Uncle Don Wants You!

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

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

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

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

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

That Ain't Lemonade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In-vest-ment Strategy

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

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

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

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

Please pick up your official White House souvenir smallpox blanket on the way out.

I was asked Monday what I thought of Donald Trump's Navajo Code Talker gaffe. My holiday retail work schedule kept from piecing together a response until today. First, I don't consider it a gaffe, a boner, or a goof. I consider it the action of a man unconcerned with and/or untrained in simple, civil human interaction.  I don't think Donald Trump conspired with the Russians (though members of his campaign staff may have.)  I don't believe he's foolish enough to start a nuclear war.  But, whatever we're calling it, it's THIS  embarrassing crap I knew we'd be subject to with Trump as the face of our country.  It's the direct consequence of electing an ill-mannered, gold-plated, empty-headed game show host. 

No, empty-headed probably isn't accurate. I imagine anytime the president speaks his brain is like Gilligan riding a Coconut Bicycle Public Speaking Machine the professor pieced together with bamboo and jungle vines. Gilligan starts pedaling, the lights flicker, the motor begins to whirr as Trump's lazy synapses begin to fire.  The president struggles to connect with the people before him. As Gilligan pedals faster, Trump searches his vast vocabulary and wealth of charm to stitch together a sentence.  'Okay, they are indians. C'mon Donnie, people are counting on you. Indian summer...Indian motorcycles...Indian corn.'  By now Gilligan is  pedaling so hard smoke is pouring from the coconuts. 'Cowboys and Indians...Cleveland Indians...Aha! Pocohantas!'

You can see the moment in the video when his intracranial CPU (Clown Processing Unit) latches onto what he assumes is this delightfully clever answer. Trump is so pleased with himself to be able to work in an insulting jab against a political opponent while "honoring" the code talkers.  To be clear, I don't care if Elizabeth Warren is zero percent Cherokee or one hundred percent. This isn't about her. It's also not a left/right, Democrat/Republican issue.  My beef is with the Nitwit-in-chief having a complete lack of understanding of context or couth.

We know the guy uses Pocohantas as a pejorative to be dismissive of Warren, but he likewise insults the very men he supposedly honors by saying it the way he does at the ceremony. Men who admirably and bravely served our nation in a way the president refused.  All done under the watchful gaze of a portrait of Andrew Jackson.  (I half expected the portrait come alive. With an evil cackle, Head of Jackson would shoot lasers from its eyes, chasing the Navajo heroes from the Oval Office while bellowing, "Trail of Tears 2.0, Mother F*$#ers!") Context, people.

The event was a golden opportunity for Trump to leap over the absurdly low bar of acting presidential. In golf parlance even he can understand, the ball was set on a tee waiting to be crushed down the fairway.  Step one: Welcome heroes. Step two: Say something nice about heroes and their service. Step three: Pose for photo with heroes. This is the easy part of the job. As I heard it described the other day, in this situation the president is a representative of all U.S. citizens in that we don't get the opportunity to honor and thank these soldiers personally; the president is doing it for all of us. That's why his role in this ceremony is important. And he can't even be a goodwill ambassador for five flippin' minutes without making it political or about himself. Just like after Charlottesville, he couldn't execute the simple task of having a normal human reaction or interaction. It's not a gaffe or a goof, and it certainly isn't surprising, only disappointing.

2020 Vision

Happy Anniversary!  On this day last year, Drunk America staggered from the voting booth, covered in Cheeto dust and remorse, to make the long walk of shame.  It was a landmark day with seismic implications. The victor, our nation's new public face to the world, possesses a cringe-worthy degree of decorum akin to a fart at a funeral.  His vanquished oppponent, so certain coronation day would have all the suspense of a Hallmark Channel Christmas movie, couldn't even find the class to deliver a concession speech, instead leaving her disbelieving supporters to weep together in an auditorium stunned into silence. (Which, by the way, was quite a fun scene to behold. Unfortunately, most of the joy of the moment was robbed by the realization the moment could only occur because Donald Trump had actually been elected.)  What the hell happened? How did we actually elect a childish, boorish, id-driven, insult-tossing pig-man President of THESE United States? 

