The Summer of Uno

I love my kid.  I love hanging out with her.  We play outside, we hit the beach, and we go to ball games.  We bake, we cook, and we paint rocks.  But she has one pastime that makes me cringe: board games.  With few exceptions, I classify these games (I include card games like Skip-Bo and even video games, too) as "bored games".   I understand I'm in the minority.  Board games are enjoying a resurgence among adults.  Game nights can be fun social gatherings.  Most games simply don't catch my attention.

I admit part of the problem is my lack of patience.  In this instant, drive-thru, Amazon drone dropping world we live in, I want faster results.  (It's a wonder I love baseball.) Risk? What were there no thousand piece puzzles available? Sorry? More like, "Sorry, I only have time for a Gone With the Wind/Titanic double feature.  Monopoly? You must be joking.  Do I look like I have a week of my life of devote to this endeavor?  Another piece of the problem is that Grace tends to get obsessed with a particular game and runs it into the ground.  Yahtzee is not terrible, but rattling dice in a cup over and over and over again robs what little joy it brings.   Grace's current obsession, spreading like a plague from the family game basket, is Uno.

Uno, a colorful kaleidoscope of revenge, treachery, and underhanded strategy.  Uno, called such because it may take you that many hours to complete one hand.  Uno, the first card game from which I needed a vacation.  I vaguely remember enjoying playing Uno as a kid.  Of course, as a kid I was also skinny, wore sleeveless shirts, and thought  Garfield was cool.  Things change, people.  We played so much Uno this summer I saw DRAW TWO cards in my sleep.  DRAW TWO cards that Grace played with great glee.  When you only have two players, Uno games can be interminable.  Every move is magnified.  Every SKIP or REVERSE skips YOU.  Every DRAW TWO or DRAW FOUR means YOU are picking up cards.  As patience fades, resentment builds.  Early on, I made the mistake of, when Grace got a little frustrated, reminding her that it was part of the game.  Now every time I mutter while going from holding one card to holding fifteen, she is sure to remind me, "That's just how the game goes!"  Fortunately, I could now hide my grimace and under-my-breath retort behind the array of cards fanned in front of my face. I'm not usually one to intentionally let my kid beat me at anything, but when a hand of Uno is working on its third time through the deck, and I've grown so weary of playing that I'd rather be a Peeping Tom as Ted Cruz checks his Twitter feed than continue playing, I will totally play a card that will help Grace.  Simply surviving becomes more important than winning.

Clearly, most people feel differently about Uno.  After all, it is one of the 2017 nominees to be inducted into the National Toy Hall of Fame.  To me, this is a bit like Spam being inducted into the food hall of fame, or me be inducted into the basketball hall of fame, but whatever.  Maybe if the Rainbow Menace is inducted, we can add the Toy Hall of Fame to our Cooperstown and Toronto hall of fame pilgrimage. (Actually, that's not a crazy idea.)  Until then, I'll be over here drawing four cards.

Crap!

This past Saturday, Amanda, Grace, and I hit Ocean City for a fun night on the beach and boardwalk.  An impromptu farewell to summer.  Of course, I posted photos online for all the world to see.  However, beneath that perfect Facebook Facade, trouble lurked.  A moment occurred Saturday that I have been dreading for a long time.  Grace asked THE question.  A question I've been putting off facing.  No, she didn't ask where babies come from. That explanation would have taken less time.  No, she looked me straight in the eye and asked if she could redeem the arcade tickets she has been stockpiling all summer.

This might not be a big deal in your household, but my daughter is a slow motion shopper. Possessing a fistful of tickets, she paces the prize counter perusing the wildly overpriced junk treasures with the care reserved for selecting a new car. I've seen people be less discerning when picking a grad school.   I hate the endless selection process so much I tried to convince Grace, each time we went to the arcade over the summer, to save her tickets for a bigger prize down the road.  Being a master procrastinator, I was able move her in that direction more often than not.   Unfortunately, the master procrastinator also knows the bill always comes due.  Well, Saturday night was time to pay up.  Thanks to good karma, the generosity of strangers, and LOTS of quarters my kid had accumulated almost 1500 tickets.  That buys a mess of trinkets.  Fearing that I'm going to spend an hour watching her purchase a bucketload of vampire teeth, superballs, and gooey wacky wall walkers, I tried steering Grace towards one big purchase.  Surely, there was a big stuffed animal or something she could plunk down her 1500 tickets for so we could get back to the boardwalk.

Unimpressed by my suggestion to splurge on a set of, uh, some sort of ceramic bowls for 1400 tickets, Grace rolled her eyes and began her slow, perusing stroll up and down the counter.  I could see the "Beautiful Mind" mathematical calculations processing in her head as she sought maximize the junk to ticket ratio.  What an array of garbage there is to choose from!  Plush, plastic, and, no doubt, lead-covered straight out of China.  She broke the ice with a plush cube decorated with emojis. (What is it with kids and the emoji worship these days?  I swear if there was an Emojesus
 Grace would ask to transfer to that church.)  Next, she reached for a cheap plastic, Barbie-sized mermaid.  I stopped her, reminding her she has plenty of dolls.

Shut up, you idiot! That plastic fish lady costs 300 tix, or one-fifth of her budget.  Do you want to get out of here or not?

Good point, Voice In My Head!  Who cares if I'll be tripping over it later tonight?  The mermaid was in, as were some dolphin earrings, and a beach scene "sand globe."  Suddenly, we were actually shopping at a decent pace.  Then I heard an excited squeal of delight.  I had to double-check it wasn't me happy at the prospect of almost being finished.  No, it was a shriek that could only be elicited by the discovery of a poop emoji.  In this case, a plush poop emoji keychain.  I'm pretty laid back, but I can't stand the poop emoji.  I think it is dumb, gross, and likely portends the end of civilized society as we know it.  Maybe it was the clamor of the arcade machines and all the flashing casino lights, maybe it was the idea that the only thing that stood between me and escaping the prize counter until next summer was a 200 ticket key ring.  Whatever the reason, I gave the thumbs up and we got the heck out of there.  I'm not sure whose smile was wider-mine, Grace's, or the grinning swirl of poo in her prize bag.

 And if trading a giant stack of tickets for a pile of shit isn't symbolic of our trip to the arcade, I don't know what is.

No, Emmet, Everything Isn't Awesome At The Lego Store

Sometimes common sense prevails, and sometimes there's this story.  Last week,  a mother in upstate New York was arrested for leaving her ten-year-old son unattended in a Lego store while she shopped elsewhere in the mall.  Yes, you read that right.  She was ARRESTED, and charged with child endangerment.  My first reaction was the odds would be stacked against any blockhead trying to build a case against this mom.  My colorful Lego puns aside, there are several layers of this story that bear exploring.  One may question the actions of the store staff, the actions of the responding officers, and whether or not the mom, Jia Fan, was wrong for leaving her son alone.

Without knowing every single detail, I have no issue with how the store staff handled the situation. 
From the Associated Press story: "Lego corporate spokeswoman Amanda Madore said store employees followed company policy regarding unaccompanied minors and contacted mall security."
A quick scan of the Lego Store website turned up no posted official policy.  Other stories on the internet claim that Lego stores have a posted policy stating children under twelve must be accompanied by a parent.  Whether a policy is posted or not, I do not fault the store employees for alerting mall security if they felt the child's safety was at all in question.  I work at a big box retail store that does not have a specific policy.  As managers we use our best judgement in a given situation.  If a young child (and yes, the definition of young is subjective and part of the problem) is wandering the store and/or misbehaving, we approach the child and ask them to take us to their mom/dad/adult.  We are not babysitters and should not be thought of as such.  I have been flabbergasted at finding toddlers wandering, looking for their mommy who was browsing a section half a store away.   I may not agree with the parent's choice to leave her child unattended in the kid's department.  I may find it irresponsible or troubling.  But I can assure you I have never considered calling the police over such matters.  Nor would I consider it particularly worrisome to see a ten-year-old wandering our store.  Given all that, I still have zero issue with the Lego store staff alerting security.

