I'm Over the Overstuffing.

On a whim the other day Amanda submitted Grace's photo to a Gap casting contest.  Normally we're not into those sorts of things, but we figured, "Why not? Maybe she'll be plucked from obscurity and have a little fun."  Deep down, though, I know the truth.  Grace's big break will come when A&E produces Hoarders:Toddler Edition.  Grace, at just age three, is a precocious hoarder.  Unfortunately, in this regard, she is doomed by heredity.  My grandmother is a textbook case shopaholic/hoarder, my mother epitomizes the "One person's trash is another person's treasure" mindset(In a good way; she can breathe new life into broken down furniture and junk.) and I am one of those people who likes to keep things because I "know I can use it for something".  Grace doesn't stand a chance.  Recently, she was drinking lemonade from a 20-oz. fountain cup and straw.  Upon finishing she told me we could not throw away the cup or straw because she needed them for a "project".  She proceeded to explain how she would cut them, fold them, glue them and cover them with glitter, with the end result being a house.  Creative, yes, but Grace seems to have also inherited my procrastinator gene; the cup house sits unfinished on the counter instead of in the garbage where it belongs.

If Amanda and I aren't careful, we will raise a true bag lady.  Grace already loads her toy shopping cart with junk and pushes it from room to room.  It is not a huge leap from there to shouting bible verses at passing cars and sharing your bowl of tuna with your twelve stray cats.  In fact, if she wanted to pack her posessions and hit the road today she already has plenty of bags.  Tote bags, purses, recycled gift bags, backpacks - our playroom has held more sacks than Jenna Jameson.  And stuff!  Trinkets, fake jewelery, toys, crayons, papers, stickers-we have so much stuff.  Don't get me wrong- I appreciate all the gifts, large and small, that she has been given.  Heck, I enable her hoarding by picking up inexpensive stickers here and there or encouraging her to collect cool rocks and sticks on our exploration expeditions.  But some days walking into my house feels like I've been dropped into the Death Star trash compactor.  If I can't raise C-3PO on the radio soon, the walls will keep closing in and I'll be crushed in a pile of Barbies and Disney Princess DVDs.  (I just realized that I put myself in Luke Skywalker's shoes.  Lame.  I used to, and always will, pretend to be Han Solo, the coolest smuggler in the galaxy.)

So, why does my house, and the houses of most people I know, contain too much stuff?  Because America has become the Land of Accumulation populated by an army of hoarders.  I don't mean the clinically diagnosed, mentally ill that won't throw away rotting food or who poop in a grocery bag and toss it in the corner.  I mean the normal people that fill their homes and lives with things.  To some, acquisition is a sport, keeping up with the Joneses.  To others, new and shiny things are substitutes for other items missing from their lives.  Sometimes I think we get trapped into thinking we "need" crap that we really don't.  Why else would I be consumed by an avalance of Tupperware every time I open the cabinet when, in truth, we only use the same three or four containers over and over?  Wedding registries, that's why.

Hear me out.  When you get in that store with that scanner you start firing away like you are Han Solo blasting your way out of the Mos Eisley space port.  (See, he's much cooler than that tunic-wearing loser from Tatooine.)  Senseless Acquisition Mode takes over."Goblets?  Hell, yes we need crystal goblets!  Probably about seventeen of them.  Picnic basket?  I love picnics!  Useless spoon rest?  You bet.  Of course, the spoon rest is only useless until the night your new bride comes home and, instead of thanking you for the spaghetti dinner, rips you for staining the countertop with sauce.  The point is, running around Macy's, Target or Bed Bath and Beyond you can lose your mind, adding things to your wish list that you neither need, nor would ever spend your own money to purchase.  Follow the wedding with a baby shower, baby's first Christmas, birthdays, Arbor Day-there are dozens of excuses for more gifts junk to enter the home. 

Oh well, maybe Grace's Hoarder's money will pay for a new storage shed.  Otherwise, all three of us will have to take to the streets with our shopping carts.

