Rangers 4-Capitals 3

With two days until Game 2 of the Caps-Rangers, there is plenty of time to stew over game 1 and chew on the possibilties for game 2. In Game 1 there was a nice mix of the good, the bad and the so-so.

THE GOOD
-The Capitals' centers: The Caps centers dominated in the faceoff circle, winning 46 of 64 faceoffs. This helped the power play rack up zone time and led to several quality scoring chances right off of draws.

-The Caps' power play: 2 for 7 doesn't sound great at first glance, but 28% is a better clip than the Caps' PP (which ranked second in the league) operated at all season. Not to mention that the Rangers PK was top ranked by giving up goals at only a 14% rate. One reason the PP was successful was :

-Traffic: Guys went to the net and took the abuse necessary to disrupt Henrik Lundqvist. Tomas Fleischmann's deflection goal was a direct result of setting up in the meat grinder. Brooks Laich clogged the crease on the Caps' third goal, allowing Alex Semin to fire home the juicy rebound. Traffic in front of Lundqvist is a must if the Caps are to solve King Henrik. He's just too good when he can see the puck.

-Ovechkin:What more can be said about this guy? He was everywhere-hitting, earning two assists, firing shots from all over and completely undressing Rangers D-men a couple of times.

THE BAD

-Jose Theodore: Theodore said it perfect himself after the game, "I wasn't good enough." Theodore, or as Washington Post columnist Mike Wise has dubbed him, Jose Threeormore let the supposedly anemic Rangers offense pierce the net four times on only twenty-one shots. The first goal and fourth, game-winning goal are saves he must make. The second and third goals, both on the PK, maybe get a bit of a pass. They were both great, top shelf shots with the defense a man down. However, any goalie that wins in the playoffs makes those kinds of saves; pulling out a big stop when it seems unlikely can bolster the confidence of the entire team. Just as letting in softies can deflate an entire team.

-Jeff Schultz: One goal doesn't lose a game, but Schultz was front and center as he got embarrassingly turned inside-out by Dubinsky on the game-winning goal. Jeff Schultz is a big man who could put guys on their can but won't; in this case all he had to do was stay between Dubinsky and the goal. Instead, he follows the puck fake, steps to the outside and clumsily falls down as Dubinsky rolls by. You know who falls for that fake? I do. An uncoordinated, overweight rec league player who didn't start playing hockey until he was 19 years old falls on his face after biting on a lousy fake, not an NHL quality defenseman. Coach Boudreau on Schultz, "This is the NHL, you get beat one-on-one, you can't hide from that. That's not an error of anything than he didn't get the job done on that play."

-Penalties: Once again, the Caps managed to take two delay of game penalties for shooting the puck off the rink. Then they let a Rangers power play that ranked 28th in the league cash in on 2 of 4 chances.

THE SO-SO

Sergei Federov: He was great in the face-off circle but otherwise looked slow and off-kilter. Maybe he's dinged or maybe he's just showing his age. He also took one of the delay of game penalties.

-The Officiating: The Zebras weren't in top form tonight, missing a lot. On the Ranger's first goal two penalties should have been called on the Rags as they rushed up ice. Nik Antropov interfered with Fleischmann eliminating a back checker and super-douche Sean Avery slewfooted Mike Green at the blue line allowing Gomez to walk in unimpeded on Theodore. The refs also missed a high stick to Federov's mush early in the game and the linesman flat out blew the offsides call on an Ovechkin dash to the middle. The Caps did get a break, however, when the Rangers were whistled for a tripping call late when it looked like it was only Ovie's own momentum that made him fall.

-Flipping the Switch:There has been talk for weeks about whether the Caps could "turn it back on" when the playoffs started after playing meaningless games for a while. I would say that they did successfully turn it back on. They played hard, passionate hockey from the opening draw. They looked pretty sharp and stuck to their puck possession system, eliminating many of the odd-man rushes and general sloppy plays that characterized their last 10-15 games. Unfortunately, that still didn't translate into a win.

-The Playoff Beard: My beard is so-so to begin with, but now it seems extremely pointless. I believe fellow bearder Killer received an online message that simply read, "Shave your shit now, Dude." Hah! It's much too early for that. This a best-of-seven, damnit.

So, what does this all mean for Game 2? The obvious question is whether or not Boudreau should bench Theodore in favor of 21 year old rookie goalie Simeon Vharlamov. If you believe that playing Theodore means you are going to be in an 0-2 hole then you may as well give Vharlamov a shot. I prefer to think that Theo can bounce back. I also don't think throwing a kid with only 5 games of NHL experience into the Stanley Cup playoff frying pan is the best idea for his long term growth. Everybody must remain calm and let this thing play out. Nobody thought the Caps were going to sweep this series. Besides, if I may rationalize this loss away for a moment, the Caps are 6-13 all time in playoff series in which they one the first game. (I'm trying to ignore that they are 4-6 alltime when losing the first game). I said it weeks ago and I'll say it again- This team is good enough to win the Cup and has enough flaws (goaltending, defense,stupid penalties) to go out in the first round. I will root like hell, but I will not believe they will win this series until I see them shaking hands with dissapointed Rangers. Until then, I watch the series the way I always do-expext the worst, hope for the best.

Drool All Over 'Em, Let 'Em Know You're There.

Grace's teething stage has hit overdrive. Lots of gnawing, drooling, crying, drooling, sore gums and more drooling, yet only two teeth have popped through. I think one of these days she's going to wake up with five new ones at once. In the meantime, she's drooling so much that Jim Cantore is in my front yard setting up a live remote. I'd consider building an Ark, but I think Grace would gnaw through it faster than the termites.

In other awesome baby developments, Grace has started laughing. Not just grinning, cooing and squealing; she has delivered some full-on, cute as hell, HAHAHA belly laughs. Just not for me. I can earn the coos/smiles/squeals of delights, but no belly laughs. Amanda's the goddamn Richard Pryor of the family apparently, while Grace gets as stonefaced as Buckingham Palace guards at a Jim Belushi show when I try to make her laugh. Then, the other day, it got worse. Upon hearing some serious baby laughter I peeked around the corner to see Grace laughing at the cat. THE CAT. My nemesis, the cat, elicits hysterical laughter from my daughter where I cannot. I guess pooping in potted plants and pissing outside the litter box passes for funny these days. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go try to work up a hairball.

Maybe the World Isn't Such a Bad Place After All.

I think it is no secret that I am a skeptical, cynical, curmudgeonly pessimist. I've been known to utter the phrase "I hate people." because, well, I sometimes hate people in general. However, a small, but impactful event recently reminded that not everyone out there is a jackass.

Friday night found the family and a friend hanging out at the Barnes and Noble in Bowie, MD. We were feeding Grace at the Cafe (she just loves her mocha lattes) and she was being a little fussy. I try to be aware when the girl is loud (especially in a bookstore) because I am sensitive to the other patrons who don't necessarily find a wailing baby to be the perfect accompaniment to their coffee break. When Grace calmed down and completed her feeding I left her with mom and started browsing. I'll paraphrase the exchange I had with another customer because, though I've tried, I can't remember exactly what he said:

Older Gentleman: "Are you the dad?"
Me: (Immediately thinking he's going to give me a hard time about the noise.) "Yes."
OG: (Handing me a Barnes and Noble bag.) "Then consider this a gift from a stranger. You have a lovely family. Enjoy your baby."
Me: barely able to get out a stunned "Thank You."

After showing Amanda the gift, which was a small gift set from the book Guess How Much I Love You, we both went over and thanked him again and spoke with him (and his wife and granddaughter) for a bit. He simply said he was a grandfather who loved kids and that having babies around brought great joy (or something like that). I told him that gestures like his helped restore my faith in people. A brief exchange to be sure, but one that will stick with me for a long time. And one that hopefully I can use as a teaching moment with Grace one day. Sometimes, no matter how many amazing people you have in your life, it takes a stranger to shine a light on what's really important. Thank you, Sir.

Everybody Grow a Weirdo Beardo.

It's time for my annual exercise in futility:the playoff beard. Futile on one hand because the superstition has never helped the Caps advance beyond round one. Futile on the other hand because I can't grow a beard any better than your average eighth grader. But this year my ratty, patchy, peach fuzz could actually help people. The Caps are having a beard-a-thon to raise money for Capitals Charities. So good luck and happy growing! If you want to sponsor me go here .

Bowling Alley-Enemy of the Germophobe #2

Thanks to the cringe inducing feedback I received (some in the comments, but mostly talking to people) after my post on filthy hotel rooms I have decided to make The Enemy of the Germophobe a recurring series. I have no shortage of places and things that gross me out, so stay tuned.

Today's installment is that house of horrors known as the bowling alley. Let's start with the obvious-the shoes. Foot funk is gross. Community foot funk is really gross. Maybe when ordering shoes I need to specify that I want the size 13 pair not just turned in by the guy with trenchfoot. And don't tell me about the anti-bacterial spray they keep on the counter. That stuff is about as effective as the Orioles bullpen. One squirt in the heel is no match for the germs that lurk in the toejam neighborhood. And the guy half-spraying them wants to be holding those shoes about as much as I want to be wearing them. The sweet odiferous cocktail of foot sweat and pleather is more than enough to turn your stomach. If I want to smell old cheese at the bowling alley I will head for the snack bar.