What happens next is more bothersome.  It sure seems like the mall security guards could have simply stayed with the child at the store until the mother returned.  Unless it is strict mall policy to call the authorities in this type of case, I don't see why the police were even involved.  Once involved, the police have discretion over what further action need to be taken.  I'm no lawyer, but nothing reported in this case, in my view, rises to the level violating New York's child endangerment statute.  Perhaps there are unreported circumstances that would change my mind.  If not, this seems like overzealous policing to me.  Chastise the mom, lecture the mom, put a little fear into the mom if you must. But arrest her?  I just don't get it.

As a parent constantly considering how to govern a growing eight-year-old, this story cuts to the heart of the issue.  At what age am I ready to let Grace do various things on her own?  What factors am I using to make that decision?  What do I need to see from her to help make the call?  It is easy to go the extremes on this issue.  "Free range" parents would find it laughable that this poor kid was kicked out of the store and his mom arrested.  "Helicopter parents" may not let a ten-year-old out of their sight in a store.  I like to think I'm right down the center, but the reality is I lean towards hovering helicopter parent.  As I wrote in my recent post about the ocean, relinquishing control is not easy.  I always tell Grace my number one job as a parent is a tie between loving her and keeping her safe.  The idea of keeping her safe and letting go as she gets older often clash. At age eight, Grace, according to Maryland law, is allowed to stay home by herself.  Deep down I think Grace would be fine by herself.  That doesn't mean it's going to happen anytime soon.  I let Grace walk to my mom's house down the street by herself, but I won't let her walk alone for the four blocks to school.  (Even though I made that walk all the time at that age.)  I don't like her wandering off in a store, but will sometimes let her retrieve an item from a specific aisle.  It's a sliding scale that I don't have a good handle on.    It is no secret that I am an anxious, worst case scenario kind of guy.  I'm overprotective because I don't trust the world.  Also, I sometimes don't trust Grace.  Even though we discuss stranger danger and what to do in certain scenarios, I can see her being lured in by the guy who "needs help looking for his lost puppy."  It's shit like that that scares the heck out me.  I want to tell her to go play unsupervised around the neighborhood like I did, but would never forgive myself if something happened to her.  I know this is way more my issue than hers, yet I'm going to err on the side of caution every time. 

So, I don't know what the right age is to let go.  I do know it is different for every parent-child combination.  That's what drives me crazy about the Lego store arrest.  If Jia Fan knows her kid is okay in that mall by himself, common sense should have prevailed.  Instead she faces a court appearance.  No word on whether her punishment will be walking barefoot across a roomful of Legos.

Doing The Wave

There is something perfect about catching the ideal bodysurfing ride.  No board, no flippers, just you and the ocean.  You temporarily cede all control to the sea.  If you catch the wave just right you have this outstanding moment of weightlessness as you blast toward the shore.  If you catch it wrong Mother Nature bounces you off the bottom, or worse yet, leaves you behind like a missed bus. 

These days, I don't body surf often.  My beach days mainly consist of trying to keep Grace upright in the waves and trying not to spill soft serve on my shirt.  Grace, at 8 going on 18, acts like a master of the ocean, but doesn't yet possess all the skills.  Her bravery in the surf constantly challenges my overprotective instincts.  I want her to stand close enough to grab in an emergency.  She wants to jump over, under, or through every single wave.  No longer is splashing in the last, late ripples of surf good enough for her.  She wants to swim and float where it's deeper.  If I didn't reel her in, sometimes literally, she'd be halfway across the Atlantic.  As we clash over what is safe, I realize what every parent does at some point: you have to give up some control as your kids get bigger.  Holy crap, it isn't easy.  In our battle of wills, I am teaching her to respect the ocean, and she is teaching me to lighten up.  Even though I admire her willingness to venture further from the shore, I still cringe internally during that nanosecond when she disappears as she plunges through a wave.  It's a tiny bit scary and a tiny bit exciting.  Like riding a wave.

Yesterday, because Amanda was able to go to the beach with us, I had a little Grace-free time in the ocean. I didn't plan on riding any waves; like I said, I don't body surf often anymore.  I floated along for a while, bobbing in waves that, while not huge, were certainly good enough to ride.  I watched a bunch of bros constantly miss rides because of poor timing.  I watched tourists repeatedly get knocked ass over teacups because, well, they were morons.  When I finally had enough, I decided maybe the old-timer could show them how it was done.  I grabbed the next decent wave and hoped for the best. 

At this point in the story, which are you expecting and/or hoping happens next?
A: The wave dumps me on my head causing me great pain.
B: The wave blows off my trunks causing me great embarrassment.
C: I harness the power of the sea Aquaman-like and ride the wave in style.

If you picked A or B, you can eat it haters.  I crushed it. In fact, had I known how awesome the ride was going to be, I would have thrown the bros a wink, and a "Dudes, watch and learn" before catching the wave.  Instead I settled for the sweetest wave ride I've had in a decade.  As I triumphantly rocketed all the way to the shore, I imagined the chorus of bro cheers and the admiring nods of appreciative beachgoers awaiting my landfall. Alas, as I emerged from the surf like some sort of swollen sea monster, shirt clinging to my dad bod in all the wrong places, there were no cheers, no one paying attention.  Not even my wife and kid.  That's okay, though, because had Grace seen it, she'd probably ask to ride the big waves too.  And that is something I'm definitely not ready for YET.

Dear Fireworks: It's Not You, It's Me

To me, one of the great challenges of getting older, is finding the magic in things.  I probably say "Awesome" ten times a day, but how much awe do I really feel in my day-to-day?  Don't get me wrong;  there are plenty of things - my kid saying something funny, a March Madness  buzzer beater, getting to third base on a random Tuesday morning - that deliver excitement.  I'm talking more about stuff that brought joy as a child, yet today is incredibly mundane.  You know, stuff like birthdays, Friday nights, Christmas morning, and, yes, Independence Day fireworks displays.

I've reached the point where, if it weren't for The Girl, I'd stay miles away from our local fireworks exhibition.  I don't want to be the dad that shortchanges his kid from experiencing all the joys of childhood.  Our town actually puts on a decent,  privately funded show.  Nothing to complain about with the show itself.  But nothing to do back flips over, either.    Like sweet potato fries or new episodes of the Gilmore Girls, the idea of fireworks is more appealing than the real thing.  If you've seen one small town fireworks display, you've seen them all.  Sparkle, Boom, Repeat. 

You wonder if the cost is worth the result.  After a long weekend of swimming, sleepovers, and beach visits, Grace was tired and on the verge of ornery.  Amanda and I were tired and on the verge of crabby.  Pile in the car for one more late bedtime?  Great idea!  Add in muggy, buggy, and boring, and you've got a real party.  The beauty of having a holiday from work is having no firm schedule.  Because I am obsessive about being early and getting a good parking spot, I, of course, put us on a schedule.  Unfortunately, my need to arrive early directly antagonizes  my inability to wait patiently for anything.  An hour early, plus an hour to let traffic subside or sitting in the thinning traffic, adds up to two-and-a-half hours invested in  a twenty minute fireworks show.  A show during which Grace spent almost as much time fiddling with her snacks and glow stick jewelry as she did admiring the rockets' red glare. 

The one saving grace (For me a saving grace, for my wife, a chance to admonish me.) to attending these types of events is they give me a chance to engage in one of my favorite pastimes:feeling morally superior to the masses.  Clearly, not jumping right in the car at the show's conclusion only to sit in traffic for an hour, makes me so much smarter than the average citizen.  By not engaging in the honking, cursing, and cutting off, I demonstrated what a good person I am.   Pointing out these glaring examples of stupidity obviously makes me a Father-of-the-Year candidate.  My favorite moment was a guy in his giant, 4WD redneck mobile.  I guess he thought constantly revving his souped-up engine would make the snarled traffic magically move faster.  Because, you know, HE'S ready to go.  His truck was tall enough that, as I watched his growing impatience, I became increasingly convinced he was going to go all Bigfoot on the cars in front of him.  I laughed like crazy when, after not moving for twenty minutes, he got out of line, circling the parking lot to get in the other line that appeared to be moving a smidge faster, only to have his original lane break free and exit the parking lot.  My laughter elicited an eye roll and stern look from my wife, but brought me great joy.  Oh wait - I did find joy at the fireworks!  Hot damn, maybe it was all worth it, after all.  See you there next year.

