Up!

To paraphrase the brilliant Steve Martin in The Jerk, "The new baseball season is here! The new baseball season is here!"  After a long winter's nap, Orioles baseball is back.  On Opening Day, with an entire season to come,  hope springs eternal.  Of course, the flip side of that hope is uncertainty. 

A sub-par Spring leaves many questions.  Can Crush Davis possibly live up to his new contract?  Will Adam Jones stop swinging at sliders in the dirt and finally become the superstar whose success matches his charisma?  Can a team with lackluster starting pitching contend for a pennant? (Tillman, Gallardo, and pray every batter goes yard-o!)  What will be the implications of parking the South Korean import on the bench?  How will this squad become more than just the best beer league softball team in the American League?  Will there actually be Natty Boh served at Camden Yards this season?  Indeed, uncertainty abounds.

Even amidst the questions, I know a few things, though.  I know I was raised on pitching, defense, and the three-run homer.  I know it didn't matter whether it was Eddie Murray or Lenn Sakata, I collected every baseball card I could find, as long as it had a cartoon bird on it.  I've been in the building for Delmon's bases-clearing, Tiger-sinking double and for the first loss in a string of twenty-one to open a season.  I've been rocked to sleep by the lyric evening songs of Chuck Thompson and Jon Miller.  I've cursed Jeffrey Maier and I've mourned Flanny's passing.  I remember '83 and how this team made me feel in 2012 and 2014.  I know I'm ready to root, root, root for the Orange and Black.  I've read the predictions, but I know today, Opening Day, is a day for 'O'ptimism. 

By my logic, the Birds are due to piece together another improbable "even year" run.  Wild card in '12, ALCS in '14, World Series in '16?  Of course, by that same "even year" logic, San Francisco would dash my hopes of a World Series victory.  But never mind that, today is a day of hope.  Today, I choose optimism.  Baseball is great theater; let's open the curtain on 2016. Let's Go O's!

Super Duper

I thought it would be a long time before I enjoyed a movie as much as I loved Star Wars:The Force Awakens, but Batman v Superman:Dawn of Justice just might be the one.  Mere months after TFA comes a movie that surprises, entertains, and even makes you think.  I am glad I braved the theater despite the awful reviews.

Expecting to be dissapointed, I instead was surprised by a movie that turns superhero convention on its ear.  Lately, the genre has been too quippy for me.  I have grown tired of The Avengers cracking jokes in the middle of danger.  Saving the world is serious business and B v S conveys the proper serious tone.  A city being flattened is somber, not just a backdrop for stunts and flashy costumes. 

Batman v Superman also touches some deep philosophical notes.  You can have your wisecracking Deadpool, I would rather watch a movie that makes me think.  Think about political theory and the role of the state.  Think about the Law of Unintended Consequences.  Think about power and responsibility, good and evil, perception and reality, god and man.

Admittedly, there is a lot going on in this movie, but Jesse Eisenberg, as a young, hip, unconventional Lex Luthor, really ties the whole story together.  Okay, sorry, I've got to stop right there...if you still believe what I have been writing-HAPPY APRIL FOOL'S DAY!

To paraphrase Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park, the makers of this fetid pile of stink spent too much time thinking about what they could do and not enough on what they should do.  This movie is a bloated, overstuffed bucket of diaper filler.  All your worst fears from seeing the trailer come true. They tried to cram WAY too much stuff in to one movie.  Eisenberg (who I generally like) is awful as hipster, crazy Luthor.  The only thing cheesier than the action is the dialogue.  Even the score is too loud and overbearing, as if I need one more cue that a particular moment was supposed to dramatic.  Finding good parts of this movie to highlight is like trying to unearth the undigested kernels of corn from a turd.  If pressed, I would say there were two: one scene when they actually let Batman be ass-kicking Batman and Wonder Woman.  That's it.  Beyond that you had a bunch of scenes that were stitched together in a silly, incoherent blanket of sadness.

Speaking of sadness, could the movie be any darker?  Literally from the opening shot, the tone of the movie is somber and funereal.  Two angst-riddled superheroes is two too many.  I understand what Zack Snyder was trying to do.  Lending gravity to situations and having the protagonists wrestle with the real implications of their actions could have been interesting had it not been laid on so thick.  This movie, though,  is too heavy with clenched jaws, furrowed brows, and far away stares.  Between this mess and Daniel Craig's James Bond, I think Hollywood is ready for some Prozac.