Which, because I'm a dope, is exactly what I did last night because we were bowling around dinner time. There's a good chance (I hope) that this snack bar is cleaner than most drive-thrus I seem unable to avoid. However, at the drive-thru I can't see what goes on with my food. Which you would think would drive me nuts, except that my overwhelming need for saturated fat usually pushes the fear out of my brain. Anyway, back at the bowling alley's E. Coli Cafe I first get to witness the lack of hand washing after money handling. Then I hear "Ooh, good save!" and look up in time to see my frozen burger patty picked up off a shelf under the counter where it had landed after slipping out of the cook's hand on the way to the grill. I'm glad it didn't hit the floor, but I'm pretty sure that dark shelf must be where all the cockroaches hang out while the lights are on. "Excuse me, Mam, maybe you could sprinkle a few tainted peanuts and pistachios on the roll for good measure."

Finally, beware the dreaded finger holes looming on every ball. These havens of disease force the germophobe to weigh the pros and cons of wearing a latex glove when he bowls. Only the embarrassment of looking ridiculous keeps the gloves at home. Though, wearing one glove Michael Jackson-style really wouldn't look much sillier than those crazy wrist supports the serious bowlers wear. Think about it- how many nose picks, crotch scratches and wedgie pulls grace bowler fingertips just prior to picking up the ball? Nasty, right? Forget the ball polisher, I want my bowling alley to have an autoclave.

I love to bowl; the bowling alley, like the liquor store and the back room at the video store, is one of America's great melting pots. I just wish that I didn't feel the need to shower when I'm finished.

Hold the Swagger, Please.

LET'S GO! I'M READY TO KICK SOME ASS! I'M READY TO RUN THROUGH A WALL! THESE GUYS ARE DEAD MEAT!

Oh, hi. Sorry, I'm just a little too jacked up on testosterone thanks to my new deodorant-Old Spice Gameday. I don't see what naming something Gameday has to do with how it smells either, but this is where I ended up. You see, normally I try to find a deodorant that does not have an overpowering scent, like Old Spice Original. However, lately, at least in Annapolis and my shopping radius (though it is still listed on the website), I have been unable to find the Original scent of anti-perspirant/deodorant. (Hey, you got your anti-perspirant in my deodorant! No, you got deodorant in my anti-perspirant!) I have found the Original scent deodorant alone, but this sweat machine I call a body needs heavy anti-perspirant reinforcements in the battle against B.O. Some people think B.O. is rugged and manly; I do not.

Dissapointed that the Original scent anti-perspirant was nowhere to be found I set out to find the least obtrusive scent available. Unfortunately for me, the chemists and the creative folks at Old Spice think it's necessary for guys to have 42 deodorant flavors to choose from. Then they assign them some of the dumbest names. Scanning the shelf presents the same problem I have when trying to buy handsoap, Gatorade or a slushie-What do all these cheesy names actually smell/taste like? I'm popping off lids, sniffing away, trying to sort through Arctic Blast, After Hours, Showtime, Pure Sport, Pacific Surge and Mountain Rush. What no Boom-Boom Berry Blast or Coniferous Breeze ? Finally, despite the fact that after a game I sometimes smell like three day old garbage, I settle on the Gameday flavor. It has the least overpowering scent and, not that I really care, sounds a little manly. At least more so than Ski Slope or Foaming Surf.

So I get home, apply a few swipes of the new stuff and relay my tale to my wife who proceeds to snicker and tell me I smell like a woman. Thanks Old Spice!

Four Out Of Five Babies Enjoy Rice Cereal. Guess Who Does Not.

As the photo might suggest, Day One of the "Introduce Rice Cereal to Grace via the Spoonful Experiment" didn't go so well. While I'm sure she'll grow to love it and certainly will master the art of eating from a spoon, she was less than thrilled with the first attempt. This "Dude, get that camera outta my face." moment came between the "Why do you keep shoving that gruel-covered plastic thing at me?" moment and the "Just bring me the damn bottle like we usually do because now I'm really hungry!" scream. Good times.

Other notes from the baby battlefront:
*Now a few days in, the rice cereal seems to have increased the frequency, ferocity and volume of the poo. Yesterday as I was changing her, I swear I could hear Jeff Goldblum behind me saying, "That's one big pile of shit."

*Grace refuses to crap in a wet diaper. I know she holds it so she can purposely soil a fresh one and drive me up the wall. When she poos it is usually not five to ten minutes after she has been changed. I worry that my daughter will be singularly responsible for filling the world's landfills just because she enjoys tweaking her parents.

*As Grace has discovered that her hands are more than just things that hang at the end of her arms and that she can grasp, pull and push with them, she has turned into Sylvester Stallone at feeding time. When drinking from the bottle she'll throw some Over the Top move at me, jerking the bottle out of her mouth and nearly out of my hand. A strong little bugger that one is. The first few times it was cute and funny; now it has become a constant battle for bottle control supremacy. Unfortunately, due to her cleft I can't just cede control and let her hold the bottle. (I still have to squeeze the formula into her mouth.) There is probably some metaphor about fathers and daughters and never again having the upper hand floating around in the situation but I really don't feel like thinking about that right now.

With Spring, Comes Our Pasttime.

In preparation for his upcoming baseball season, I have been playing catch with and pitching batting practice to Z for the better part of the week. It has reminded me why I love baseball so much. Not the game of millionaires and steroid fueled meatheads (though I don't begrudge any of them their paychecks and Camden Yards is still one of my favorite places on the planet); no, I've been enjoying the simple game of baseball that can as easy as tossing catch in the front yard. Zipping the ball back and forth requires no thought, no words, no analysis. You can lose yourself in the sunshine, the smell of the glove, the snap of cowhide smacking webbing, in the repetitive, but beautiful simplicity of stepping and throwing.

Steve McQueen bouncing a baseball off the wall to while away his time in the prison camp cooler in The Great Escape is just one example of baseball symbolizing America. Whether Abner Doubleday truly invented the game on American soil is irrelevant. The game was cultivated here- on vacant lots and pristine green grass, by spending hours bouncing tennis balls off the front steps and by feeding tokens into the batting cage, by making wiffleballs dance on the breeze and by marveling at the majestic sleight-of-hand of a well turned 6-4-3 double play. And, often, just by fathers and children, teammates and buddies, coaches and players, havin' a catch in the yard.

That's More Like It.

I've been bashing the Washington Capitals pretty hard the last couple weeks, however, I'm happy to say I don't feel like doing that this morning. Even though Nashville drew first blood, figuratively and literally, the Caps played the way we all know they are capable and ended their four game losing streak with a hard fought victory. For the first time in a long time, the Caps put together a complete performance. Backchecking forwards helped the defense. Puck chasing forecheckers played the cycle game, grinding down the Nashville defense. And, miracle of miracles, the Caps' big defensemen actually hit someone. There were some big collisions all night, but none was bigger than Shoane Morrisson decking Jason Arnott square in the chest with his shoulder. The hit put Arnott on his ass and out of the game.

This game was fun to watch because it included everything that makes hockey great: a playoff intensity (Nashville desperate to make the playoffs, Washington desperate to break out of their funk), amazing goaltending (Theodore was good, Ellis was outstanding), two beautiful, tic tac toe goals from the Caps and three fun fights. Donald Brashear took a rare beating from Wade Belak and Matt Bradley looked like he'd been bobbing for razor blades after getting wailed on by Jordan Tootoo, but the fights seemed to energize the Caps. Washington outworked Nashville from end to end and solved Ellis just often enough to earn two points. Hopefully, they can put together another solid effort Thursday in Philly. I'm not ready to declare the Caps back, but man were they fun to watch last night.

Aging Hotel-Enemy of the Germophobe

I had the occasion to spend Saturday night in a respected but aging hotel in Ocean City. As a hypochondriac germophobe I'm not a huge fan of hotels to begin with, but when the room looks like it hasn't been updated since I was in junior high school I'm even more wary. (Which is pretty ridiculous because a newer, shinier, cleaner "looking" hotel can be dirtier than an old hotel, but whatever.) To the germophobe, a hotel room is a hazard zone fraught with peril. Thanks to Dateline NBC (bedbugs, blacklights and moldy carpet, oh my!) and my subscription to Staphylococcus Illustrated, I know what dangers await in the hotel room. I can take a shower in a hotel bath and not feel clean. Once, because I was staying by myself for the week on a work trip, I wiped nearly every hard surface in the room (including the tv remote) with antibacterial wipes. Upon entering a hotel room my OCD senses start tingling as my good sense does battle with the hat trick of unknowns-Who stayed here last, what godawful things did they do while here, and how well was it really cleaned by the housekeeper that makes five bucks an hour?

The first step, and I think all my germophobe counterparts hiding behind their surgical masks out there will agree, is always to remove the bed spread and toss it in the corner because I will have no use for that filth ridden rag for the duration of my stay. I only had to be told once that many hotels don't change the bedspreads between guests. I don't even know if it's true or not, but I don't take any chances. They are lucky I don't set fire to it upon arrival. One thing's for sure, I refuse to share a bed cover with Johnny SpankIt who just spent the down time on his business trip watching porn with the hand lotion nearby.