I've Had Dumber Ideas

I have an idea that's a little nutty.  A plan that could save the Washington Capitals.  Before I share it, may I remind you of the famous Billy Joel lyric:  "You may be right, I may be crazy, But it just may be a lunatic you're looking for."  My loopy, sure to be hated brainstorm?  The Caps should offer a contract to free agent winger Jaromir Jagr.  Yes, I'm serious.

Now that I've ducked all the tomatoes, beer cans, and high sticks directed at my head by fellow fans, let me explain.  The Caps went for it all last season, declaring Stanley Cup or bust.  They, of course, busted hard being eliminated well short of their goal by the Penguins yet again.  Now, the team (and its fans) are wading through an offseason of certain change that would be easier to swallow were it following a winning Cup run.  Unfortunately, GM Brian MacLellan has to craft a roster that will be less experienced and less talented, but still capable of winning an Ovechkin-era Stanley Cup.  With little wiggle room under the salary cap after re-signing forward T.J. Oshie and defenseman Dmitri Orlov, and preparing (hopefully) to ink restricted free agents Evgeny Kuznetsov and Andre Burakovsky,  MacLellan was forced to allow many of the Caps' unrestricted free agents walk away.   Justin Williams, Karl Alner, and Kevin Shattenkirk all signed elsewhere today.  (All with Eastern Conference foes, by the way.)  I know age, injury, and crappy postseason play, respectively, makes it a little easier to watch those players walk away, but they were three players that formed part of a talented nucleus.  Add in Nate Schmidt's departure via expansion draft (Thanks, GMGM!) and you have a roster with holes. 

And that's where Jagr fits in.  I think he can help the Caps.  Yes, it is strange to type those words.  Yes, my feelings about Jaromir Jagr have been wide-ranging through the years.  Yes, Washington should give him a look.  The Florida Panthers have made it clear they will not be bringing back the 45-year-old Jagr next season.  Age 45 is ancient for an NHL-er, but Jagr has proven that he is in excellent condition, maintaining his body well enough to play an entire 82 game schedule last year.  His 16/30/46 stat line would have ranked him seventh on the Caps in scoring, right behind the departed Justin Williams' 24/24/48.  You would probably not miss a beat plugging Jagr in Williams' right wing spot on the second line.  If Barry Trotz was not comfortable with that lineup, Jagr could at least be valuable on the power play.  He could fill Williams' position on the second unit or, better yet in my opinion, bump Mojo from the first unit.  Either way, I think there would be ample opportunity to get Jagr decent minutes without stunting the growth of any Washington's younger players.  Besides the on-ice production I believe he is still capable of, number 68 could make a huge difference off-ice.  Gone is the petulant teen star; in his place is veteran leader.  Remarkably, Jagr has become an elder statesman representing the league and the game.  He is respected by players.  Imagine if he could impart upon Alex Ovechkin the importance of being fit enough to maintain skillful production as  he ages gracefully.  Ovechkin seems to have matured immensely from the party boy he was, but I'm willing to bet, based solely on the amount of Coke that he is said to consume, that Ovi's fitness level doesn't come close to Jagr's.  Another steady hand of leadership couldn't hurt. 

Salary may be an issue.  The Caps can not squeeze Jagr's 2016-2017 salary of $3.5 million under their cap, but with few, if any, other offers, Jaromir may be willing to take a big cut to hook on a with a top-tier team.  Jagr, with a positive impact, or, dare I say it, bringing a Cup, could erase all the bad feelings Caps fans have ever had towards him.  I don't know if my idea could work.  I don't know if Brian MacLellan or Jaromir Jagr would even consider it.  I'm just saying this armchair GM might just be the lunatic you're looking for. 

LGBTQFF?

I'd like to think I am somewhat of an expert on French fries. I've eaten thousands.  I've cooked them both for business and pleasure.  I even remember that time when parts of America were so angry with France we started calling our fried potatoes Freedom Fries.  I know fries like Bubba knows shrimp.  You've got your boardwalk fries, steak fries, curly fries, gravy fries, seasoned fries, home fries, and even crinkle cut.  But McDonald's "gay fries", well that's a new one.  At first, I thought we just had a naming issue causing the confusion.  You know, gay means happy, and McDonald's serves Happy Meals.  So, of course, the fries in Happy Meals could be, by definition, gay. However, this alarming CBN News headline seems to indicate that the fries are actually gay!

What?  Oh, it's just rainbow-decorated fry boxes? Good, because I was thinking the idea of potatoes having a sexual identity sounded ridiculous.  Almost as ridiculous as being outraged that McDonald's is serving their fries in rainbow-decorated boxes.  Seriously, it is 2017 and we have people pissed that a few McDonald's locations are celebrating gay pride with rainbow boxes.  The anti-gay crowd, led by evangelists like Joshua Feuerstein, of Starbucks Red Cup fame, are now calling for boycotts of McDonald's. They justify it by using words like "promoting", "influence our families", and (gasp) "normalizing" homosexuality.  Words matter here.  The differences are sometimes subtle, but huge.  McDonald's isn't promoting homosexuality.  It isn't trying to make anyone gay. As if a rainbow box could make a person gay.  If you let a drive-thru chain influence your family in any way beyond making it fatter, then that is on you.  I'll let McDonald's say it better.  As spokesperson Cathy Martin says, "We are proud to honor and celebrate the LGBTQ community, including our employees, customers and beyond, each and every day."  Honor diversity.  Celebrate our differences.  Treat employees with respect no matter their sexual orientation.  Crazy stuff.  Why are these concepts foreign to so many?  I have a better question.  Why the outrage for McDonald's now?   Clearly, they have been pushing the gay agenda, whatever that is, for years.  Ronald in his romper. Hamburglar frolicking in a cape.  Mayor McCheese wearing his fancy sash.  A great big purple-headed Grimace.  C'mon these guys are the fast food equivalent of the Village People.  Not to mention the playground equipment shaped like these heathens that children we encouraged to get inside.  So gay!

I've got news for those fearful of the "gay agenda."  No, news would imply that this is recently discovered information.  I've got a rehashed, can't-believe-I-have-to-say-it-again communique for you: NO ONE IS TRYING TO MAKE YOU OR YOUR FAMILY GAY.  The existence of same-sex marriage does not require you to marry someone of the same sex.  The existence of gay people will not destroy the earth.  Like I have said when talking about North Carolina, Target bathrooms, and Beauty and the Beast,  it's your business if you think homosexuality is an unnatural abomination.  What I can't stand is the nastiness and name calling.  Homosexuals are not perverts or disgusting.  Homosexuals are not lost sheep or disappointments letting you down.  Homosexuals are not immoral trash.  Jim Gaffigan (and any other straight parent that did so) is not abusing his children by taking them to a gay pride parade.  The disdain for homosexuals, in some cases dressed up as concern or pity, on the internet is appalling.  Get over yourselves.  I'm going to guess even in biblical times there were gay people.  Jesus had lots of followers wandering the desert with him.  You're telling me none of them were gay?  Law of averages say some were. What's the big deal?  Maybe they were just the original Fry Guys.

Cleavage Coverage

Ocean City, Maryland has a problem.  A problem town officials may want to nip in the bud before they rack up mounds of trouble.  I say problem, but only some perceive it as that.  Many individuals have no issue with the city allowing females to hit the beach topless this summer.  Count me in with the latter group.  And not because the fourteen-year-old boy trapped inside me hopes to see naked boobies all season.  (Let's be honest, the majority of exposed breasts aren't going to belong to swimsuit models.  Be careful what you wish for, men making travel plans.)   Count me in because this issue has spurned a broader discussion that needs to be had.  A discussion that, for me, includes three related topics: why bare breasts are considered taboo, how we treat and talk about women's bodies in general, and freedom and equality.