Of course, like Man of Steel, it wasn't just the tone that was dark.  The film's pallette is washed out and colorless.  The whole thing is grainy, rainy, and bleak.  Someone should tell Snyder to stop playing with the filters; I bet his Instagram is the most doctored thing you'll ever see.  Some of us would like to see Superman's cape a bright red or watch Batman fight in a building with the lights on.  I suppose that doesn't match our heroes' tortured souls.

I think there are great, deep stories that could be told using superheroes as the backdrop.  They are probably being told in the comics by better storytellers than Zack Snyder.  Maybe I should start reading those.  Unfortunately, in this battle of Batman versus Superman, moviegoers are the real losers.

Hold Your Nose, Life's a Gas

Like most children, my daughter Grace is a study in contrast.  She likes to dress up like a princess, yet enjoys running, jumping, climbing and crashing into things all over the playground. In school she is an angelic teacher's helper. At home she can be a wild child.  With her charm and manners, she can win over a room. And with toots that would make the cast of Blazing Saddles jealous, she can clear a room.  Grace takes great delight in ripping a high-quality pant rocket .  Yes, much to my wife Amanda's chagrin, Grace has discovered one of life's Indisputable Human Truths: Farts are Funny.

It is true. No matter what your family calls the act- tooting, beefing,  cutting the cheese -farting is funny.  Think about it, through the course of history, what has elicited more giggles,  chuckles, or outright howling laughs than a well-timed ass blast?  Exactly.  Of course, the key term in that sentence is "well-timed."  As you can imagine, Amanda and I have different definitions of a "well-timed fart." 

As parents, we are trying to provide a united front.  As students of comedy, we disagree slightly on the rules of engagement.  At the dinner table?  Off limits.  In a quiet classroom, church, or meeting?  No way.  Every other situation? I say use your best judgement.  Amanda then reminds me I'm an idiot.  The fact remains farting is funny  and my girl has a gift.  I am, as Amanda sees it, to blame for Grace's gift/curse/ability to conjure up a cloud of hot garbage.  I get it.  After all, my wife has never passed gas. Never. Ever. Not once.  She lays the blame squarely at my cheeks feet.  I think Amanda is taken aback by our cute seven-year-old girl acting like a twelve-year-old boy.  Grace has become a bit obsessed with all things bathroom related.  Talk of poop, toots, and the like send her into fits of laughter.  I get it.  I still think bathroom humor is funny.  Deep down I am still twelve.  Amanda, not so much.

This leaves me with a big challenge.  It is my duty (heehee, I said doody) to balance teaching Grace manners with sharing my supposed knowledge and fartistry.  Because if I am going to be blamed for making Grace a gaseous monster, I am going to get my money's worth.  So far, Grace only knows floating an air biscuit equals big laughs.    She must study the deviousness of SBD, dutch ovens, and crop dusting.  She must revel in the simplistic joy of Pull My Finger.  She must beware the perils of the shart.  And, of course, she must learn nuance.

Grace, like Spiderman before her, must accept that with great power comes great responsibility.  For the fartist, timing is everything.  She must understand that just because you can, doesn't mean you should.  But it is sometimes hard for me to be stern with a lesson when all I want to to do is laugh along.  She really does have a knack  for bringing the thunder from down under at hilarious times. And her peals of laughter are hearty and genuine.  It is hard to not laugh with her.  My eyes often tear up, either from pride or because Grace has made a room smell like the zoo.  So, we seek balance, we seek the line between Grace being a lady and the girl who recently, after being chastised for stepping on a duck, told her mother, "Fartin's a part of life, Mom!"

"You play hockey? On ice?"

Humans mark milestones as a way to honor the past, to pause for reflection.  Not all anniversaries deserve fanfare; some pass with barely a whisper.  It's often just as well, as we tend to over romanticize the past.  In the next few paragraphs, please permit me to do just that.  Sometime this month, I have no idea the actual date, marked the twentieth anniversary of the end of an era that only a handful of people even care about.  Twenty years ago this month, a tiny rag tag recreation league ice hockey team played its last game together ending one of the most formative times of my life. 