Once I disposed of the bedspread, a quick survey of the room netted a few other sights that immediately triggered the psychosomatic itching. Is that crusty red stain dribbling down the front of the nightstand drawer old pizza sauce...or dried blood? The stains on the exposed side of the boxspring guarantee that I won't be looking under the sheets at what other treats have been left on the actual mattress. And let's not even speak of the faded couch that was spotted enough that I didn't sit on it for fear that it might actually be sticky. I had to bite my tongue the next morning when my mother-in-law sat my infant daughter on the armrest to play. Good thing Amanda waited until we were on our way home to tell me that my mother-in-law had also dropped Grace's bib on the couch and then used it wipe the drool from Grace's mouth.

Maybe it's time to purchase an RV.

Again?

I made a vow to myself that my next post would be about something other than hockey or complaining about the Capitals. Consider the promise broken. The Caps' shitstink performances Sunday against Florida and tonight versus Carolina, plus the looming trade deadline, has pushed me into writing about them. Forget trades, GM George McPhee should be concerned with one thing tomorrow- How long is the heart transplant list? McPhee needs to be on standby with his little white and red cooler, ready to hop a chopper to whatever hospital fields an accident victim who doesn't pull through. Because if the Caps don't start playing with more heart they are the ones who aren't going to pull through. Standing around in your own zone while opponents bounce around like carnival acrobats is no longer acceptable. Giving up two shorthanded goals in one period is no longer acceptable. Leaving your inexperienced goalie hanging is no longer acceptable. Please George, prep the OR before this team flatlines in April.

Full Speed Ahead

And I thought watching $132 million man Alex Ovechkin try to freight train every opponent was scary. If you are a Caps fan this video is cringe-worthy and hilarious at the same time. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YMlJCb9XdeE

Maybe I Was Wearing Beer Goggles.

A tease. A flirt. That's exactly what the Washington Capitals ice hockey club is these days. Washington is the hot girl in a bar-all sexy, exciting and alluring-right until she breaks your heart by not giving you the time of day. Sunday she made eyes at me from across the bar when she dismantled the Pittsburgh Penguins and punked uber-crybaby Sidney Crosby. (I'm not going to really wail on Crosby here, but I will just say that Crosby calling anyone, let alone Alex Ovechkin, a "pu**y", as he did on Sunday, is the height of irony.) So, last night, emboldened by years of flirting and Sunday's eye contact, I made my move and tried buying her a drink. My reward? Washington through the drink in my face; her third period meltdown was as ugly as it gets. Now I will not trust her again. Oh sure, I'll keep my eyes on her, checking her out from across the room, but if she wants to dance she'll have to ask me; I'm tired of being rejected. Translating my mangled metaphor- I'm through believing the Caps will have any real success in the playoffs until I actually see it.

The Caps were outclassed by a superior opponent last night in a game in which Philly was missing one their best scorers and one of their best shut-down defensemen. The Caps' deficiencies have turned chronic. Their defensemen refuse to put a body on an opposing forward. On the Flyers' third and fourth goals (in a 4-2 victory, don't forget) Jeff Schultz could have disrupted the play by putting a shoulder into someone. The fourth goal was especially poor. The Flyer forward (I'm too lazy to look up which fourth line hack it was) skated across the face of the goal as Schultz flailed his stick at the puck. Schultz-For Christ sake, you are a huge man. Put your shoulder into his chest and dislodge him from the puck. You are allowed to do that. I would rather you step up and miss the check than weakly attempt to stick check him.

The Caps were again whistled for nine penalties and could have been called for a few more. Apparently, somebody on the team is getting tired of it. Brooks Laich, via the Washington Post-"...we just seem to take lazy, undisciplined, sometimes they can be criticized as selfish penalties. Every game we shoot the puck in our own zone over the glass. We've got to limit that. We spent basically [the second period] shorthanded." So Brooks' grammar wasn't perfect in that quote, but you get the idea. I wish I could find text of his quote that I heard on the radio this morning. He was harsher and relayed that the players are all grown-ups and should be responsible for taking care of this problem themselves. Coach Boudreau seemed less sure about that saying benchings could be imminent.

These penalties and a boatload of missed chances (three shorthanded breakaways!) cost the Caps last night and will continue to plague them if not corrected. I want so badly to believe they can do it, but maybe it was the beer goggles tricking me all these years, because the Caps sure looked ugly last night compared to that chick from Philly. (Who, for the record, I wouldn't go home with if it was closing time on Armageddon Day.)

No Hat, No Cattle

On Friday night I was the most powerful man in Washington D.C. I pushed through no stimulus packages, nor did I admonish CEOs from my Congressionial high horse. No, unfortunately, I controlled the entire outcome of a professional sporting event. A couple of weeks ago I threw my lucky Capitals hat onto the ice following an Alex Ovechkin hat trick. I feared that the undefeated (4-0) hat was the key to me witnessing Caps victories in person. Now that it was gone I am doomed to see the Caps lose in person for the rest of the year. Friday night's dismal loss to the Colorado Avalanche seems to have confirmed my neurotic suspicions. My departed hat has to be the only explanation for such an awful defeat. Or does it?

Perhaps the Caps crappy performance was not some paranormal event related to one fan's hat, but instead was a performance indicative of the flaws this team possesses that threaten to derail what should be a deep playoff run. For weeks the Caps have played with fire; they lack one trait- toughness. Hockey toughness can manifest itself in several ways and, fortunately, the Caps display it in some ways. They have the league's toughest fighter, Donald Brashear, a talented crop of grinding forecheckers and superstar Alex Ovechkin backs down from no one. Dig a little deeper, however, and you'll find that this team is severely lacking in two other toughness departments- mental toughness and defensive toughness.

Mentally the Caps don't show up every night. This team plays to the level of its opponent on a consistent basis. They have some remarkable wins against the Devils, Bruins, Habs and Red Wings, but have lost badly to the Kings, Avs and others. It is good to play up against the big guys, but championship teams pile up points by winning the games they are supposed to win. Lose focus against these teams and you cost yourself valuable standings points. A handful of extra victories against bad teams would have put the division away already. I'm not panicking by any stretch, but the Caps need a killer instinct against the weaker teams. Fortunately, in the playoffs there are no bad teams and hopefully nobody for this team to look past.

The other mental deficiency the Caps have is discipline. They take way too many penalties. You would think a team that has a penalty kill ranked in the bottom third of the league would do its best to stay out of the box. These players take some of the dumbest penalties. Penalties in the offensive zone, lazy hooks that wouldn't be necessary with a little skating, hauling a guy down because you are out of position or make a careless pass-it's enough to drive a fan nuts. It just doesn't make any sense when you see one of the fastest, most talented players in the league(Ahem, Alex Semin) hook a guy in the neutral zone instead of skating with him. As I was stuck in bed ill all last weekend, I was able to watch both weekend Caps games in their entirety. In two games they took three delay of game penalties for shooting the puck over the glass. In neither case was the player pressured by an opponent. That shouldn't happen three times in a season, let alone in back-to-back games. The longer your team is shorthanded, the less time your amazing offensive talent can be on display. In the playoffs, good opponents will cash in regularly if the Caps constantly parade to the penalty box. I don't think this team has that kind of margin of error.

Finally, and this flaw was glaringly apparent in person Friday night, this team lacks defensive toughness. I know Scott Stevenses don't grow on trees, but this team has no one on the blueline that intimidates opposing forwards. Teams skate into the offensive zone without fear and are rarely impeded. This puts pressure on the goaltenders and pressure on the offense to score. Then chances are taken to score which leads to defensive breakdowns which continues the vicious cycle. I love Bruce Boudreau's aggressive puck possession system; he simply needs defensmen that aren't too wimpy to hit somebody at the blue line or lay lumber on a forward who takes one too many swipes at the goaltender.

This post has been terribly gloomy, but I feel that the forecast is much sunnier than I've written here. The Caps' strengths, in my opinion, far outweigh these weakness. However, these weaknesses loom large enough to take down, what I believe is, a Stanley Cup contender. I hope they address these flaws soon. The trading deadline nears, but it would be even better if they started today when Pittsburgh comes to town. If not, it won't matter what hat I'm wearing on my next trip to Verizon Center.

Is Mommy Home Yet?

Being a part-time stay at home dad has been terrific so far. Z is out of town this week so I haven't had the usual Manny/Mentor assignment, which has left even more QT for Grace and I. She usually has a delightful demeanor and is a joy to play with. As she grows older, having just turned 4 four months, she requires a lot more interaction and entertaining. This is fine by me, but some days it seems I empty my entire bag of tricks and she still isn't satisfied.

Fortunately, Grace is learning to entertain herself (Hey look, I have hands!) and loves to play on her activity mat. I also love the mat because after spending some time on the floor with her I can sneak away to do some nearby chores while she talks to the lights and animals that hang overhead. Every once in a while, though, I place her on the mat and get a look that says "Are you serious, this same mat again? Do I look stupid?". So, now, not wanting my daughter to think that I think she is stupid(there will plenty of time for that when she is a teenager), I scoop her up and grab the next weapon in my arsenal. However, it is crushing when, after singing, reading poem after story after poem, dancing(don't ask), voicing finger puppets, playing in the mirror and walking around the house doing any of the above, she still is fussing. It's a double kick in the nuts when you look at the clock and your hours of entertaining have actually only taken like three minutes. I feel like a magician who reaches into his hat only to remember he didn't pack the rabbit. Maybe I should have gone to clown college.