There's plenty of blame to go around, of course.  A conventional Republican field, meek in the face of his insults and lies, was paralyzed by the swinging dick bravado of Trump the Outsider.  A Democratic Party that, whether by sinister design or not, selected a general election candidate despised by a good chunk of the electorate. Let's face it, soooo many Trump votes were anti-Hillary votes.   The Republicans could have selected The Demogorgon to oppose Hillary and many people would have said, "Oh, I think the Upside Down looks like a delightful place." We can also blame a powerful self-perpetuating two party system that chokes out the chances of legitimate third party challengers. 

Which brings me to the factor I blame the most: me.  I'm not usually one to dwell on the past, wallowing about mistakes, pondering what might have been. (Actually, that's exactly who I am.) However, I have to look upon my failed candidacy with a critical eye. The questions are myriad. Were the pants too red? Did I make the campaign buttons too late in the game? Should I have left my goofy mug off of said buttons? Surely, my third party bid didn't fail because I am grossly unprepared to be President. That sin doesn't seem to be a disqualifying factor any longer, does it?

I don't know exactly how I would have performed if elected, but I have reflected upon how I would have handled some circumstances encountered by our Tweeter-in-Chief.  I would grant interviews to networks other than Faux News and CBN. I wouldn't wait days to make  a canned statement I didn't really believe in the wake of the Charlottesville violence.  I would refrain from insulting war heroes and war widows alike. I wouldn't assume kneeling during the national anthem is disrespecting the troops.  I would keep the FBI director.  I would not host a bogus, photo-op cabinet meeting to demand fealty from my secretaries. (Maybe cupcakes, but never blind loyalty.) I would seek to reassure and aid the citizens of Puerto Rico. I would not Twitter bicker with members of my own party or the crazy kid across the Pacific.  Yes, I would have done a few things differently.  Alas, the past is past. We don't get mulligans in election years. After all, it is only hindsight that is 20/20.

Speaking of 2020, in a not-at-all forced segue, I'm once again ready for action.  On this infamous anniversary, I hereby officially declare my 2020 presidential campaign has begun.  If you are one of the three people who voted for me last year, I hope I can count on your support again.  To you other 200 million registered voters, I say, "Welcome aboard the Ever Forward Express. It's time to right some wrongs."  Campaign donations in the form of cash, checks, or chicken wings can be made directly to @Hailey4America.
#EverForward #NeverTooEarly #BreaksOver 

Opening Night Mailbag

As Navin Johnson might say, were he a National Hockey League fan, "The new hockey season is here, the new hockey season is here!"  As the curtain goes up on the NHL's centennial season, I thought it was a good time to open up the old That's No Moon Mailbag to answer some questions submitted by actual Washington Capitals fans.

Hi Bryan, Do you think the Caps overpaid to keep T.J. Oshie in Washington?- Apprehensive in Alexandria

Thanks for the question, Apprehensive.  It's no secret that with all the departures (Williams, Alzner, Shattenkirk, MoJo),  there is real pressure on Oshie this season.  Sure, the team allegedly has two of the best players in the game (Ovi and Backstrom) and has two players that need to blossom further (Kuzy and Burky), but Oshie is the one that scored a big contract based on posting a career high in goals.  He is energetic, a talented grinder, and, by all accounts, a good guy for the locker room and the city.  Did the team overpay? Probably.  Did they need to in order to stave off full blown hysteria given all the other departures?  Probably.  However, when assessing contracts and deals of this nature I always defer to the D.C. resident known for making great deals, the best deals.  Rumor has it, while ignoring the real workings of the federal government, the big guy, in addition to pounding Big Macs and digesting Fox News, dabbles in fantasy hockey. I sent a quick message over to @hailtothecovfefe to see if he liked the Oshie signing.  I think his one word answer accompanying this picture message says it all: "Swish!"