You wouldn't think playing on a beer league ice hockey team could have such a profound effect on someone, but playing for KNK Vending (just a sponsor nice enough to foot the bill for jerseys) actually changed my life.  Two friends, Matt and Eddie, pushed me to join the ice hockey team they were forming.  I was reluctant.  I could barely skate and, though I enjoyed the sport thoroughly, I wasn't trained in the intricacies of the game.  I was also shy and afraid to try new things.  In the team's second season, my buddies pushed enough that I signed up, hoping to have some fun.  I am forever grateful to Matt and Eddie, for it was some fun that we had. 

On the ice we eventually found success.  We were a bunch of inexperienced young players with some older veterans sprinkled in.  We were brash, fast, and took ourselves way too seriously.  The other teams hated us.  What we lacked in skill and experience, we made up for with fitness and hustle.  We became better the more we played together.  We wanted to win and fought (sometimes literally) hard to do so.  We attacked each Saturday night game with a Stanley Cup-sized thirst that, in retrospect, seems quite silly.  Not that I would change a thing.  Though we never won a championship, we had a blast turning the stodgy rec league on its ear for a few seasons. 

Personally, playing hockey benefited me greatly.  I found an athletic endeavor at which I was actually halfway decent.  I quickly became the fittest I have ever been.   I learned that mucking and grinding, winning the puck battle along the boards is about the most fun you can have with your clothes on.  I figured out that nothing is quite as refreshing as an ice cold beer in the locker room after a game.  Hockey gave me confidence; my wife used to tell me she wished I was half as aggressive in real life as I was on the ice.  Saturday night, and the chance to skate freely, was often the highlight of my week. Of course, the hockey itself was just a springboard.

The real gift hockey gave me was my teammates.  Without responsibilities like families and careers, we basically ate, slept, and skated hockey (and beer and tacos).  We held team meetings that were equal parts strategy sessions and beer-fueled hijinks.  We sported team jackets and held Wacky Hat Nights.  We played midnight street hockey on any well-lit tennis court or parking lot we could find.  We hurled terrible insults and nicknames at each other; the more vile the better.  We raced shopping carts, carried each other out of bars, and laughed as much as I have ever laughed.  Friendships grew and were strengthened.  Stories were born, stories that make our wives roll their eyes as we tell them again and again.  Yes, my teammates, and the silly shit we got into, the fun we made for ourselves, was the real gift of KNK Vending.

Sometime that March, after we lost our final game playing together, I closed my eyes for a moment.  When I opened them twenty years had passed.  During those years, some of us played together again, sometimes even against former teammates.  Many of us have "retired", but remain friends.  We have stood in each other's weddings and consoled at funerals.  We have watched our kids grow, some even playing the game we love.  Some of us still play, no doubt being harried by some young punks like we used to be.  Circle of life and all that.

Twenty years after peeling off that red sweater for the last time, we don't see each other often enough.  We mostly talk through Facebook or texting.  Hell, some of us don't even speak anymore.  And that's okay, times change.  What will never change, for me at least, will be the fondness with which I look back on that era, or the love I have for those guys.  Happy Anniversary, Gentlemen.

Indiana Jones and the Grab for Cash

Far be it from me to tell Steven Spielberg how to shoot his new Indiana Jones movie, but if he asked my advice I would start with the following steps:

Step 1) Hire JJ Abrams
Step 2) Make this the first page of your script:

Fade in.

Int.  a small, quaintly decorated bedroom

Tight shot of a sleeping Indiana Jones.  Indy wakes, rolls over, and rousts a sleeping Marian
                         Indy:
You're never gonna believe the nightmare I just had.  We had a kid and there were swinging monkeys and aliens and a poorly drawn villian. It was awful!

                        Marian:
That sounds terrible.  Of course, we do have a son, you know.

Camera pans to a photo on the night stand, a family potrait of Indy, Marian, and son (Chris Pratt)

Cut to Indy with that famous lopsided grin

Cue first trumpet blares of iconic "Raiders March"

The news of Indy 5 did not fill me with the same delight that I felt at the announcement of The Force Awakens.  Star Wars is such a vast playground with nearly infinite possibilties for characters and settings.  Indy's world is far narrower.  Yes, Harrison Ford acquitted himself quite well in TFA.  But with Indiana Jones he is the WHOLE movie.  A Ford/Jones in his seventies has a lot less, how to put it nicely, range of motion.  Sure, we could have transition to a new main character.  However, the passing of the fedora is far more complex than with Star Wars.  Unless, of course, Indy's son finds an artifact, say an alien laser sword, you know, an elegant weapon from a more civilized age, that he uses to murder his father on a bridge.  Yes, I suppose that would be one way to do it.