A-Rod Takes His Medicine (Legally This Time)

"A-Rod is not a douchebag." With this statement, my wife nearly caused me to run off the road, for I do indeed think A-Rod is a douchebag and was surprised to hear a defense of him come from the passenger seat. She had heard a portion of A-Fraud's press conference on the radio and thought he came off sounding pretty good. I watched the entire thing on tv and couldn't disagree with her more.

Let the record show that I can't stand Alex Rodriguez for many reasons that long pre-date his steroid revelations. I give him credit for standing up, admitting he used banned substances and taking some lumps for it. That alone is far more than Mark "I'm not here to talk about the past" McGwire has done. And Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens have clung so tightly to their lies that they are in jeopardy of serving time for perjury. (However, I really feel the Feds must surely have better things to investigate than whether overgrown boys were on the juice. I know, I know-they are being accused of lying to Congress, a big no-no. But, in my opinion, it was a foolish waste of time and taxpayer dollars to haul them in front of Congress in the first place.) As for A-Roid, had he given more open answers today, I would have been even more impressed. Instead, he was trying to do some image polishing with a wink and a nod; just like his PR army instructed, no doubt.

To me, there is no halfway here; if he went this far, then we need full disclosure. I don't mean that I need to know which ass cheek he got his injections in, but tell us what you were using. Playing coy, using steroid nicknames, and saying he didn't even know if he was using them correctly doesn't really wash with me. He must think I am young and naive if he thinks I believe, as he said, that he was too young, stupid and naive to know better. First of all he wasn't that young when he rocked the juice. He was age 25,26 and 27 during the seasons he juiced. He kept saying he was a stupid kid,23,at the time, but anybody with a brain can calculate what age he actually was at the time. Not that that distinction even matters. Age 23 isn't a kid and I know plenty of 23-year-olds who are mature, intelligent people capable of making the right decision. Rodriguez's transgressions were no silly youthful indiscretions and his claims to that effect just make him even less genuine. Here is a man blessed with more athletic ability than most humans and he still feels the need to cheat. I believe every world class athlete knows exactly what they are putting in their bodies. Don't insult my intelligence by telling me that well, "We knew they weren't tic tacs." Ha, ha, ha. No shit, Dr. Dummy.

It was just this casual "fakeness" that really upset me. He wants to get out in front of this story, but doesn't want to do the heavy lifting. There were too many quotes and examples of this to list them all, so here are only a few. He said God put him in a position to help "make the world a better place" by spreading the anti-steroid message. Please, that one doesn't even need analysis. Then he said he just wanted to be judged from this day forward. That's exactly the tone the entire press conference had for me. Let me throw the reporters a few bones, sound as contrite as a cardboard cutout possibly can and then I can sweep this entire mess under the rug. It's not that easy. Truthfully, I don't give a damn what these guys do to their bodies. Not my liver, not my balls. However, many people do care so there is no way this story is going away. The last straw for me, though, was when a reporter asked A-Rod if injecting the steroids like he had, was cheating. Alex would have gained an enormous amount of respect from me had he simply looked into the camera and said yes. Instead, he dodged the question. Nice honesty, douchebag.

Something's Fishy.

From the Insubstantial, But Annoying Dept:Riddle me this-Why would Cheesecake Factory put cole slaw on their fish tacos? Was it to cover up the fact that the "grilled" tuna on the tacos appeared to have the flavor boiled right out of it? Or is because carrots and cabbage are things you usually find on tacos? And if one is going to put coleslaw on tacos shouldn't one include that on the list of ingredients (that included every other thing on the plate) in the menu? Have I now asked so many unimportant questions that I have become insubstantial and annoying?

Fast Forward Five Years

Dad Gone Mad is a blog that I regularly read and enjoy. Reading today's post was like hopping in a time machine heading five years into the future when Grace is five.

America the Stupid.

I know making sweeping generalizations is often a dangerous way to give an opinion. It allows no wiggle room for details and can unintentionally insult people. But I'm not going to let that stop me from criticizing two things that I recently noticed.

This is the part where my wife usually tells me that I am being judgmental and condescending, reminding me that I have tried neither of the two things that I am about to rip. She often punctuates this admonishing with an all too accurate impersonation of me huffing and puffing about how stupid something is. I acknowledge that she is usually correct and that I often enjoy, with the exceptions of roller coasters and waiting in line at Coldstone Creamery , the things I choose to negatively prejudge. However, like the General Lee through a "Bridge is Out" sign, I will gleefully proceed down this dangerous road.

So why am I calling you out, America? Exhibit A of your common stupidity is Paul Blart, Mall Cop. How on earth was this movie the top grossing movie in America for consecutive weeks? Kevin James in a porn moustache? Hilarious. (As an aside, hasn't the whole "moustaches are funny just because they are moustaches" joke run its course? When retro gags become dated themselves it is time to quit.) I'm not sure what Blart was playing against the weeks it finished number one. That it was the only movie showing that week seems like the only reasonable answer. If a fat guy in a security uniform doing slapstick pratfalls is all you need to make a blockbuster, then sign me up. Somebody get me a plastic badge, I'm gonna be rich! Sheesh.

Issue number two is less about being stupid than it is unnecessary. I give you, as seen on tv, the Snuggie. Never mind that it sounds like something I'd have to pay a hooker extra for, do I really need a blanket with sleeves? I think I've seen that somewhere before, oh yeah, hanging in my closet. It's called a robe. Mine comes in flannel; I didn't see that possiblity offered in your infomercial. Those poor helpless people in the commercial who can't hold a phone and stay warm at the same time, whose hands are "trapped" underneath a blanket-God forbid they have real problems. The only practical application I could see for the Snuggie is using them in place of hospital gowns. Then my giant ass might actually be covered while I wait for Dr. Coldhands. Though, I'd probably still manage to put it on backwards.

I'm sure with this post I have offended at least one friend or reader who can't wait until Blart comes out on DVD so they can wrap themselves in their Snuggie and watch from their couch. And if history is any indicator, my wife and I will be right there with them, me wearing my Snuggie and my Wife wearing her "I told you so" face.

Boudreau Off The Top Rope!

As if I needed one more reason to love Caps coach Bruce Boudreau. He's candid, funny, creative, appeared in Slapshot and now this. I don't even like wrestling, but for nostalgia's sake alone this is good stuff.

What Have I Wrought?

A couple of Sundays ago, thanks to the generosity of my cousin and people she knows, I found myself sitting in the Club level at Verizon Center for the Caps-Senators game. The story that follows serves as a portal to look into my sad, superstitious little mind.

As Alex Ovechkin scored his second goal early in the second period against a Sens defense that was imploding before my very eyes, I had two related thoughts-there is plenty of time for Ovie to notch a hat trick and, if he does put up that third goal, I am close enough to consider tossing my hat to the ice as tradition dictates. Sure enough, midway through the period, Ovechkin fires a laser through the defenseman's skates and past the goalie for his hat trick goal. The crowd explodes from its seats (something I can't do as easily in the cheaper, narrower "Fat Guys Should Not Sit Here" seats that I'm normally relegated to in the upper deck). High fives are slapping, the foghorn is blaring and the music is wailing. Swept up in the moment I decide, for the first time in my hockey fan career, to toss my hat towards the ice. Great game, great moment to celebrate, right? Not exactly.

You see, the hat I casually tossed away was undefeated. (Here's where the sad, superstitious part comes in.) As soon as the hat left my hand I cursed myself for casting it aside in such a fleeting moment. Prior to this season, I hadn't seen the Caps win in person in a long time, maybe since the lockout. This season, however, I've been to four games and witnessed four victories. Never mind that the Caps have stunk for a couple seasons and this year they are one of the best home teams in the league, surely it is something my friends and I are doing to assure victory. After two victories I thought maybe it was my new Caps hat purchased in the off-season. After three victories I really started searching for common denominators. St4rbux, of Name Your Fear, had been to all three games, but wasn't at this fourth, Ottawa victory. Maybe, if I'm lucky, it is the jersey- t shirt combo that I "happen" to have worn to all four victories. Or maybe it's just me, lucky ol' me. No, that can't be right.

So, possibly, by tossing the hat I have doomed myself to see no more Caps victories in person this season. The first test will be two Fridays from now when I visit Verizon next. I apologize in advance to my seatmates. Unfortunately, if it was the hat, I have broken the victory spell. If they do win, I'll remain a slave to my other superstitions.

Two perhaps karmic sidenotes to the game:
1)My hat did not reach the ice from the club level, instead it clipped a little girl in the arm. She was not bothered in the least and her dad tossed the hat onward, but I felt about "this big". In terms of bothering a child at a Caps game it is only surpassed by my inadvertent insulting of Bobby Carpenter's son back in the 1990's.
2)I found out after the game that the hats scooped from the ice after hat tricks are left ,for a brief time, at a lost-and-found spot in the arena so the owners may reclaim them. This info would have been more useful were I not already off the Metro and in my car when I received it. Damn it.

Gracie Goes To Washington.

Grace's first trip into D.C. (If you don't count in Mommy's belly.)

Grab Bag

A hastily cobbled-together collection of what's been on my radar lately. (It's quite possible you'll be dumber after having read this.)

- I think the new Castrol Think with your dipstick! commercial is hilarious. Everything time that Scottish dude shouts it, I laugh my ass off. The Super Bowl Castrol grease monkey ad wasn't too bad either.