Before diving in, let me recap how we got here.  In 2016, a female toplessness advocate (Boy, did I get into the wrong business!) challenged Ocean City to allow women to go topless since men are allowed to go shirtless.  The city petitioned Maryland's attorney general for clarification on the ordinance currently on the books.  Following nine months without any word on the matter from the AG, the O.C. Beach Patrol has decided they neither can, nor will ask topless female sunbathers to cover up.

Predictably, like any remotely controversial subject, the OCBP's decision has sparked a firestorm on the internet.  As usual in these contentious times, battle lines seem to be forming along classic polarizing lines.  People in favor of covering up are quickly labeled conservative prudes and advocates of "freeing the ta-tas" are painted as crazy and/or disgusting.  For me, the line is blurred and the answer lies in that great gray area in between.  Of course, maybe I'm just a crazy, disgusting prude.

My eight-year-old daughter, Grace, and I spend tons of time at the beach.  It is one of our favorite places on the planet.  One of the few benefits to my retail work schedule is it affords us the opportunity to hit Ocean City about once a week on a weekday away from the higher volume of weekend tourist traffic.  About three or four years ago, Grace asked me why she had to wear a shirt on the beach if boys didn't.  I did not have a good answer for her.  I'm sure I mumbled something about private parts or that's just the way it is.  She didn't push the issue, but it has bugged me since that I didn't have a better answer.  This recent news story brought the question back to mind.  So, really, what is the difference?  Why shouldn't females go topless?  It seems we are mostly talking the nipple.  That's all that many bathing suits cover on a woman.  Plenty of tops show ample breast save the nipple.  What makes a woman's nipples naughtier than mine?  (Now you're thinking about my nipples, aren't you?  My eyes are up here.) 

The difference is that we have sexualized the female breast.  I'm sure there is some argument to be made about America's puritanical past, but when did the breast become something we have to cover?  It seems like it is one of those things that has "always been that way."  Other cultures, don't cover all the time.  I'm sure there are tribal cultures where breasts are rarely covered.  Why taboo here?  Yes, the breast can be an erogenous, sexual body part, but it can be for men as well.  Yes, advertisers trade on the notion that boobs are sensual mysteries to be discovered or uncovered.  Don't get me wrong, I often find a woman dressed to leave something to the imagination sexier than one that lets it all hang out. But these are constructs that we have put in place.  The body is so much more than a pleasure device.  Breast-feeding without covering is thankfully being normalized and de-stigmatized; this can be the next logical progression. 

Though it is not a direct line, this topic relates to how we treat and talk about women's bodies.  Assuming women "must" cover up is not much different than women "asking" to be raped for dressing provocatively or girls being sent home from school because the way they are dressed is distracting the boys.  A woman's body is hers and hers alone.  Despite the litany of romance novels that line my store's shelves that might imply otherwise, a woman's body is not something to be possessed or conquered.  I recently read a quote from a lady who mentioned she should be able to, not that she would, walk naked down the street without fear of harassment.  And she's right.  Nudity is not an automatic invitation to be touched, groped, or even hit on.  I'm not advocating being uncovered below the waist, I have to draw the line somewhere, but the point is the female body, as beautiful as it can be, is not a trophy or an instrument.  If a woman chooses to go topless or share her body with a number of men and women, it doesn't make her a slut, or disgusting, or lacking in self-respect.  It's her choice, not mine or anyone else's.  I may not agree with her choice, but, to put it bluntly, it ain't my business.

I have been asked if I would be upset if Grace saw exposed breasts on the beach.  I wouldn't.  Amanda and I try to have frank discussions with her about being comfortable in the skin you're in.  That said, I would not allow Grace to go topless.  Because we also talk about what is best for our family and our beliefs.  Hypocritical? Maybe.  Until she is an adult it IS my business.  When she turns eighteen she can do what she wants. 

Finally, I have heard it suggested that if it's equality these topless advocates want, they should press that men have to cover up.  I suppose that's one way to go.  I don't personally see the big deal about letting ladies hit the beach topless.  It's a personal choice.  In the same way the existence of gay marriage doesn't mean I have to marry a dude, if I don't want to see topless women I can choose to not go to Ocean City.  My freedoms are not being disrespected.  I say let the market decide.  If enough people stay away from Ocean City because a few women air out their areolas, I would guess some laws would be changed or clarified.  If the will of the people, declared through our elected officials, was to cover up then so be it.  Until then, ladies, feel free to pop that top.

Clang, clang, on the boards, Baby!

When news broke yesterday that 3-on-3 basketball might be an Olympic sport in 2020, my mind began to wander.  I was flooded with wistful memories of the past.  In high school and college, my friends and I played LOTS of pickup basketball.  From spirited games of 1-on-1 to two full-court, 5-on-5 games running simultaneously on adjacent courts, many weekends and summer evenings were spent on various playground courts around town.  The quality of some of the games may have made Dr. James Naismith cringe, but  we had fun.  Free throw contests, practicing our half-court buzzer beaters, H-O-R-S-E, running a beat.  Phrases I haven't uttered in years: Make It/Take It, Check Ball, And 1, Back Door Cut.  There weren't many better ways to spend a summer evening than shooting hoops 'til dark then sitting around shooting the breeze with your buds until you had the energy to get up and go home.  You were left that sweat-soaked, rubbery-legged, good kind of tired instead of the why-was-I-awake-from-three-AM-to-five-AM feeling with which I often wake these days.  Sometimes I miss those nights when our only care was finding a sixth guy for a game. 

Personally, my game left a lot to be desired.  From a skinny kid earning the nickname Boney Maroni for the ease with which I was pushed from the post by older kids, I grew into a poor man's Charles Barkley.  And by poor, I mean destitute. Broke.  Poverty-stricken.   I was simply the Round Mound to Sir Charles' Round Mound of Rebound.  Except for one summer when I got both my body and jump shot in shape, I relied on a hopeful hook shot and a prayer.  Slow feet and no vertical made me a liability on defense, living proof that White Men Can't Jump.  I never met a layup I couldn't miss in a key, late game situation.  In fact, my lasting basketball memory from the summer I was fit and actually played well, was blowing a bunny.  I ripped down a rebound, started the fast break with a crisp outlet pass, and sprinted up court.  Two quick passes later, my buddy rewarded the big man running the court with a slick no-look pass that would have, were I a few inches taller, resulted in a thunderous Karl Malone dunk or a George Gervin finger roll.  Instead, I botched the SportsCenter-worthy pass by banging the layup off the rim. 

Now, twenty-five (!) years after high school and twenty-two years, eighty pounds and one knee surgery since the summer I was "good", I find myself inspired to get back on the court.  In no condition to run full-court any time soon, I'm starting slow.  Real slow.  Like, with the one play in basketball where no defender can send my jumper into the third row: the free throw.  My goal is to take the bulk of the summer to make my free throw percentage go up and the numbers on the scale go down.  I hit one of the old parks this morning to shake off the rust and assess my shot.  I was quickly reminded that I love the distinct sounds of basketball.  The bounce of worn leather meeting painted cement.  The rip of the net cord on a swish.  Even the clang of the hoop on a miss. 

My assessment, after one hundred free throws, is that I have plenty of work to do.  And that my neck hurts.  And that my right arm will probably feel like it is going to fall off tomorrow.  It's all good, though, because it was just fun to be back on the court with the ball in my hands.  Of the one hundred free throws I took, I made a dismal, Shaq-like thirty-three.  Yes, 33%.  Terrible, to be sure, but a good omen, perhaps.  33 was Larry Bird's uniform number.  Larry Bird was one of the greatest shooters of all time.  Surely this means I am on my way to legendary shooter status.  Maybe not, but at least I have a mission.  A  mission that will occupy my time instead of the things I should be doing like looking for a better paying job or crossing items off my honey-do list.  A mission that includes studying elbow angles and adjusting my follow-through.  A mission to get better.  Time to hoop it up!

Ride of the Midnight Tweeter

"Thank you, Mr. President," said the butler as he closed the executive bedroom  door behind him after delivering his third, and hopefully, final Coca-Cola can of the evening.