Enemy of the Germophobe #3 - Myself

"Have you been in the Germ Tent yet?  If not, you've got to check it out.  It's terrific."    This is how Grace and I were greeted as we stumbled upon County Government Day in the mall parking lot which was little more than a collection of fire trucks and other county vehicles open for inspection and, of course, the Germ Tent.  Umm, nice lady, clearly you don't know me very well.  I had indeed not yet been in the Germ Tent and, despite her pleasant demeanor,  this gal was not going to convince me to get within 100 feet of anything called the Germ Tent.  I've seen the trailers for Contagion, thank you very much.  The young lady (I'm assumimg she was a representative of the county, though it's possible she's just a really big fan of germs) must have recognized the horrified look on my face because she proceeded to explain that the Germ Tent was simply a tent with a black light that illustrated how many germs covered your hands.  I nodded, thanked her for the invitation, took Grace's surely germ covered hand and slowly backed away. 

However, after checking out the fire equipment and climbing through the bookmobile, my curiosity got the best of me.  Grace and I lathered up our hands with the special germ detecting lotion and plunged into the darkness of the Germ Tent.  I wish I could report that we were nearly germ free; instead, under the black lights, our hands looked like we had dipped them in white paint.  The scary thing is that I am a vigilant handwasher and we had recently washed them.  I'm going to blame the germ-fest on the five minutes we spent on the bookmobile (Shared kids' books in a warm, sealed bus?  More like the petri dishmobile.) because I don't want to think that I'm toting around that many germs on a regular basis.  After leaving the tent, another county worker helped us wash our hands at one of those foot-pump washing stations.  I scrubbed Grace's hands and evidently didn't spend enough time on mine because the worker reminded me that I should always wash my hands for thirty seconds.  Me?  Me?  You are going to lecture me on handwashing  protocols?  If you didn't look like you were struggling with the foot-pump causing a lame water output I would have washed my hands all day. Because that's what I do.

I proudly wear my germophobe title.  Recently, a discussion with friends, one of whom is a fellow phobe, turned to various anti-germ tactics.  I don't mean run of the mill stuff like lamenting that not all public restrooms have outswinging doors or how many layers of toilet paper create an adequate barrier between ass and toilet seat.  No, I'm talking next level stuff like the wisdom of attempting to turn the public restroom faucet on and off with your foot.  (For the record, I don't think that is worth the risk; I'm so clumsy that there is a 50/50 chance that I would fall in the floor attempting such a graceful move and that would be a hundred times worse than touching the faucet.)  So, this county lady doesn't know it, but I've got hand washing cred.

Obsessive hand washing is just the tip of the iceberg, though.  Recently, my germophobia/hypochondria reached a new low when I decided to boil my clean silverware.  Why did I boil my fresh-washed silverware, you ask?  The short answer is because I don't own an autoclave.  The long answer is that I don't have a dishwasher and after a couple days too long in the sink our silverware had a film on it that looked impervious to soap and water alone (in my warped, overcautious brain).  I scrubbed the silverware like always but, sitting there in the drying rack, it just didn't "look" clean.  So, of course, the next obvious step anyone would have taken would be to boil it until sterile.

Once you answer the question "Am I really going to boil my silverware?" in the affirmative a few more questions pop up.  How long does one stand over a roiling pot of silverware before determining it is "done"?  One minute?  Ten minutes?  They don't cover this info in Food Network Magazine or Hypochondriacs Illustrated.  Or, why are there no specific kitchen tools for removing silverware from a boiling cauldron?  It is far more likely that someone would get scalded by boiling water or stabbed with sharp knives as I remove them with regular tongs, than would be done in by eating with tainted silverware.  But I don't let common sense get in the way of a good obsession.  Sad to say that, lately I've had to look no further than my own hands and sink (not a hotel or bowling alley) to find an Enemy of the Germophobe.

They Can't Blow It Every Year, Right? Right?