-The Angry Whopper is not that angry. Tasty, but dissapointingly, not angry.

-Great thing about our newly aquired HDtv-Hockey in HD. Best thing about HDtv-The Food Network's Giada DeLaurentis working with her melons in HD.

-Went ice skating tonight for the first time in nearly two years. First time on an outdoor rink. Damn, that was fun.

-Thanks to my friend Jack who led me to this hilarious infomercial that I'm still not convinced isn't a spoof: http://www.tiddybearcomfortstrap.com/. Watch, listen and enjoy.

25 Random Facts About Me.

This survey has been sweeping Facebook, so I caved and filled it out. Thought I would crosspost it here.
1. I'm proud to be a dork.
2. I love New Orleans. I couldn't live there, but I could visit for about two weeks every year.
3. I don't drink coffee and I don't put milk on my cereal.
4. I am neither an animal lover nor an animal hater. I'm more like an animal tolerator.(Though I hate to see any animal in distress.
5. I kind of miss going to mass, but I have some issues with the Catholic Church.
6. Hockey is my favorite sport to play, but baseball is the best sport to follow religiously.
7. I'm not an "idea" guy. However, I enjoy helping others hone their's.
8. Dying of a food-borne illness is among my top five fears.
9. I think Richard Dawson may still be the coolest dude in America.
10. Working at Barnes and Noble was great- except for the customers.
11. I have an amazing wife and beautiful daughter. Each of them makes me a better person.
12. Random rap lyric that I'm glad is NOT true about me: "I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom."
13. I do a piss poor job of keeping in touch with people, especially my faraway friends.
14. It's possible I would eat anything if it was deep-fried.
15. I wish I had more time to blog.
16. If being a Weitzel's busboy was lucratrive I could have done it forever.
17. I wish I could grow a real beard, not one that is patchy and lame.
18. Ii's amazing how many things you thought were important no longer are once you have a child.
19. I'm 34 and still don't know what I'll do when I grow up.
20. I'm thankful that others volunteer for military duty so that I don't have to serve.
21. These pretzels are making me thirsty.
22. Bryan Evans and I were convinced that we could share hosting duties and top billing of a successful late night talk show. It's just crazy enough to work. Why? Because Bryans rule.
23. I'm a Republican that voted for Obama.
24. Managing a glass shop mostly sucked, but I'm proud to possess a a fairly rare trade skill.
25. If I had to choose one make-believe career it would be a toss-up between between Captain of the Millenium Falcon and a Ghostbuster. I love Star Wars, but bustin' makes me feel good.

Make Way, Baby on Board.

Playing manny/stay-at-home dad has gone pretty well so far, so inch by inch I've been getting bolder with my activities with Grace. A few days ago we tackled a trip to the grocery store together for the first time. Why I picked the Glen "When did so many people move to Glen Burnie?"Burnie Wal-Mart Super Center at 3pm on a Friday afternoon is beyond me. Probably because our lives have become an ever-changing quadratic equation of feeding times and spare minutes and I thought I could squeeze the trip into my limited window. With an hour to an hour-and-a-half until probable feeding time I bundled the girl up and ventured forth without any formula or milk. Like a bomb squad hearing the ticking, I had one eye on the clock and one eye on the sweat beading on my forehead from the moment we left the driveway.

With carseat safely in cart and diaper bag slung over my shoulder I entered the store and immediately started using what has become my go-to move when in crowded public places with Grace. I put on the harried dad face, look a little frazzled (neither expression faked or exaggerated, of course) and wait for the seas to part. It's amazing the looks I get just pushing my little pumpkin around. Grandmothers nod knowingly, clerks smile and even other dads with older kids make way for my rolling circus. I've gotten so accustomed to this treatment that when somebody doesn't immediately cede their aisle space (which obviously they have every right not to) I catch myself getting exasperated. Hello, did you not see the red carpet unrolling before me as I walk? For crying out loud I have a BAY-BEE in the cart! Grace, for the most part, doesn't interfere with my plan, sleeping away as I use her cuteness to manipulate my fellow shoppers.

On this day, however, the store was so packed and the aisles so clogged that even my diabolical scheming wasn't getting me through fast enough. I'm checking my watch knowing that, though she is sleeping peacefully now, I could be moments away from a full scale Grace Hunger Wail. Running out of time I do the only thing I can - I turn into the goddamn Jack Bauer of grocery shoppers. I'm sending the cart careening around corners, diving for cans on endcaps. I toss a grenade to blow through a blockade of carts and shoppers in the freezer section (Cleanup on Aisle 4!). I even shoot a mouthy deli clerk in the leg for taking too long with the Meunster cheese. My urgency pays off (or so I think) as I arrive at the car with Grace awake but smiling.

Fifteen minutes shy of the house, however, my Princess Jekyll turns into Ms. Hyde. With the flip of a switch my smiling, laughing baby girl is wailing, screaming what I'm sure are tiny baby insults at me. Of course, in accordance with Baby Law #37, the decibel level of Grace's screams was inversely proportional to the speed of the drivers in front of me. Alas, I have no Jack Bauer left in me; there will be no super driving. I am left to suffer in traffic learning a very valuable lesson that deep down I knew all along. Never be a daredevil. Always take the formula with you.

Baby Product Endorsement

Though it sounds like something unseemly you'd encounter in a one of those clubs on Bourbon Street that have signs that boast "Watch women turn into men before your eyes!", Boudreaux's Butt Paste rocks. It knocks out diaper rash like a Tie Domi cheap shot on Ulf Samuelson.

Mr. Mom Makes His Big League Debut

Amanda returned to work today following her 11 week maternity leave thereby commencing my new Mr. Mom era. I embark on this new era with sweaty palms and some trepidation. I have handled Grace alone plenty, feeding and changing her often. I'm confident she's in good hands, but it is still nice to have your teammate around. Amanda, I'm sure, has her own anxiety to deal with-leaving Grace, returning to work, knowing she's leaving Grace with her dopey father, etc.

So, how did Day One go, you ask? In a word-Chunky. You see, Grace decided that today was the day to have the two worst(at least that I can recall) spit-up episodes of her young life. I'm not sure if she is protesting Mommy leaving or what, but she uncorked two unholy floods that may very well have ruined two outfits and a TV remote control. I haven't seen this much spew since Lard Ass set off the chain reaction vomiting at the pie eating contest in Stand By Me. With her partially cleft palate, Grace usually has some stuff exit through her nose on the occasions when she does spit up. Today, however, it gushed out. It looked like when the snakes poured out of the holes in the wall of the Well of Souls in Raiders of the Lost Ark. I don't know where all the spit up came from; it didn't seem like she had eaten enough today to produce the volume that came back out. Maybe my kid is a camel that has stored formula for weeks waiting for this very moment.

But I can't complain because, other than coating my shirts enough that they looked like I was about to make french toast out of them, my girl Gracie was awesome to hang with on Day One. Who knows what will crop up on Day Two. All I know is I'll be ready for the spit-up machine having already fashioned a shirt out of super absorbent Brawny paper towels. Wish me luck.

Our wacky year of change continued on a sad note Thursday; my maternal grandfather, Jorge Mino, passed away at age 88 after a tough bout with cancer. He enjoyed reading what I wrote, often imploring me to write more frequently, so I'm going to use this meager forum that I have to attempt to pay tribute to him.


My grandfather squeezed a lot of living into his 88 years. Born and raised in Ecuador, he was an engineer who helped literally carve roads and rails through the Ecuadorian jungle. He had many amazing tales from those days, but one always stood out as my favorite- They were working near a canal where the wind blew so steady and so powerfully that you could lean against it as if it were a wall. Of course, my grandfather happened to be leaning when the wind let up just long enough for him to fall backwards into the canal.


In the early 1940's my grandparents emigrated to the U.S. becoming American citizens. My grandfather was fiercely proud to be an American and truly lived the suburban American dream. He was so patriotic and pro-America that I was reluctant to tell him when I purchased my first Honda for fear of a lecture about "Made in the USA". He often praised the work ethic of Americans as compared to Ecuadorians, whom he said often didn't want to put in a full workday. He instilled this work ethic in his three children who, in turn, passed it onto his grandchildren. (Just because I don't always heed the lesson doesn't mean I didn't learn it.)


One of the other things Grandpa loved about America was its national pasttime. He loved baseball, sharing this love with his children and, I can say for sure, this grandchild. He and my mom sparked an interest in the game that for me has sometimes bordered on obsession. Grandpa may have loved baseball, but he excelled in golf. While I was never actually able to play a round with him, I've heard he was very good. And his tips and clubs have helped my game immensely. My grandfather followed many other sports and even tried to watch one of my favorites, hockey, because he knew I played and wanted to learn more about the game. He may have been the only man in America who like Fox's Glo-puck. The gimmick actually helped his tiring eyes follow the action.



Grandpa's greatest passion of all, though, was his family. I know a grandson's perspective can be rather biased, but I know he cared for nothing more than the well-being of my family. He took great pride in grandchildren's stellar report cards and school projects. His encouragement or "atta boy" was always considered high praise. As kids, Grandpa would always "secretly" slip us some cash at every visit, something "for the gas tank", even if we weren't yet at driving age. Then sometime during high school the small gifts stopped. It was an unspoken, understood signal that I was growing old enough to take care of my own cash flow. A lesson that was not lost on me. Grandpa would often spend his time tracking hurricanes possibly churning towards coastal relatives or watching the flight numbers of planes ferrying family members. ( See I told you my anxiety was hereditary.) I always found these things ironic because he had a great many adventures as a young man. Did he worry his way through those? I'll never know.