The President, happy to finally be alone for the night, and clad only in an open luxury robe and his tighty-whities with the little presidential seals embroidered along the waistband, scratched his ample belly and ripped a wicked soda belch. Pleased with his burp in the smug way only a man accustomed to greatness can be, the President hoisted himself on to his bed.  Using the remote, he raised the volume of the Fox News midnight rerun of Tucker Carlson's show.  Just a few characters into what was sure to be an expertly crafted tweet, the bed began to quake and a misty fog gathered beside the bed.  Within the mist appeared the giant visage of a mighty orangutan hovering in the air.  The two proud beasts looked warily at each other for a moment.

The President broke the silence, "I wondered if you'd come tonight."

"Of course I have," replied the orangutan. "As your Spirit Animal, I am here to guide you through all your big decisions."

"This is a tough one.  You want a Big Mac while we talk it out? I have three left," asked the President, gesturing to the silver tray beside him on the bed.

The orangutan waved off the offer.  Nodding at the television, he asked, "What does Tucker think?"

"Oh, I don't know. I don't really watch. I miss Bill."

"Look, we all miss Bill, but don't be so quick to dismiss Tucker.  Did you know I am the one who advised him to stop wearing bow ties?"

"Proving, once again, that your advice is always great, the best advice," said the President.

"Exactly.  I've never steered YOU wrong.  Hair and complexion? Perfect.  Using a limited vocabulary?  Makes you seem real.  Spending the entire campaign flinging poo?  Brilliant, though I suppose calling yourself the Chaos Candidate was better than the Poo Flinger.  But the results were the same.  Projecting toughness?  You're the king of the jungle, baby.  Pee wherever you want?  That's how I do it.  Wait for female consent? Screw that, you're an animal with needs.  The King takes what he wants!  Dammit, I'm proud of you.  I couldn't be happier to be your Spirit Animal.  I am you and you are me."

The President chuckled.  "Thank you for your guidance Great One.  I've learned so much from you already.  It is funny, isn't it?  Everyone is worried about who is advising me.  Bannon or Miller.  Ivanka or the Kush.  Putin or the Saudis.  They would all shit bricks if they knew I was taking recommendations from a floating monkey head.  Now, about this Paris Climate Accord.  We have to stay in right?  There is an army of scientists that say we have to stay in.  Something about saving the world.  I dunno, I wasn't really paying attention in the briefing."

"Scientists!," the great ape bellowed.  "Scientists?  With their theories and their calculations?  With their data and their evidence-based deductions? Scientists, who have done nothing for my people but lock us up and perform experiments upon us?  Really, Prez, who are you going to side with, hundreds of researchers who have dedicated their lives to finding a thoughtful, data-driven solution to stemming the tide of global warming, or a fat, lazy orangutan speaking to you from the Great Beyond?  Are you the type of guy that bows to peer pressure?  If the rest of the world jumped off a bridge, would you?  Give me a break.  Get out there and lead.  Act bigly.  Be different.  Be bold.  Be a maverick, like Nicaragua and Syria. Ignore the propaganda and leave the agreement."

"Of course.  Thank you for your counsel.  When will I see you again?"

"I shall return when you are feeling confused, inept, or utterly incapable."

"Great. See you tomorrow, then."

"Indeed.  One more thing, big guy.  You're looking a little pale.  I'd add some more orange in the morning."  With that the great mammal faded away and the mist cleared.

The President, somewhere between sleep and a fever dream, slumped back against his pillow, his phone falling against his prodigious belly, tapping the send button.  As he slipped from consciousness, the President sighed the beast's name with a reverent whisper: "Covfefe."

Waiting to Exhale

Made wary and weary by thirty years of playoff frustration, most Washington Capital fans I know spent Wednesday waiting to exhale.  Would the conclusion of Game 7 bring a resigned sigh nodding to history or a sigh of relief followed closely by a whoop of joy?  I want to write more, I wish I had poetry or beautiful prose to add, but words don't come easy this morning.  Honestly, you can pick about a half dozen of my previous May posts that convey the exact same sentiments if you want to read what I think about Caps playoff flameouts. Failing that you'll have to settle for a little math:
Curse >Mr Game Seven
Fleury>Holtby
Reality>Hope
Hockey gods>My positivity
Sullivan>Trotz
Shaft of Fleury's stick>8's shot
Crosby>Ovechkin
Pens>Caps
History>Caps
30 years>My patience???????

If not now, when?

I have been ruminating for days on a Caps/Pens blog post.  With so much history, much of it lopsided, there are not many fresh angles to take.  Pens almost always win, Caps dominate a game but lose, puck deflects in off defenseman's skate, no-name cheesedick in black and gold becomes a hero, hot goalie, blah, blah, blah.  Perhaps a deeper topic will emerge over the course of the series.  Until then, my brief fact/opinion preview of Capitals v. Tundra Pigeons:

Fact: Practicing mindfulness teaches us to live in the present moment, existing unburdened by the past or the future.
Opinion: In regards to the this series, I presently wallow in the past and fear the future.

Fact: Injured Penguins defenseman Chris Letang will not play in this series.
Opinion: Even without Letang, the Pens boast the douchiest roster in the league.

Fact: Despite being a whiny brat, Sidney Crosby fearlessly works in the dirtiest parts of the rink.
Opinion: His favorite "dirty parts of the rink" to work in are other players' crotches.

Fact: This is the tenth postseason series in which the Caps and Pens have met.  The Penguins have won eight of the previous nine.
Opinion: The hockey gods do not care about the law of averages, being "due", whose "time" it is.

Fact: Alex Ovechkin is 0-2 in the playoffs versus the Penguins.
Opinion:  Ovi and his mates have never been better equipped to defeat the Pens.

Fact: Good things happen when you go to the net.
Opinion: The Penguins do this better/ more often than the Caps.

Fact: The Pens are fast.
Opinion:  Having just dispatched the speedy Leafs will help the Caps.

Fact: There are two schools of thought regarding the Capitals first round series with the Leafs. One: such a close series versus the eighth seed was tiring and shows how vulnerable Washington is versus Pittsburgh. Or...the tough series made the Caps battle-hardened and ready for anything the Pens bring.
Opinion: We are waaaaay overthinking this.

Fact: Nate Schmidt played well while replacing the injured Karl Alzner. 
Opinion: When Alzner returns, Schmidt should stay in the lineup as well.

Fact: The Caps have twice (1992 and 1995) blown 3-1 series leads to the Pens. (Remember when we though that was as bad as it could get? Hahahahahaha, we were so young and foolish.)
Opinion: They won't have to worry about that problem in this series.

Fact: Pierre Maguire, the Doug Llewelyn of NHL hockey, will be interviewing a hero from the winning team at series' end.
Opinion: That player will be wearing.....Red.
Fact: Typing it doesn't make it true.

Wednesday Mailbag

On the morning of Caps/Leafs Game Four, my inbox is jammed with letters from readers asking about (surprise!) Game 4.  Let's dive in and answer a few questions from actual That's No Moon readers.  (It's called a plot device people.  Did you never watch Viewer Mail?)

Hi Bryan,  Given that he appears to be getting outcoached through three games, is #InTrotzWeTrust still a thing? - Doubtful in D.C.

Thanks for the question, Doubtful.  Yes, Barry Trotz seems to be getting outcoached thus far, with CSNWashington analyst Alan May going so far as to say that Toronto head coach Mike Babcock is "running the Capitals" right now.  Yes, Trotz seems too caught up in matchups, instead of trying to use his teams superior talent to dictate play.  Yes, one of my major criticisms of former Caps coach Bruce Boudreau was his inability to adapt over the course of a seven game series.  We'll see if Trotz and staff can and/or will.  Yes, Trotz, despite his resume, his professionalism, and saying all the right things, resembles a man who is just trying to keep his head above water as he begins to comprehend that he had no clue what it would be like to be swept up in the wave of curse that is this franchise.  But, yes, #InTrotzWeTrust is still a thing because I paid a lot of money for all those bumper stickers.