Good morning Bryan, How mad do you think GMBM was when George McPhee selected Nate Schmidt in the expansion draft?-Worried in Warrenton

Good morning, Worried.  Who can tell?  I mean, GMBM's brow may have been slightly more furrowed and eyebrows more craggy, but again, who can tell?  These two photos show him on the happiest days of his career: when he was hired and when he found a Sidney Crosby voodoo doll in his Cracker Jack. I defy you to identify his emotions at any given time.

I think Schmidt's departure will hurt, though.  Is he the second coming of Bobby Orr? Of course, not.  But Nate was a serviceable defenseman on a great contract.  He had come into his own defensively, pushed the offense with his speed, and has that super smile.  Honestly, I think the Caps would have been better served to have kept their blue line intact last season, keeping Schmidtty in the lineup instead of acquiring Kevin "Putting the Shat In" Shattenkirk.  After watching the preseason, I think GMBM would take four Nate Schmidts for his blueline.

Dear Mr. Moon, I think a slimmed down Barry Trotz, a lighter Alex Ovechkin, and lowered expectations are the recipe for success this season.  I don't think the team's dropoff will be nearly as catastrophic as some doomsayers predict.-Optimistic in Odenton

No need to be so formal, Optimistic.  We're all just fans slurping from the same Gatorade water bottle here.  I think Barry Trotz is slimmer from all his time spent sweating on the hot seat this summer.  We can point to a dozen excuses   reasons, but the fact remains this team, built for a Cup or Bust, has underachieved the last two seasons.  Maybe Trotz's only flaw is having the hubris to think he could outrun this franchise's springtime curse.  Nonetheless, the pressure is on for Trotz to succeed.  I wish I shared your optimism in regards to potential dropoff.  If your definition of success is not becoming the Winnipeg Jets East, then maybe I agree.  I think the team is looking at a serious step backwards.  The division is tougher and other Eastern Conference teams like Ottawa and Toronto are on the rise.  I don't think the Caps can take for granted making the playoffs.  While they would make a dangerous low seed in the playoffs, I think they are going to have to grind it out just to get to April. I hope I'm wrong.

Who wins more games this season, Vegas or Washington?- Genuinely Curious in Georgetown

DON'T. EVEN. WANT. TO. THINK. ABOUT. IT.

Hello Bryan, When do you think Tom Wilson will get his head out of  his ass?-Frustrated in Frederick

Great question, Frustrated.  I'm split on how to answer this question. On one hand, I feel legitimate hitting and physicality is being drained from the game.  Clean hits are being penalized more frequently.  It seems every time a hard, clean check is delivered guys want to fight about it.  Sometimes you just lick your wounds, put your bucket back on, and keep skating.  I don't want Wilson to have his aggressiveness disciplined out of him by the league office.  Scott Stevens must puke when he sees the ways checking is penalized these days.  Or maybe that's the post-concussion syndrome.  Because that's really the other side of this, right?  As we learn much more about the lasting dangers of even minor head injuries, the NHL should be protecting players.  Bigger, faster players are damn near lethal weapons on skates. Dirty infractions should be penalized harshly.  Unfortunately, I think the league is wildly erratic in how they mete out justice.  Despite video explanation from the league office, I often find myself confused as to how punishment is imposed.  I no more know what is suspension-worthy in the NHL than I know what qualifies as a reception in the NFL these days.  That said, Wilson's hit for which he received his four game suspension was dirty and worthy of suspension.  Four games worthy, I don't know.  But Wilson has put himself in the unenviable spotlight  known as Repeat Offender.  He needs to figure out a middle ground.  His penalty killing and potential offensive growth are to important to Washington for him to spend half the season in the press box.



Yo Beezer, what is the maximum number of  games I can watch and still claim to "not care" about the Caps?-Kevin in Indiana.