In recent years, he slowed his pace and traveled less frequently. As I grew older and real life intruded, I visited far less than I should have. I will regret that to a certain extent, especially with e-mail and telephones I should have kept in better contact. That's not to say we didn't talk, because we did and I enjoyed it every single time. My grandfather and I had intelliegent conversations, he possesed a wicked, hilarious wit and he told the greatest stories.

I am forever grateful that he was able to meet Grace; during the summer he admitted he feared he wouldn't be around to get that chance. We were to see him the day after Christmas; obviously we missed that last trip. But now Grandpa is free from the multiple bouts with cancer, the tricky back, the creaky knees and the failing hearing. He had made peace with his end, so now it is up to the rest of us to make peace with it as well.

Dr. Bryan Hailey, D.D.S.

Little did I know when I took the Manny job that I would, as part of my duties, have to masquerade as an orthodontist. Okay, perhaps masquerade is not the right word; I didn't perpetrate a fraud on the public by impersonating an orthodontist. However, I have played amateur orthodontist as I have had to repair Z's appliance a handful of times over the last couple weeks. Z has a Herbst device, which I can assure you is indeed an orthodontic appliance and not some sort of evil weather changing machine.

Mr. President release the prisoners or I will be forced to unleash the Herbst Device! Bwa ha ha ha.

Anyway, back in the real world, the Herbst device is a hinged appliance that works in conjunction with braces to move the jaw and teeth. The hinge, though wired to the braces, sort of moves freely in the mouth. And sometimes the hinge pulls apart and must be repaired. That's where I come in. To put the hinge back together, it first must be taken further apart. This requires removing and then replacing the tiniest microscopic screw you've ever seen. So I, Clumsiest Man Alive, have to use my ham hands to remove and replace the screw. Poor Z has to yank his cheek over like a fishhook so I can jam my fat fingers in his mouth. Anyone who knows me knows that finesse is not my strong suit, but the "procedure" went quite smoothly. After several procedures over the course of a couple days I became quite adept and it became rather routine.

Since it seemed that the hinge was sliding apart too often we went back to the orthodontist to make sure there wasn't something Z was doing wrong to cause the frequent mishaps. No, they said, everything looked great and as he adjusted to having the device in his mouth it would probably occur less frequently. Great. Everything's hunky dory, end of story, right? Of course not.

That night, a mere three hours since we've been in the orthodontists office, the cap that anchors the device to his back tooth breaks completely free allowing the device to float around in his mouth held in only by a string thin wire attached to to the braces. By this time I'm wondering if I'm being punk'd by my family. I've never had braces (though I should have), but I understand there is a certain level of frustrating maintenance that goes with the the deal. This, however, seems ridiculous. I'm thinking we are going to have to make a trip back to the orthodontist office because there is no way Z could get through the night like this.

I call the emergency after-hours number and the doc on duty tells me to just take some wire cutters and snip the wire so I can remove the device until we can come back in and have it put back on. Really, just take some wire cutters and snip that little old wire, huh? But that's what I did. Of course, not having sterile equipment or an autoclave I had to root in my tool bucket for wire cutting options. I found dull scissors, rusty pliers and filthy wire cutters. It looked like an array of torture tools.

Hey, Z, maybe after I clip that wire I can use these rusty pliers to rip out your toenails.

Fortunately, the wire cutters cleaned up well and, despite the dubious look on his face, Z let me clip the wire. I even did it safely without chipping any teeth or slashing any gums. Maybe I've found a new calling. I wonder how I'd look in a white lab coat.

Movie Review Haiku-Quantum of Solace

Flick only so-so,
Bad title and awful song,
Dan Craig still cool, though

Did you hear that?

One of the toughest adjustments I've had to make so far as a new dad is tempering my overactive worry gene. My dad lives by the credo, "I'll worry when there is something to worry about." On the other hand, my worry meter, via my mom's side of the family, says "There's something wrong, I just don't know what it is yet."

The area where my anxiety is toughest on me is in the baby sounds department. You need to be an NSA cryptographer to decode the meanings of all the sounds the baby makes. Some are cute and some will make you bolt upright in bed in the middle of the night (assuming you've been able to fall asleep in the first place). Gurgle. Sigh. Snore. Sneeze. Hiccup. Gasp. Squeak. Amanda and I have conversations that would sound ridiculous to outsiders. (Though, I suspect most new parents have had the same conversations.)

"She's making a weird snoring sound. Do you think that's normal?"

"Hey, she stopped making that weird snoring sound. Think that's normal? Check to make sure she's still breathing."

"Is that a different gurgle than the one she was making yesterday?"

"Is that more sneezing? I hope that cold hasn't settled in her kidney."

Logically I know that most of the sounds are normal and, unless they are accompanied by signs of distress and/or crying, that they are harmless indicators that my daughter is growing. I just wish she wasn't a Navajo Codetalker leaving me to decipher the code of what's normal and what is not.

What A Difference A Year Makes.

Change has come to to Washington (and I don't mean Barack Obama). Last Thanksgiving I was texting back and forth with Killer as news broke that Caps' coach Glen Hanlon was being fired. After losing to the Thrashers 5-1 on Thanksgiving Eve, the Caps had stumbled to a 6-14-1 start. Though I respect Hanlon very much, I figured a shakeup was necessary. The Caps installed minor league lifer Bruce Boudreau as coach , they won the day after Thanksgiving and the team soared from there. Winning at a torrid pace allowed the Caps to narrowly earn a division title and play a nail-biting playoff series against Philly. Alex Ovechkin thrived in Boudreau's up-tempo, puck possession system, scoring 65 goals and 112 points. More importantly, the Caps were exciting and relevant again. This Thanksgiving, the Caps stand atop the division with a 12-7-3 record after smacking the Thrashers 5-3 last night. Let's hope this year they also win their first post-Turkey Day game because I'll be there Friday night to see it live. Happy Thanksgiving.

Adventures In Babysitting

Amanda went to the Redskins-Cowboys game last night so I got my first crack at caring for Grace alone for a long period of time. Until last night I don't think Amanda had been out without Grace for longer than an hour or two. She deserved the break, but I was a little nervous to fly solo for that long. Fortunately, there was no real adventure; Grace and I enjoyed a rather uneventful, fun evening together. In fact, Mommy may have been at the game, but, as the picture shows, Grace and I got to play dress-up for the game. I think I got the better end of the bargain.

Grab Bag

Busy days and sleep deprivation have kept me from piecing together enough coherent thoughts to write a lengthy post, but I do have a few unrelated, passing thoughts:

*Z and I have revived a game I hadn't played since I was a kid-PunchBuggy. We play virtually every time we are in the car. It has surprised me just how many of the newer Beetles there are on the road.

*I saw a funny license plate on a giant SUV yesterday. I wonder how many kids the "MOMVOY" was toting.

*I love to eat. I love to eat breakfast. I love to eat Chick-Fil-A breakfast. The other day I had a Chicken, Egg and Cheese Bagel sandwich. Which begs the question-When preparing this sandwich which do they place on the bagel first, the chicken or the egg?

*Cliche Alert! In a move akin to rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic or putting lipstick on a pig (please don't lecture me Sen. McCain), the Orioles unveiled new uniforms yesterday. Actually, they just made some minor adjustments, but I like them all. For the first time since 1972 the road gray jersey will say Baltimore instead of Orioles across the front. They also fixed the bird logo so it now looks more like an Oriole and less like a duck. Of course, unless the new unis are some sort of sci-fi exoskeletons that make the players more talented we are still looking at a well-dressed last place team.

*Due to a wacky cable situation I don't get Comcast SportsNet so I've only been able to watch three Caps' games this year. They have won all three so maybe I better fix my cable situation.

*Finally, I've decided that my infant daughter is like Triumph the Insult Comic Dog. "Oh daddy, this onesie you have put on me is very nice. Yes, nice enough...for me to poop on."

School of Grace

More observations and lessons learned as I continue serving my first term as Mayor of New Daddy Town:

-The cuter the compliment silkscreened on a onesie (sweet princess, cute little bunny, mommy's buttered biscuit), the likelier it is that the girl wearing it will spit up, poo, or pee all over it.

-Like Amanda's Uncle Bob advised me, ounce for ounce there is no substance on Earth more valuable, no resource more precious than breast milk.

-When my daughter stretches and stirs signaling feeding time she has the exact same herky-jerky dance moves as Elaine Benes on Seinfeld.

-When a crying jag appears to have ended never, ever jinx yourself by saying, "Hey I think she stopped-aw dammit..."

Report:Pigs Flying Through Frozen Hell

I have fundamental differences with Barack Obama's platform yet at 11pm Tuesday night I had goosebumps as they announced he was projected as the 44th President of the United States. There has been much hyperbolic gushing about the significance of the event and maybe I'm just adding to it.