Hey B, longtime listener, first time caller.  The Caps gave up four goals Wednesday night.  Braden Holtby looks more concerned with hair flips and water bottle squirts than stopping pucks.  'Bout time to go to Grubauer, don't you think?  I'll hang up and listen for your answer. - Overreacting in Odenton

Uh, Overreacting, I'm not sure you understand how blogs, mailbags, or goaltending work.  The first goal took a fluke bounce onto a 40-goal scorer's stick.  The second goal was deflected.  The third goal was scored only after Holtby made an incredible save from point blank range with his defenders out of position, and the fourth goal occurred on a deflection in the waning seconds of a Toronto penalty on a fresh sheet of ice.  Holtby made many impressive saves and one daring (stupid if doesn't work) poke check forty feet from his crease.  Thanks, but even with his tics and peculiarities, I'm riding with the Holtbeast.

Hello Bryan, Do you remember the exact moment you began hating yourself for being a Capitals fan? - Curious in Clarendon

No, I've been spending more time trying to deduce where this franchise went wrong.  The ineptitude in key moments is uncanny.  The lack of confidence in clutch opportunities is bizarre.  The wilting under pressure is nearly inexplicable.  Did Abe Polin build the original Capital Centre on ancient Indian burial grounds?  Did Vincent Price once give Nick Backstrom a cursed tiki idol when he vacationed in Hawaii?  Did Alex Ovechkin sell his soul for 700 goals and zero Cups?

Bryan, Supposing the Caps limp by the Maple Leafs, what is the probability Washington will get smoked by the Penguins in Round Two? - Resigned in Reston

I'm going to let my guy K2SO field that one:

Good morning Bryan,  Do you think fans will be excited when the Caps raise their latest President's Trophy banner to the Verizon Center rafters next fall?  Asking for a friend. - Ted  Fred in Washington

*sigh*

Beezer, If the Capitals lose Game 4 is it okay to burn all my red hats, jerseys, and pompoms tonight, or does fan code require waiting until the actual end of the series? - Kevin in Indiana

Put the cap back on the gas can, Sparky.  I say Washington wins tonight to even the series.  I'd like to say they will handle their business the way the Sharks handled theirs while down two games to one to a young, talented upstart, but I see no way the Caps hang seven goals on the Leafs.  As great as a dominating performance would be, we're likely looking at another back and forth, one goal game.  Heck, at this point, just for the sheer weirdness of it, I'd love to see seven overtime games; make it as a close a series as possible.  I think the Caps win Game 5, lose Game 6 back in Toronto, and return home for another historically-unkind, fraught-with-danger, watch-what-happens, pressure cooker of a Game 7.  As much as we bemoan it, would we fans want it any other way?

Beginning of the Beginning, or Beginning of the End?

And so it begins.  Like Opening Day and pollen-induced sneezing attacks, Spring brings with it another NHL postseason.  Writing about the Washington Capitals' hopes, battles, and failures has become an annual routine which I simultaneously enjoy and despise.  So many Aprils begin with promise only to crumble into disappointment.  Each year we fans can enumerate the reasons it will be different, while wondering deep down if it actually can be.  The reasons for the Caps' demises are sometimes surprising, sometimes predictable, yet always expected.  Each Spring the team treats its collective fan psyche like a United Airlines passenger in need of "re-accommodation."  With only a couple minor changes, last season's postseason preview could serve as today's.  The eternal question remains: Will 2017 be different, or will this team add another verse to the franchise's long-running hit song "The Second Round Blues"?  My notes for the first round matchup with the Toronto Maple Leafs:

Fact: The Caps and Leafs have never met in the playoffs.
Opinion: By series end, I will have added a new team to my Love to Hate list.

Fact: Leafs coach Mike Babcock has led teams to one Stanley Cup victory and two gold medals.
Opinion: So what?  In Trotz We Trust.

Fact: With Game 2 scheduled for Saturday night, an Easter Epic is possible.
Opinion:  Easter Epics suck.

Fact: Toronto is the media capital of the NHL.  The spotlight on this series will be bright.
Opinion:  Alex Ovechkin loves playing in Canada and will rise to the occasion.

Fact: Toronto rookie center Auston Matthews had a sensational season, finishing with 40 goals.
Opinion: Auston, meet Jay Beagle.  For the next two weeks, he'll be closer to you than your underwear.

Fact:  Olaf Kolzig, during his 1998 playoff run, posted the best postseason goaltending performance in Capitials' history.
Opinion: To win the Cup, The Holtbeast will have to surpass Godzilla's outstanding play.

Fact: The abundant available puns regarding sweeping/raking/crunching/blowing away the Leafs are difficult for this dad joker to resist.
Opinion: Shouldn't they be called the Toronto Maple Leaves?

Fact: This Leafs team is young, fast, and talented.
Opinion: This series would be better with Tie Domi.

Opinion: My beard is better than ever.
Fact: I'm grasping for good omens.

Fact: This season, the Caps earned their third President's Trophy.  No team has won three without winning a Stanley Cup.
Opinion: How you view this fact illustrates how you envision the next two months of hockey.

Fact: By regular season record, Washington is far superior to Toronto.
Opinion:  The playoffs are different.  Washington likes to make things difficult. Caps in six games.

It's Almost 'O'pening Day

Since 2012, the Orioles have confounded baseball pundits and number-crunching SABREmetricians.  From upside down run differentials to preposterous starters' Earned Run Averages, Buck Showalter's Baltimore teams win despite what conventional wisdom predicts will happen.  Playoff appearances in 2012,2014, and 2016 were fueled by bargain free agent pickups, a talented bullpen, and a little Orioles Magic.  To make the playoffs in 2017 it will take more of the same.  This team, on paper, looks like it will be lucky to crack .500.  Fans hope Buck and the boys have a few tricks up their sleeves.  Trying to predict what the summer, and hopefully fall, holds requires a spirited debate between the head and the heart, between evidence and wishful thinking, between what we know and what we think we know:

Fact: With brash talk and clutch play, Adam Jones led Team USA to victory in the World Baseball Classic.
Opinion: Winning is contagious.  Captain America and the O's get off to a hot April start.

Fact: Manny Machado finished fifth in American League MVP voting last season.
Opinion: Manny will ride 50 doubles and his first 200 hit season to a second-place MVP finish.

Fact: Matt Wieters left via free agency.
Opinion: Thanks to Wellington Castillo and Caleb Joseph, Wieters will not be missed.  Castillo will prove to be one of the baseball's sleeper signings of the offseason.

Fact: Last season, Mark Trumbo was the latest of Dan Duquette's successful scrap heap pickups.
Opinion:  Trumbo will not come close to replicating last year's numbers, further complicating a crowded DH/1B/OF situation.

Fact: The 2017 starting rotation will make no one forget 1971's four twenty game winners.
Opinion:  "Kevin and Dylan and pass the penicillin" may be the new "Spahn and Sain and pray for rain."

Fact: Two teams, the 1996 Yankees and 2001 Diamondbacks, won the World Series the year after dismissing Buck Showalter as manager.
Opinion: Leave my Buck alone.

Fact: The Orioles blasted 253 home runs in 2016.
Opinion:  With this starting rotation they may need to hit 300 in 2017.

Fact: Baltimore did little to improve their corner outfield positions.
Opinion:  The disparity between the quality of the O's infield defense and outfield defense is the widest in baseball.

Fact: Kevin Gausman is scheduled to make his first Opening Day start on Monday.
Opinion:  Gausman will take an Adam Jones post-game pie to the face after a strong Game 1 performance.

Fact: During Showalter's tenure, the Orioles have missed the playoffs in the odd years ('11,'13,'15).
Opinion: This season they "Buck" that trend by defying expectations and sneaking into the second wild card.

Fact: I've been wrong before.

Hey, You Kids Get Off My Rink!