I was going to do a Capitals' playoff breakdown, but, really, what is there to know?  The Caps are as puzzling as the enduring success of Jay Leno or the apparent appeal of Two and a Half Men.  In their first round series that starts tonight, the Caps may be pulverized, leaving Ted Leonsis and George McPhee to scrape the road kill off F Street.  Or...the team may wake up, be the team they are capable of being and march through the Eastern conference.  After all, the Caps have hovered a hair above a .500 winning percentage all season.  It's not a huge stretch to think they could win 16 of their next 28 games.

My optimism, as it usually is regarding the Capitals fortunes this time of year, is, if not insane, at least undeserved.  This team has broken my heart year after year.  Yet, each season I find something to cling to, something that I can point to that says, "This is the year."  This season there are actually two things that make me believe (however foolishly). 

The first is that for the first time in years the Caps come in with low expectations.  A Stanley Cup favorite in the preseason, the Caps stunk it up enough to slip in the seventh seed and draw the defending champs.  Despite what George McPhee thinks, anything this team wins is gravy.  Perhaps lowered expectations will remove pressure and help this team pull off upsets instead of choke jobs.

The second factor is Coach Dale Hunter.  Go ahead, stop laughing.  I'll wait.  No, seriously, stop laughing.  Sure, some of his coaching moves and most of his press conferences make him seem borderline illiterate.  Sure, as he does little more than chew gum and sip water on the bench, he looks more bored than my wife at a baseball game.  (She just doesn't get the grand beauty of the game.)  Sure, Hunter may just be doing McPhee a favor by keeping the bench warm after Bruce Boudreau was fired.  But maybe he is stupid like a fox.  (That's how the saying goes, right?)  Hunter has elicited stronger play out of certain guys that have been scratched then worked hard to get back in the line-up.  His style of play, if executed properly, could thrive in the postseason.  Fans have no idea what Dale is doing behind the scenes to improve this team and change the culture of playoff ineptitude.  Maybe Dale Hunter, one of the most clutch players in Caps history, becomes the most clutch coach in Caps history.

I can dream, right?  A mountain of evidence and past history suggests that my optimism is misplaced.  The beauty, however, lies in the fact that anything is possible before the puck drops for Game 1.  And if the Caps are bounced early then I have the whole spring to join America the Stupid in sitting through Two and a Half Men reruns.

Bryan Hailey and the Pop of Doom

I learned a valuable lesson yesterday-always make the three-year-old pick up her own toys.  This is not a noble lesson borne of the need to instill discipline, recognize consequences or teach responsibility.  No, this was a lesson in self-preservation.  Had I forced the girl to pick up her own mess, the living room would have been clean and I would not be injured.

I wish I could report that I was wounded carrying out some sort of Herculean feat of strength like lifting every single one of her toys with one hand.  Or a daredevil move like parking her tricycle in the shed by riding it like a skateboard.  Even the cliched stepping on a Lego would have been acceptable.  Instead, I was felled by crayons and markers.  And felled isn't even accurate because I was actually already on the ground when my old-man body betrayed me. 

I was running late for work and the girl was so entranced by Pocoyo that she was ignoring my pleas to clean up.  Damn that mischievious little flappy-hat-wearing CGI munchkin.  Instead of turning off the tv  and playing the enforcer I decided to take the shortcut and pick up the stuff myself.  I was on all fours scooping up the mountain of crayons (because, of course, even though she only uses two colors at a time Grace has to dump out the entire box) when I reached to my left and heard what I will, from this day forward, call the "Pop of Doom".  A blinding pain shot through my left knee; the kind like when you fall on your butt bone and it hurts so bad you think for a moment that you are going to hurl.  I must have let out some kind of whimper as well, because Grace immediately asked me what happened and if I was okay.  For a few moments, I can assure you, I was not okay.  I had legitimate trouble getting off the floor.  Payback, I suppose, for years of ridiculing those silly "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up." commercials.  But being that I had neither a Life Alert necklace or anyone to cover my shift I pulled myself up and walked it off.  Seriously though, is the start my gradual age-related decay?  I have played ice hockey, worked on ladders, played high school football (Nevermind, you usually don't get hurt on the bench.) and handled huge sheets of plate glass daily.  And this is how I get injured? By rotating my torso fifteen degrees while kneeling?  Welcome to 37, I guess.