As a white man, I can only surmise what African-Americans are feeling. I shed no tears like those girls at Spellman College, but I do feel like we are turning the page on the last eight years. I thought of my black friends and acquaintances Tuesday night; were they weeping with joy, calling their friends to rejoice together or just taking a moment to let it soak in? Maybe all of the above. Electing a man of color to our highest office becomes a symbol of how far America has come and also of how far it can go. It continues to heal a divide hundreds of years in the making.

Obama has been derided for running mainly on ideas - hope and change. Yet, isn't that what presidents really are, symbols reflecting where the country is or what we want it to become? Personally, I was relieved that the politics of fear and smear did not derail this historic ride.

It will be interesting to watch Barack Obama from here. As rhetoric fades toward reality expectations can become burdens. I was glad to hear, even as the crowd in Grant Park chanted 'Yes we did.', that Obama continued with his familiar refrain of 'Yes we can.' He has already accomplished much, but the challenge has just begun. When you have offered to carry the hope of an entire nation you'd better have strong shoulders. I hope he, and by extension America, is up for the task.

Welcome Back, John McCain.

Like my last couple posts about the election I am not arguing policy here. I was happy to see the funny, likable John McCain show up on SNL last night. He was able to poke fun at himself and his running mate. Had he acted like this instead of a surly, cantankerous liar throughout the general election campaign he might be a lot closer in the polls. (Not that those are locks; it will not shock me if McCain pulls the upset Tuesday.)

As entertaining as I found McCain's opening bit (which, of course, owed more to the writers and Tina Fey than to McCain) I think there was more than a kernel of truth in his Weekend Update bit. He was talking about radical strategy shifts in the face of flagging polls. The startegies had funny names like "The Reverse Maverick" and "The Double Maverick". The one that is probably more true than even McCain would like to admit was called "The Sad Grandpa": "C'mon, Obama's got plenty of chances to be president. When is it gonna be my turn?" Kinda sums it up doesn't it?

One other election note: My favorite statistic of the election season- When the Redskins win their last home game before the election, the incumbent party wins. When the Redskins lose that last home game, the incumbents lose. Bottom line, if you put Country First (gag!) root for the Skins. Ready for Change(yeah right!)? Root for the Steelers. Put's my wife in a bit of a pickle.

Is It November 5th Yet?

Joe the Plumber. Terrorist Pals. Hypnosis. Pit Bull. Hockey Mom. Out of Touch. Amtrak. $150,000 on Clothes. Change We Can Believe In. No, I'm For Change. Bridge To Nowhere. McBush. False Birth Certificates. Celebrity. Ladies and Gentlemen. War Hero. Reverend Wright. ACORN. Drill, Baby, Drill. Country First. Hussein. Maverick. Flag Pin. Old Man Yells at Cloud. You Betcha.

I am so sick of the unprecedented (seems that way to me) kitchen sink, throw-it-against-the-wall-to-see-what-sticks "messaging" that both candidates and their suurogates are employing. Maybe I'm just suffering from 24 hour coverage overload. Either way, I'm thinking of breaking out the DVDs and enjoying a West Wing marathon on election night. This year a fictional president may be our only hope.

Irony Alert

I just heard John McCain accuse Barack Obama of "saying anything to get elected". That's f-ing hilarious. And he said it with a straight face. How about checking out the man in the mirror John "I've Abandoned Everything I Used To Stand For" McCain.

Curse of the Hockey Mom?

This has to be my favorite hockey statistic of the new season. Like a tiki idol around Greg Brady's neck, Sarah Palin appears to be a curse upon any NHL team she visits. She dropped the ceremonial first puck before the Philadelphia Flyers' opening game a couple weeks ago. The Flyers proceeded to lose their first six games. They finally broke the curse last night with a victory over the Devils. How did they break the Palin jinx? Well, they didn't, Gov. Palin did. She dropped the ceremonial puck at the St. Louis Blues game last night and brought her curse with her. The Blues lost the game 4-0 and ,worse yet, their starting goalie, Manny Legace, injured his leg when he stumbled over the carpet used for Palin to walk across the ice. I wonder if her son's team ever won a game.

I'm putting this personal plea out to Caps owner Ted Leonsis right now-For the love of cheese, please do not let this woman inside the Verizon Center. I realize if elected she'll work mere blocks away, but that is close enough. She must never be allowed inside. Never.

Go, Kings(or Preds or Panthers), Go!

Saw an interesting tidbit reported in the Toronto Globe and Mail regarding putting a second NHL franchise in Toronto. Apparently, this is in the very early discussion stages among NHL governors. Personally, I think it would be kind of cool, though I suppose I really don't care one way or another seeing as how I don't live anywhere near Toronto. If it happens I would prefer that an existing, struggling franchise moved as opposed to an expansion team being awarded. I think the NHL has enough teams and revenue issues without worrying about expansion. Sheesh, if Los Angeles can have two teams and the New York area three, why not put another team in a real hockey city?

Meet Grace.

When I was a kid my dad used to joke that whenever we went on a trip-family vacation, visiting relatives,etc- that we would always return home with more stuff than we left with. This was never more true for me than this past Tuesday when I slowly pulled away from the hospital with my most precious cargo ever-my beautiful newborn daughter, Grace Catherine. That's right, she decided to bless us with her arrival about three weeks earlier than the docs predicted. This has made for an exciting, unpredictable week to say the least. I'm pleased to announce that Amanda was a delivery all-star and that she and baby are healthy and happy.

Grace weighed in at a healthy 6 lbs, 6 oz and 19.5 inches. She does, however, have one small issue. She was born with a partially cleft palate; there is a small gap in the soft palate/roof of her mouth. This will require a surgical correction down the road but, fortunately, at this time it causes no major problems. We feel that if this is the worst thing that happened, we are in great shape. Otherwise, we are settling in to the happy transition at home complete with lack of sleep and dirty diapers. I wouldn't change it for anything.

Some of you may be interested in how we finally settled, after months of indecision, on the name Grace Catherine. We had narrowed the list to three-Grace Catherine(Amanda's grandmother's name), Sydney Grace (probably our favorite throughout the pregnancy) and Phoebe Grace(a late entry that didn't even make it on the baby shower Wheel O' Names). For me the tie was broken by our awesome labor and delivery nurse. She was knowledgable, helpful, caring and had a great bedside manner. She refused to take her lunch break even when they offered to cover her late in her shift. She was a blessing who we could not have done without. Her name? Catherine, of course.

A few other observations from my first week as a new dad:

*Before becoming a father I would have never guessed that I would be so happy/relieved to receive a text message that read, "We have poo and pee!".
*There may be nothing sweeter in this world than the soft sigh your daughter emits as she passes out after a breast milk bender.
*If NASA used that tarry, meconium poo to attach the Space Shuttle's heat shield they would never have to worry about tiles flying off during takeoff.
*My wife's Medela breast pump is either the coolest or scariest device I've ever seen, I can't decide which. I'm convinced Medela is Latin for "robot farmer".
*When trying to sing my daughter to sleep I realized how few songs to which I actually know the words. I'm not a huge music fan and it shows. I'm happy to report that Grace was soothed by my outstanding rendition of "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. Good thing I know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em.

My New Favorite Infomercial.

The Magic Bullet infomercial has been replaced. I stumbled across this beaut, the Flavorwave Turbo, that combines two essential ingredients for a truly great/awful infomercial-cheesy food cooking appliance and washed up celebrity pitchman. The fact that the pitchman in this case is The T makes it all the better.

"I pity the fool that don't use halogen heat, infrared waves, convention cooking all at the same time!"

"What's your prediction for all other convection ovens, Clubber? Pain!

Thud.

Okay, so that's probably not how the Capitals wanted to begin their expectations-laden regular season. Was last night's 7-4 slopfest of a loss in Atlanta a stunning example of the two major offseason concerns this team has (questionable goaltending and deciding not to sign a another top 4 defenseman)? Or was it simply a hiccup or clunker that gets thrown in from time to time, this one just happened to be opening night? I'm going with the latter. Expect good times to resume tonight with a packed Verizon Center Rocking the Red.

Jerry Jones Is Santa Claus.

High end retailer Neiman Marcus announced yesterday that in their famed Christmas catalog they will offer for sale one of the actual endzones from Texas Stadium. You can own a large (literally, it's 10 yards by 53 yards) piece of Dallas Cowboys history. I don't know where I'd put it, but how great would it be to own the actual Astroturf where Emmitt Smith dove for touchdowns, Doug Cosbie fired his imaginary six shooters and Troy Aikman was repeatedly concussed? On Friday nights when I was a child, I was allowed to stay up five minutes past the end of the "Dukes Of Hazzard" to watch the opening credits of "Dallas" just to see the overhead shot of the Cowboys' endzone. I want-no- I need this endzone.

What's that? What would I do with it?

Let's see, it would make the ultimate BBQ/game watching venue. Or perhaps the world's coolest putting green. I suppose the best way to honor the great Cowboys teams of the 90's would be to get some hookers and blow and party down. More likely I would just gaze lovingly at that big 'ol patch of fake grass.

Um, Bryan, that "big 'ol patch of fake grass" has an actual retail price of $500,000.

Oh. Perhaps I'll settle for watching the opening credits of "Dallas" on YouTube.

Already?

Many things can make you feel old. For instance, with my daughter's birth rapidly approaching I begin to think of my own mortality. In what I figure is typical new dad anxiety, I worry about being around to love and provide for her for a long time. At almost 34, I will be an older father. Not Tony Randall or Anthony Quinn old, but 12 years older than my dad was when I was born.