NHL general managers convened in Boca Raton this week in their annual bid to screw up the coolest game on Earth.  They brainstorm and workshop proposed rule changes regarding everything from on-ice play to calculating standings and playoff seeding.  Then the media speculate on what changes could be adopted and offer their own ideas.  Then the trickle-down continues and you get influential hockey bloggers like myself adding my two cents' worth.  My luke-warm takes on some of the ideas floating around NHL rinks:

The Three Point Win: I understand the desire to change the current point system which makes no distinction between a win in regulation or overtime/shootout. Some GMs feel there should be a bigger reward for winning versus losing in overtime.  Proponents would award three points for a victory in regulation, two points for a victory in OT/SO, and one point for an OT/SO loss.  The thinking goes, teams would play harder, in theory elevating play, during regulation if the payoff for winning in regulation were greater.  I think the solution is much simpler.  I would eliminate rewarding a team for losing in OT/SO.  I was pleased to read this morning that, according to USA Today legendary championship architect Lou Lamoriello agrees, “I’m not one personally in favor of a three-point game,” he said. “I’m also not in favor of getting a point if you don’t win. I’d rather see the game be two points and zero (points) or end up in a tie for one and one.” Personally, I prefer the old two points for a win, one point for a tie system to what we have now or the possibility of a three point game.  Since more games are ending in overtime thanks to 3v3 play I would extend the overtime period to ten minutes. We eliminate the dreadful shootout. Go kiss your sister and take your point.  If forced to keep the shootout to ensure there are no ties, then the plan is even simpler.  Eliminate the point system and simply count wins and losses like most other big sports. (I say "like most" because I don't follow soccer enough to know all the implications of goal differential.)  The main point is neither MLB, the NFL, or the NBA reward a team for losing in extra innings/overtime.  It's silly.

Leaving Your Feet To Block Shots: One of the silliest on the list, in my opinion, but a proposal that seems to be picking up steam.  The idea, first brought up by Hall of Famer Bob Gainey in 2008, would make it against the rules to slide or lay down to block a shot.  Sure, there is a lot of congestion in front of the net.  Big deal.  I think if a guy is brave/dumb enough to slide into a slapshot we should give him a high-five not a penalty (or change of possession).  Doing whatever it takes to keep the puck out of your net is an instinctual part of playing defense.

Eliminating Face-offs: Some suggest eliminating faceoffs except at the beginning of periods and after goals.  Why? To generate more offense.  The theory is an offense given uncontested possession at the top of the zone would be able to generate a quicker (better) scoring chance from the whistle.  I don't think it would increase offense dramatically, though I have read analytics estimates that predict it would.  What eliminating faceoffs would do is get rid of one of the more nuanced, least-appreciated aspects of the game.  Certain players have lifted winning faceoffs into an art form.  They study opponents' tendencies, techniques, and body language.  It becomes a subtle game within the game.  It may seem tedious to some, but believe me, this isn't like MLB eliminating the intentional walk. This is more akin to dispensing with pickoffs/holding runners on base.  Sabremetricians may be able to point to numbers showing faceoffs are not as consequential as we think they are, but I would be sad to see them go.  This isn't street hockey.

The Bye Week:  Designed to give players a brief reprieve from a grueling schedule, the extended break instead kills any momentum a team has rolling.  Teams have combined for a 10-16-4 record in their first games back from the bye.  Plus, I see these annoying pictures of my favorite players sunning in Cancun when they should be on the ice.  The only photos I need of my favorite players partying are when they are, hopefully, showing off their newly-won Stanley Cup.  Want to make the schedule less grueling?  Cut ten or twelve games from the schedule and dispose of as many back-to-back games as possible.  This keeps players fresher and allows for more practice time. 

Making the Goals Wider and/or Taller: A fundamental change to the game that should not even be discussed.  Moving on.

 4v4 As the Default Mode of Play: See above.

Tweaking the Offsides Instant Replay Rule:  Please, hockey gods, yes.  I get wanting to use replay to get as many calls correct as possible.  However, being able to challenge an offsides call that happened minutes earlier is counterproductive.  It seems cheap.  It slows the game as linesmen crowd around a tiny tablet trying to determine whether a skate blade was a fraction of an inch beyond the blue line.  It saps momentum and probably instills doubt in the linesmen.  A better use of resources would be to figure a way (I am not proposing using replay or challenges for this!) for referees to not miss as many obvious penalty calls.) 

Continued penalties:  Penalized players would serve their entire two or four minute penalty even if the man-up team scores.  This used to be the rule until it was changed in the 1950's because Montreal's powerhouses would dominate on the power play.  I could be talked into liking this one, but I think a better way to sufficiently penalize a team would be to Call Icing All the Time.  This proposal doesn't allow the shorthanded team a free dump to relieve pressure in the defensive zone.  It makes the penalty more of a punishment without changing the integrity of play.

Wild Card Play-in Games: Yes, baseball's wild card games are often incredibly exciting. I'm still smarting from Eduardo Encarnacion's walk-off dispatch of the Orioles last October.  Yes, hockey Games 7 are about as good as sports get.  Why not recreate that level of excitement for a one game play-in?  Because if you are the ninth and tenth best team in the conference, you don't deserve to be in the playoffs, that's why.  While we are at it, one change I would like to see is the conferences go back to straight seeding for the playoffs.  Best record plays eighth best record and so on,  regardless of division or division standings.  Teams should be better rewarded for a successful 82 (or hopefully 70) game season.

Most of the changes discussed above are on the table because the NHL is searching for ways to increase offense and scoring which they equate with making the game better.  In my opinion, the NHL would be better served to realize it is a relatively niche sport that will not attract millions of new casual fans simply by tweaking the game at the expense of those who already love it.  Can it be better? Sure.  But bigger goals, fewer faceoffs, and carnival games to end games are not the right way to grow the game. 

Disney Is So Gay!

Grace recently did me a great service, reminding me, in the way that sometimes only our kids can, of what is important.  Taking advantage of an unseasonably warm winter afternoon, we went for ice cream before starting her homework. (I know, we're so crazy!)  Grace, not entirely pleased with her selection, asked if she could try my sundae.  We were already driving so I told her she had to wait until we got home.  Once home, I offered her a bite of my dessert.  She told me she had changed her mind, threw her arms around me, and said, "Ice cream only lasts a little while, but a hug lasts forever.  Hugs are better than ice cream."  This made me smile for a couple reasons.  One, I didn't have to share my delicious sundae.  Two, it was the perfect reminder that it's not the stuff, the things, the gifts, that our kids need.  Sure, they ask for the trendy clothes or hot toys they see in commercials.  But what they really crave is us.  Our gift to our kids is our time, our presence, our attention.  My kid just wants to hang out with me.  Knowing that feeling won't last forever, what could possibly be more important?

One of our family's favorite ways to hang out is watching movies together, whether at home or on the big screen.  Yes, it can be annoying sometimes.  For every Star Wars or Ghostbusters we get to share with Grace , Amanda and I have to roll our eyes through a Chipwrecked.  It's worth it, of course, because it's about the hanging out, remember?  Next on our list of family movie hang time, is the live-action remake of Beauty and the Beast.  To hear some tell it, this would not be spending quality time with Grace.  Instead, we'd be doing her a disservice, or worse. From the Washington Times:

Evangelist Franklin Graham is calling on Christians to boycott Disney due to the company's promotion of homosexuality in its children's movies and cartoons.

Pointing to the inclusion of a gay character in the upcoming Beauty and the Beast live-action remake, Mr. Graham said Disney is, "trying to push the LBGT agenda into the hearts and minds of your children."

Look, I understand if you think homosexuality is a sin.  I understand, if as a theater owner, you opt to not show the movie.  I understand if you sign the boycott petition and skip the movie.  What I don't understand is the outrage.  The outrage at Disney including a character (in 2017!) that represents people Grace sees in her daily life and her extended family.  The outrage about an "exclusively gay moment" that has yet to even be fully described.  Unless Lumiere bends Cogsworth over and grinds his gears with one (or more, kinky!) of his six-inch candles, I think Grace will be just fine.  LeFou and Gaston may share a kiss, or hold hands, or stare longingly into each others eyes.  These are actions Grace could see on any street in any town across the country, not something from which she needs to be shielded.  Disney is being inclusive, not promoting, as the actual petition calls it, a "harmful sexual political agenda."