I felt okay for the first half of my shift, but halfway through I took a mis-step that brought a fresh stab of pain that almost dropped me to the floor.  (Ironically, this occurred while I was monitoring the well-being of a woman in the store who was either so drunk or so narcoleptic that she was basically passed out on her feet and constantly looked like she was about to crash into something.)  I spent the rest of my shift hoping for a Marty McFly hoverboard to appear from 2015 because putting any weight on the leg made the knee buckle and bark with pain.  Prior to my knee surgery five years ago,  I walked around for months with a torn meniscus (Thanks Misdiagnosing Orthopedists and Insurers Who Forced Me To Have Unnecessary Physical Therapy Before Approving An MRI!) and never had the type of pain I experienced last night.  Ice and rest helped a little overnight, but the pain, fortunately a little weaker, has returned today.  Funny enough, after a morning of running errands, what I really should do is elevate the leg, throw on the ice pack, turn on some Pocoyo and spend some quality time snuggling with the girl.  Just no coloring.

Yellow Rain

As any parent of a three-year-old knows, any venture out of the house requires a constant interrogation-"Do you have to go to the potty?"  "Are you sure you don't have to pee-pee?" "Why don't you try going to the bathroom?".  Grace is actually very good about telling us when she needs to find a bathroom so when all my pleas, threats and cajoling failed I rolled the dice and accepted the girl's assurances that she would alert me when it was time for a bathroom break.  You can see where this story is going.  Or flowing.

We breezed through our morning errands unscathed, but then I had the genius idea to enjoy the great weather with a picnic at the playground.  Not the playground directly across the street from our house, literally fifty yards from our bathroom.  No, that would be smart.  Instead, we stopped at a park across town.  A park delightfully free of those pesky public restrooms.  (I told you I'm a gambler!)  The picnic was going swimmingly - tasty food, running and jumping, raucous laughter - until I see that expression cross Grace's face.  That expression that wordlessly conveys, "Thanks Dad, you are a wonderful father who has made today so enjoyable that until just this moment I have been too distracted to monitor exactly how full my bladder really is!"  I wasn't mad at this turn of events, after all, accidents happen and I pretty much put us in a postion to fail.  I instantly started the mental calculations of getting back down the slide and how to keep the car seat dry on the way home. 

What's that?  Oh, I didn't mention we were at the top of the tallest, curliest kids' slide I've ever been on?  Or how fun it was to watch thirteen gallons of urine leak through the top grate, rain down onto the first layer of curves then watch it slowly cascade around and around and around the remaining curves until it covered the entire slide?  Thirteen gallons might be an exaggeration, but there was SO MUCH PEE.  So much that I'm surprised the National Weather Service didn't immediately issue a flash flood warning.  So much that I am thinking about renting her out to the fire department. 

Fortunately, there were no other kids (or parents, more importantly) in the park.  After walking Grace back down the steps and convincing her it would not be more comfortable to ride in the carseat naked than to ride in wet clothes, I set out to clean up the mess.  Yes, my first instinct was to toss her in the car and peel rubber so no one would discover what a terrible father I am.  My conscience got the better of me, however, so I cleaned up the best I could with limited resources.  I was wearing two shirts so the oldest went to soak up the puddle at the top of the slide.   I could have used the second shirt as well, I suppose, but I think me walking around a park shirtless is more of a public disservice than leaving behind a piss-covered slide.  For the slide itself, I briefly considered sliding down myself to soak up as much pee as possible.  Instead comm on sense prevailed and I poured the remainder of a large cup of water down from the top and let it wash down what it could.  But I can assure you the urine to clean water ratio was woefully out of balance.