I'd love to say I trust Spielberg enough to make something better than Crystal Skull.  I'd love to think Indiana Jones and Help I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up will be a palate cleanser capable of erasing Crystal Skull like TFA erased the prequels.  The problem is Spielberg likely doesn't think Skull is the dog turd it is.  The truth is it does not really matter if Indiana Jones and the Raiders on the Rascals needs to be made or not.  Spielberg knows he can mine Gen X for its nostalgia dollars.  Raiders of the Lost Ark is my second favorite movie of all time.  Like with TFA, I will be stoked to take my daughter to see an Indiana Jones movie in the theater.  Just like when Lady Ghostbusters  is released this summer, when Indiana Jones and the Early Bird Special hits theaters I will happily walk to the ticket window and say, "Please take my money!"

The Myth of Donny Dangerously

I admit it. I was waaaaay wrong about Donald Trump's staying power.  I thought he was a showman on a lark that would be bored by now.  I thought it was hilarious at first. A blowhard that will say anything? Awesome.  What is he gonna do, make Omarosa Secretary of State?  Hahaha!  The whole thing, at least to me, seemed silly and frivolous, not to mention impossible.  I think his entire campaign was delivered with  the wink and nod of an inside joke. Until Trump saw that he could win, that is.  Once he saw that no one would, or at least competently could, challenge his bluster he doubled down on the rhetoric.  As the poll numbers rose, the arrogant prick in him would not allow him to walk away.  That leaves us with a an unchecked celebrity egomaniac as the presumptive nominee. 

As one man, Donald Trump is not dangerous.  He will run to the center for the general election.  To be truly dangerous, one has to have actual ideas, and I am not sure Trump has any of those beating around under that disaster of a hairdo.  Shouting about making America great again and promising to not make bad deals hardly qualifies as think tank material.  

It is the concept of Donald Trump that is terrifying.  The atmosphere created by his candidacy is incendiary.  While the carnival barker riffs from behind his podium, his supporters aren't getting the joke.  It's all just a show, but his supporters can't ( or won't) see behind the facade.  Instead they take his violent , jingoistic speech as a license to act like idiots.  When push comes to shove (literally), Trump's calls for bullying have been many, his pleas for restraint too few.  The concept of this mythic figure, Trump the Aggressor,  has made it okay for his fans to pour out their hate.  His fans wear their anger like a badge, as if they have been deputized as modern-day freedom fighters. (Freedom from what, I don't know.) They foolishly pin their frustrated hopes on a man who has always looked out for just one thing: himself.  A man who likes to hear himself talk.  A man who will say anything to get elected. A man who likely does not give two bits about the people that cheer him on. 

Yet, cheer him they do.  People from all walks of life rally behind Trump.  Intelligent people embittered by eight years of a Democratic President.  Frat boys who never met a mob mentality they didn't like.  Dunderheads thinking they too can appoint their bathrooms with gilded toilet seats if we can just get The Donald in office long enough to wave his magic wand.  Listening to them as they are interviewed in line outside a Trump rally, his supporters can offer no more coherent argument than the candidate himself.  I suppose it is no surprise in the era of celebrity and sound bite journalism that people are swept away by inarticulate catchphrases.  "Make America Great Again"  and "You're fired!" are the new "Hope" and "Change".  All empty,  meaningless words leading sheep to the polls.

Sadly, the options are not much better.  Bernie Sanders, the mad scientist mixing promises and suspect economic policies in his Vermont laboratory.  Mrs. Cilnton, a tired remnant of a bygone era.  John Kasich, so desperate to seperate himself from the negative antics of the  game show-like debate stage that I am surprised he didn't just continually shout, "One dollar, Bob!"  Marco Rubio, whose every recent television interview looked like a hostage video.  And Ted Cruz, equal parts snake oil salesman, preacher, and condescending professor, lecturing me slowly because I am too stupid to otherwise keep up.  These are the great lights that will lead us from the darkness of our discontent? 

Donald Trump the celebrity billionaire TV host has been around a long time.  Donald Trump the presidential candidate may have arrived at the perfect time.  His angry rhetoric has fomented a fervor that is as ugly as it is popular.  His campaign may have coalesced at the intersection of desperate ignorance and Twitter, but it might keep rolling right up Pennsylvania Avenue on Inauguration Day.  God help us all.