Let's assume Disney does have sinister motives beyond trying to sell movie tickets.  What if I make Grace wear a tin foil hat?  Will that make her less susceptible to having The Agenda beamed directly into her innocent, apparently extremely malleable mind?  Is this hypnotizing Agenda stronger than honest conversations she can/will have with her parents?  I doubt it.  If during the movie her tin hat falls off, I am no more afraid Grace will be turned gay by what she sees on-screen than I am that she will fall in love with a yak in a waistcoat or begin talking to the teapot.  No movie moment is going to destroy your child.  Even if there is a mysterious LBGT agenda, I imagine it has less to do with raising godless fornicators and more to do with equality for all, being comfortable with who you are, embracing those different than you, and loving who you love.  If so, consider the agenda pushed  in our household.  For fun, though, let's spin this scenario one step further.  Suppose, through a little Disney magic and sprinkling of fairy dust, taking Grace to see  this movie actually makes her gay.  So what?  I'd be proud to have a gay daughter.  Heck, for all I know, I have one.  I'm not going to love her less if she likes girls.  I would hope the people signing the boycott petition would not love their gay kids any less either. 

In all likelihood, the "controversial" gay moment will sail right over Grace's head.  If it doesn't, we'll talk about it.  It won't be a big deal. I think she'll be happy enough watching Belle on the big screen while wearing her bright yellow costume dress.  Just to piss off the haters, I might wear mine, too.

The Things We Choose To Care About

From the moment the doctor analyzing the sonogram told Amanda and me to "start saving for the wedding", I wondered if I could be, and am, a good father to a daughter.  A father that sets the right example of how women should be treated.  A father that can encourage her to possess self-respect, a healthy body image, and the courage to stand up for herself.  Eight years into this crazy parenthood experiment, I think I am doing okay, but we are in an era where gender roles, or least societal expectations of them, are constantly shifting.  As the modes of influence (tv, social media, classmates) that can shape our daughters' worldview evolve and multiply at an unprecedented pace, so too do the advice and rules for guys.  In some ways, it has never been more confusing to know what it means to "act like a man."  I don't just mean the perplexing man bun trend.  Surf the internet or scroll through your newsfeed and you will see the contradictory info with which men/dads are bombarded:  All men should be feminists.  Men can't possibly understand enough to be feminists.  Treat your lady like a queen.  Men are the head of the family to whom the wife should submit. (Chuckling to myself as I wonder how that demand would go over in my house.) Yay, American Girl has released a boy doll! Ew, gender neutral toys are terrible.  "Nick’s ‘Nella the Princess Knight’ Is A Kick-Ass Heroine Your Kids Will Love ."  Lady Ghostbusters are a bunch of C-words!  In a world of mixed messages where young men apparently flirt by sending dick pics, or as a female friend calls them, Unsolicited Richards, I cringe thinking about the way women, including my growing daughter, are/will be treated. 

I know the best way to handle advising Grace as she grows is to let my wife do all the talking.  All kidding aside, I have recently been thinking this through more deeply.  I am examining my behaviors and habits, wondering if I need to adjust.  Yesterday, while in line at the grocery store a beautiful young woman got in line behind me.  How young I don't know; everybody looks younger to me these days.  But old enough to buy the two bottles of wine she was juggling in one hand (Not literally, unfortunately. The story isn't that interesting.) while holding an overflowing basket in the other.  Being that I held a much lighter basket, I offered to let her go in front of me.  She politely declined and that was the end of our interaction.  Yet, it got me thinking overthinking.  (It's kind of what I do.  The rate of overthinking in our house is exceeded only by the rate at which we consume Nutella.)  Did she decline because she was being equally polite or because she thought maybe I was hitting on her in some creepy, old man way?  Did she find my offer condescending because I must think her too weak to hold all her goods?  Is that partly why I made the offer?  Would I have made the same offer to a man, or even a less attractive woman?  I'm secure in knowing that I made the offer simply to be polite, but my mental gymnastics it spawned shows that I am nutty and a little tripped up by trying to do right by women.

Also this week, my Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition landed in my mailbox.  As a kid, the swimsuit edition was a February highlight.  Pre-internet, thirteen-year-old me looked forward to seeing Kathy Ireland, Elle Macpherson, and all their scantily clad friends frolicking by the sea and looking directly at ME through the camera lens.  I remember one year my grandfather, I guess not knowing that I was a subscriber, sent me a manila envelope containing nothing but the new swimsuit edition and a note saying, 'A little something to warm you up this winter.'  Good guy stuff.  And get me through the winter it did.  Now, I'm feeling guilty looking at the 2017 edition setting on my coffee table.  Should I?  I have no idea.  Will it, and the countless other images like it on television, make Grace have unrealistic expectations about her body image?  Is SI's objectification of women liberating for women or demeaning?  Is it both?  I would likely dismiss it as me inventing a problem that exists mostly in my head except that two days ago, Grace told me her legs were getting fat.  I'm 99% sure she really meant her legs were getting bigger as she gets bigger.  Nonetheless, it got me a little panicky inside. (It doesn't take much.)  Grace is not even close to being fat and I don't want her thinking that at any age, let alone eight.  We discussed being healthy and strong, avoiding the f-word.  I'll let Mommy, whose casual thumbing through the swimsuit issue seemed to indicate she had zero problem with reading it, handle the rest of that conversation.

Of course, the big reason I've been thinking more about this stuff lately is our President .  You didn't think I could get through a whole blog post without talking about the Trumpster Fire, did you?  Aside from his ineloquent hamming up of the English language and his superhuman ability to bend the truth into a pretzel, what I really disliked about this guy was this:

Trump: I moved on her, actually. You know, she was down on Palm Beach. I moved on her, and I failed. I’ll admit it.

Unknown: Whoa.

Trump: I did try and fuck her. She was married.

Unknown: That’s huge news.

Trump: No, no, Nancy. No, this was [unintelligible] — and I moved on her very heavily. In fact, I took her out furniture shopping.

She wanted to get some furniture. I said, “I’ll show you where they have some nice furniture.” I took her out furniture —

I moved on her like a bitch. But I couldn’t get there. And she was married. Then all of a sudden I see her, she’s now got the big phony tits and everything. She’s totally changed her look.

Billy Bush: Sheesh, your girl’s hot as shit. In the purple.

Trump: Whoa! Whoa!

Bush: Yes! The Donald has scored. Whoa, my man!

[Crosstalk]

Trump: Look at you, you are a pussy.

[Crosstalk]

Trump: All right, you and I will walk out.

[Silence]

Trump: Maybe it’s a different one.

Bush: It better not be the publicist. No, it’s, it’s her, it’s —

Trump: Yeah, that’s her. With the gold. I better use some Tic Tacs just in case I start kissing her. You know, I’m automatically attracted to beautiful — I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything.

Bush: Whatever you want.

Trump: Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.

How in the heck that right there didn't keep him out of the Oval Office, I'll never know.  Yet the Trumpeters were more "disgusted" by the pink knit vagina hats worn by women protesters.  The above transcript, in which he actually brags about the ability to grab a woman in her genitals WITHOUT CONSENT, was okay, but women wearing vagina hats as a rebuke of his vulgarity was not.  So, yeah, that is why I marched in the local women's march on January 21st.  My marching was seen frivolous and silly by some, and likely won't change a thing.  I simply wanted to put it out into the universe that I was not okay with this lack of consent.  That behavior, and failure to be held accountable for it, cannot be condoned, for it leads to dirtbags like Brock Turner thinking it's okay to penetrate a drunk woman behind a dumpster.  My daughter did not understand all the nuance or ramifications of Donald Trump's election or the march that followed, nor should she.  What she saw, though,  was that she has a voice and that I stand with her, her mother, and all the women that oppose this guy. 

I know I joke a little about being a dumb dad and being overwhelmed about sorting out raising a daughter in the current climate.  It's actually something I care deeply about.  In fact, it is one of the most important things I will ever do; I'd like to get it right.  As much as I fret over the meaning of a grocery lane encounter or whether I should flip through a skin mag, I know the best way I can help Grace navigate this crazy world is to listen to her and cut through the clutter by telling her what I know based on my faith, my experience, and my hopes for her. I'll keep my fingers crossed that is good enough.