So, to the children who will play in that park today after school, I say- I'm sorry.  And you might want to wear a wetsuit.

The Meek May Inherit the Earth, But They Won't Win the Cup.

For weeks, my friends and I have spent way too much time attempting to figure out what exactly is wrong with the Washington Capitals.  We've studied the forecheck, broken down the power play, speculated on trades and otherwise engaged in the constant (but pointless) analysis only undertaken by  diehard  stupid fans.  Imagine if we'd spend our time and brainpower answering the important questions like "What is the solution in Syria?" or "What are the global ramifications of Snooki becoming a mother (shudder)?".

To prove how culturally out of touch I am, I submit for your consideration the list of rejected questions I thought of before the Snooki joke: "Who shot J.R.?", Where's the beef?", Whatchyu talkin' bout Willis?" and "Who really is the Boss?".  Sad, I know.

Unfortunately, our amateur hockey eyes have diagnosed many problems with the Caps-injuries, suspect coaching and the sad realization that unless you possess a flux capacitor and a stash of plutonium you have likely seen the best of Alexander Ovechkin.
The number one problem, however, is that the Caps are, collectively, a bunch of wimps.  Of course, I don't mean wimps as far as the real world is concerned.  Even the wussiest Capital is a hundred times tougher than I am.  These guys block 100-mph slapshots, take sticks to the face, get stitched up and still take their next shift.  But I'm not talking real world tough; I'm talking NHL tough.  I'm talking stick-up-for-your-linemate tough.  I'm talking crush-an-opponent's-spirit tough.  I'm talking rising-in-the-face-of-adversity tough.  Call it what you will-passion, grit, heart, intestinal fortitude-this team rarely possesses it.

General Manager George McPhee must shoulder much of the blame for this glaring organizational deficiency.  Several years ago when McPhee did not re-sign enforcer Donald Brashear he justified the move by stating that the Caps' power play would provide enough deterent to keep other teams from taking liberties against the Caps' star players.  This is a suspect theory at best, but when your power play short-circuits to the point you should think about declining penalties, then the theory is exposed as completely flawed.  It is not simply about having a goon, however.
McPhee has acquired a roster of softies.  Jeff Schultz, a 6'6" creme puff, and alleged grinder Joel Ward symbolize a roster that is overpaid and not at all rugged.  Despite having a coach, Dale Hunter, who was "nails" as a player, this team has refused to forecheck, lacks agressiveness and shows no killer instinct.
 
The latest, most damning evidence was the postgame comment after last week's Caps/Canes contest.  A Caps' player, hiding behind an anonymous quote, accused Carolina's Jeff Skinner of committing a dirty slew foot on Dmitri Orlov.  Are  you kidding me?  Man up and stand behind your comments.  Do you think any Boston Bruin would have requested anonymity?  Hell, any Bruin that retaliated (And they probably would have had to take a number.) would have to go on record to explain exactly when he decided to rip off Jeff Skinner's head and drink the blood from his skull.  The B's are beasts in a way the Caps can only dream.  The Bruins players have each other's back, don't shy away from anyone and brutally crush opponents under the treads of a relentless forecheck.  Unless the Capitals find a way to adapt their game, the only thing they'll be getting their names inscribed on this summer is the starter's log at the country club.  At least, my buddies and I will have plenty to talk about all offseason.

F*@k You, Santa Claus!

F*@k you, Santa Claus! Shouting this phrase in anger is surely the way to the Naughty List. However, in my defense, it was shouted not after great contemplation, but during a fit of pain. (Not my finest moment, but not as damning as the time I accidentally punched a bible.) And it wasn't the real(?) Santa that drew my ire. It was a murderous decorative wooden Santa that stabbed me in the arm.