My body also sometimes belies my age. My physical unfitness and creaky knee often make me feel way older than 34.

But nothing made me feel older than the lightning bolt that I recently received via the U.S. Postal Service. Mixed amidst the bills and credit card solicitations was, complete with plastic membership card, an AARP membership application. I know the AARP has stopped catering to just retired people, but I thought the membership requirement was still being over 50 years old. Have they lowered standards again? Cast a wider net to nab members earlier? Maybe they have a Psychic Recruitment Comittee that knows that some mornings I feel older than 50. Either way, it was a bit depressing to open that envelope. Okay, gotta go-I'm hungry and the Early Bird special starts in just a few minutes.

Doggone It, You Betcha That Main Street Alaskan Mayor,Did It Didn't She. Bless Her Heart. (Wink)

So, as expected, I didn't get the gaffe-fest I was rooting for in last night's VP debate. I never thought that the VP debate would alter the outcome of the election, but I was hoping for a bit more of a needle-mover. Instead, we watched a pretty boring exchange that had nary a memorable moment that will live on in sound bite infamy. That said, I do have a few thoughts:

Sarah Palin did just fine, however, it's fairly easy to hit your mark when your mandate is "Do No Harm". Like her convention speech, there is still something in her tone that rubs me wrong; I still can't put my finger on it. It is a mix of condescension, earnestness and "See what I can do?" that when combined with her folksy familiarity irritates the heck out of me.

I've heard multiple people say this morning that Palin did a great job getting up to speed in five weeks. Granted. But is that the starting point we deserve? Wouldn't we better served by someone who doesn't have to be brought up to speed to begin with?

She was obviously well coached and as prepared as could be expected in five weeks. That's not a criticism; every candidate spends hours game-planning for these things. However, there were moments when it was obvious that she was not able (or certainly not willing) to speak off the cuff about certain subjects. She stayed tethered to her strengths and her talking points, veering back to them when she seemingly had no better answer. (Of course, I spend every debate yelling at the television for someone, anyone to please answer the question you were asked.) She used the word maverick so much I expected Dirk Nowitzki and Mark Cuban to come out dribbling a basketball across the stage. Her deft public speaking skills escaped her on meandering answers on education and climate change. Also, on more than one occasion (Healthcare and some other topic I can't recall) she had no comeback for a strong Biden point. Overall, I was less than impressed. Exactly as I expected.

I also thought Joe Biden was underwhelming. Whether it was worrying about looking too aggressive or just playing the statesman, Biden looked bored early on. He eventually hit his stride showing his experience. He was able to back up his points with numbers (though I'm not sure the numbers were always accurate) and historical reference. I also thought he was genuine when his throat caught with emotion when speaking about raising his sons. I thought his strongest moment was when he called Palin out after she claimed that McCain has an exit strategy for Iraq. As soon as she said that I thought to myself that it must be a secret plan because I've never heard McCain explain it.

Bottom line: This debate was not expected to, and will not, have a great effect on the outcome of the election. Each VP candidate was a fairly effective surrogate for the top of his or her ticket. Maybe Tuesday will bring a little more drama.

Let's Get Ready To Bumble!

Don't you wish booming-voiced boxing announcer Michael Buffer was available to introduce tonight's vice presidential debate?

Ladies and gentleman, welcome to tonight's main event. In this corner: weighing in with more hair than he used to- The Purveyor of Pomposity, The Vicar of Verbosity, The Amtrack Assassin, The Wilmington Windbag...Biden the Bloviator!

And in this corner: in the Tina Fey glasses-The Governor of Gaffes, The Princess of Perkiness, The Mayor of Mum, The Moose Killa from Wasila...Sarah Palin!

Like a puppy scratching at the door, I have nearly wet myself with anticipation. For me, today holds all the promise of Christmas morning, Opening Day and high school graduation rolled into one. I'm hoping tonight's two podium circus will be blunderful. I don't care which candidate it is, but I want one of them to drive this debate train right off the rails. I'm hoping for jaw-dropping, choke-on-my-popcorn, mistake-filled entertainment. This morning, in my fantasy world, Joe Biden is thumbing through foot-in-mouth recipes and Sarah Palin is applying a pageant secret Vaseline smile.

More than likely, however, Biden will stay on his leash, Palin will exceed her detractors' expectations and, like a lump of coal in my stocking or an Orioles opening day, I'll finish my day dissapointed. But a boy can dream.

Notes From The Recliner

*Nice to see the Caps are getting some national love. I hope they can live up to the hype.

* Meanwhile, the Dallas Cowboys had better stop believing the hype. After spending the week hearing how great they are the Cowboys got spanked at home by the Washington Redskins. Every Washington skill player outplayed their Dallas counterpart delivering steady, winning performances. Tony Romo was not sharp, the Dallas defensive line got run over, Terrell Owens was completely hamstrung by the Skins' secondary and ,inexplicably, the Cowboys seemingly refused to run the ball. After being anointed as a "beast" of a running back, Marion Barber was given eight carries. You have the biggest offensive line in the NFL and give your best back eight carries? This game was never so far out of reach that the run game needed to be abandoned in favor of deperation passing. This team has nothing to prove until January, but as strong as the NFC East is they need to make sure they don't stumble before actually reaching the playoffs.

*The Redskins are quickly becoming formidable and scary. I believe that the building blocks of a great team (confident coach, interesting gameplan, capable quarteback, grinding run game, solid defense) are now in place. I didn't think it would click in so early (I was thinking next season), but this team looks a lot like a Joe Gibbs (first stint) team that can pass to the lead and demoralize a team by running to protect a lead. I hope I'm wrong, however, I think the Redskins are poised for good things.

*My beloved Orioles sputtered and coughed their way to finishing the season with a 68-93 record. They lost 30 of their final 37 games and look every bit the team that is 25 years removed from their last World Series title.

*The officials in the NFL are taking a beating this season. There was the awful San Diego/Denver incident, then yesterday the officials missed blatant facemask and false start penalties in the Dallas/Washington game. Yesterday's calls did not affect the outcome of the game, but one wonders what game these guys are watching.

Couch Potato Time

What an incredible sports Sunday. I'm not sure which got more of a workout yesterday, the springs in my recliner or the "last channel" button on my TV remote. Given my current fitness level, I'm going to guess it was the springs. Thanks to the Ryder Cup, tons of football including two OT games and the Cowboys on Sunday Night Football and the last game ever at Yankee Stadium I stayed within listening distance of a TV for nearly twelve straight hours yesterday. I know that sounds crazy but there was plenty of compelling stuff to watch.

In my mind, there is no more entertaining golf event than the Ryder Cup. The national interest and team format makes it (to me) more exciting than even the Majors. This year was made particularly interesting as much for who was not there as for who was. No Tiger Woods for the USA and no veteran leadership (Colin Montgomerie and Darren Clark) for Europe affected each team differently. I think the US played better, more relaxed golf without Woods' giant presence looming. Woods is clearly the best golfer in the world, but rarely excels in the team format. This US team bonded and without relying on Woods or being intimidated by him played freely and with the fun spirit that Europe usually posesses.

Conversely, the Europeans looked a little lost without the veteran leadership. Nick Faldo chose to go with two younger captain's picks (One of whom, Ian Poulter, played terrific.) instead of the old vets. This forced three younger vets (Lee Westwood, Sergio Garcia and Paddy Harrington) to assume the leadership role. These players have excelled in the last three Cups, all European victories. However, I think they excelled because they were inspired by, shielded by and, somewhat, carried by the likes of Montgomerie and Clarke. This week, when asked to step up and lead, all three guys failed to win a match. The US played amazing, but don't discount the fact that they were aided by who wasn't playing at Valhalla this weekend.

One other note from the weekend: Real nice effort from my favorite ball team, the Bad News Birds, as they rolled over to be swept by the Yanks as Yankee Stadium turned out the lights for the final time. Yankee Pride appears alive and well; maybe some of it can rub off on the Orioles.

Further Proof I'm An Idiot.

I've long realized that as I child of the 70's and 80's I am deeply immersed in the pop culture of the era. I recently realized just how deeply it is embedded in my subconscious when within minutes I whistled the "CHiPs" theme song as I entered the freeway via a cloverleaf (a la the show's opening sequence) and counted down a stoplight changing to green with the "Beep. Beep. Boooop." sound effects from Pole Position. Some things never leave you, even if you wish they would.

That Whistling Sound You Hear?

That whistling sound you hear? That's the sound of thousands of fantasy football owners plunging towards the earth after leaping from tall buildings following the news that Tom Brady had season-ending knee surgery yesterday. Fantasy football is supposedly a $500 million business (not sure of the source or its accuracy). Surely those owners who drafted Brady, as close to a sure bet there is if he remains healthy, can feel winnings slipping through their fingers already.

"You just called another man baby."

Quoting my wife making fun of me for exhorting Cowboys tight end Jason Witten to "Go, baby!" after he made a reception.

McCain's speech wazzzzz...

Excuse me while I wipe the drool from my pillow. Being a dynamic speaker does not make you a good president and failing to be a great speaker does not disqualify you from being president. But damn.

The one thing he did effectively was carefully separate himself from the failures of the last eight years. We'll see if he can make that stick.