*sigh*

Hey B, I drove by your house and saw the new Caps flag hanging from the porch.  When do you think the mighty Red Rockers get to hoist a real banner of their own?-Spying on you in Salisbury 

Well, I'm sure there will be the President's Trophy banner raised before Saturday's home opener.  And Uncle Ted probably already had a championship banner on order last Spring, so maybe they could just convert that into a First Round Champ banner for the rafters.  Or they could pick up the same flag I picked up for one dollar on clearance last June.  As for a real, genuine, Grade A, Stanley Cup winner banner?  Good luck predicting that. I now simply assume it will never happen.  That doesn't mean we can't enjoy the journey, though.  Let's not forget, we aren't quite reliving the days of Doig and Heward.  Of Nycholat and Clymer.  Of Hanlon and the Screaming Eagle in Cornflower Blue.  I'll take Kuzy, Holtbeast, the Great 8, and hope that springs eternal.

Rock the Red. Let's Go Caps!

Help, My Daughter Loves DUDE PERFECT!

My eight-year-old daughter, Grace, recently discovered the rabbit hole known as YouTube.  My wife and I let her access the kid's version and, like any of us, my kid now gets sucked into the stupefying array of videos available.  Some of the channels (watching others play with Barbies) are inane.  Some (cake-making tutorials or instructions for DIY fidget spinners) have inspired her to create.  Then there's Dude Perfect.  I discovered Dude Perfect when I heard a bunch of shouting coming from the television.  Dude Perfect, in case you are unfamiliar with the internet stars billing themselves as Five Best Friends and a Panda, are athletic trick shot artists (and a guy in a panda costume).  They film themselves making impossible golf and basketball shots, attempting to set Guinness records, and many more feats of athletic prowess.   The shouting I heard was from the elaborate, high-volume, theatrical celebrations of pulling off their latest stunt.  Lots of fist pumps and chest bumps.  Lots of mesh shorts and perfectly manicured beards.  More shouted Woooos than a Flair family reunion.  Quite the Bro-fest.  It seemed like some weird witch's brew of sports, party games, and Nickelodeon's Double Dare.  A Jackass for the G-rated set.

I quickly dismissed these Frat House Olympians as more self-promoting internet blowhards.  If Grace wants to check out blatant internet cries for attention, she can read this blog.  If she wants to witness a bunch of young, testosterone-fueled wannabe superstars trash talking each other, I can drop her at the intramural fields at the local university.  These millennial jocksniffers weren't going to poison my little girl's brain with their antics.  And, what's the deal with that panda?

I watched for a few minutes with the intention of making Grace change the channel when the current video was over.  Then I realized something between all the Bro Slo Mo and high-fives: these guys are awesome.  It's amazing what can happen when you don't judge a book by it's backwards ball cap.  The men of  Dude Perfect are actually living the dream.    These five guys have made an industry of screwing around on the playing field.  They are paid handsomely to hang out and do the goofy stuff my friends and I would putter around with after an afternoon of pick-up basketball or street hockey.  (Remember rollerbasketball or shopping cart races, fellas?) This is Letterman having pro QBs throwing footballs into the windows of moving taxis.  This is MJ and Larry shooting for Big Macs. These dudes have turned the playground challenge, "I bet you can't do this", into a full-time job.  Not only that, but after only a few minutes of actually watching, I figured out these guys are positive influences.  The trash talk is lighthearted, not mean-spirited.  The overzealous, borderline silly celebrations are just that - celebrations of a buddy's success.  Sure, there is a bit of "rah-rah, look at me", but it is all done with a wink.   They encourage and root for each other.  Plus, there is a lesson in perseverance.  I explained to Grace how many takes are probably required to nail the perfect shot or catch.  Not to mention the practice involved to be athletic enough to pull them off.  I would much rather Grace watch Dude Perfect than the rude children on most tween shows.  (I'm looking at you Jessie and Henry Danger.)  We've even started planning what events we could play at a Dude Perfect kid birthday party.  So, I apologize Dude Perfect.  Keep duding what you are duding.  And if you need an Old Dude, I'm ready to turn my ball cap backwards.

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.