One wouldn't think that Christmas decorations would be so dangerous. I mean, sure, you get the occasional tree that topples or light strings that ignite, but rarely do decorations actually attack. This evil Santa is a flat wooden sign hanging from our front door. Santa has a wooden banner with very sharp points hanging below his feet. Most times the door swings, Santa and his banner swing. Every so often, or every time I use the door it seems, the far end of the banner digs into the door frame pushing the near end of the wooden banner directly into my path. If you are a big oaf like me and crash into the sign at this exact moment, the far end of the banner, pressed against the door frame, has nowhere to go leaving the near end to bore its way through your bicep. Hence the cut, the bruise, the flying expletive, the immediate landing on the Naughty List and the feeling of shame. At least I didn't say it in front of the girl. That would have garnered a few "Father of the Year" nominations. Had I channeled my rage into karate chopping Santa's smug, smiling beardface in two at that time I could have saved myself some trouble. Instead I waited until I ran into the damn thing three more times before removing it.

These repeated, coordinated attacks by wooden Santa may have left a lesser man to adopt a Bah Humbug mentality. I, however, despite the fact that I have been unfairly accused of being Scroog-ish the past couple years, have embraced this holiday season. After the 2011 I've had, who could blame me for being a little Humbug? But I've shoved all the grief, worry and turmoil aside long enough to enjoy the lead-up to Christmas. Not even the fat sonofabitch hanging from my door could bring me down.

Of course, Santa Karma got the last laugh anyway. Just after removing Jolly Ole' Saint Nick from the door, I left our three-year-old's largest gift half opened in the back of the car for her to see. After Grace asked, "What's in the box?", more times than Brad Pitt in Seven, my wife was forced to lie to her, making up something about recycling. It's like the opposite of those Best Buy commercials. Yep, somewhere wooden Santa is chuckling as he nominates me for Father and Husband of the Year.

Worst Saturday Ever.

Yesterday, I gave the eulogy at my father's funeral, a task I don't wish upon anyone. I suppose I had previously pondered what that day and moment might be like, however, I never expected I'd be living it so soon. At 59, Dennis Hailey left us far too early, but easily stayed long enough to leave an indelible mark on all who met him. As some who could not attend the funeral have requested, here is the eulogy I delivered:



I have thought about this moment before, but I hardly thought it would be occurring so soon. First, I'd like to thank everyone who came from near and far to celebrate Dad's life. It shows how many people my dad reached in his all too brief time with us.


It is impossible to sum up anyone's life in a page of text or a matter of minutes, so I'm not even going to try. Instead I'll focus on the theme that popped up most often while I was deciding what to write for today. The word that came to me over and over when thinking about Dad was service. Service to his country. Service to his employer. Service to his community. Service to his Parish. Service to his friends and neighbors. And, of course, service to his family. My Dad gave and gave and gave, rarely asking for anything in return.


Dad worked for the phone company in one capacity or another for 30 years. He started out racing through the streets of Washington DC and its suburbs collecting coins from pay phones. He progressed to installation which included spending time in growing federal buildings and the expanding Metro system. He especially got a kick out of working in the secure, secret clearance tunnels beneath the White House and Capitol. Eventually, he made his way to the Eastern Shore where his job titles continued to change as technology demanded it, leading to roles as cable splicer and fiber optics technician. And while Dad and his buddies may have been busted a time or two for lingering too long at their favorite lunch joint there is no doubt that the phone company is where dad honed the work ethic that was instilled by his father. The phone company also provided the stoic man I knew a place to find his voice as his shop's Union Steward. Dad took very seriously his role of representing fellow employees in grievance hearings.


Dad served his community in more ways than I can mention here, not only because he enjoyed it, but because he felt it his duty to help where possible. He worked with Habitat for Humanity, first as a volunteer worker than as a board member. He took great joy in watching people work towards fulfilling their dream of home ownership. Dad served on numerous fair housing boards and also volunteered at the Parish's homeless shelter because he felt a safe place to call home, even if only temporarily, was something that everyone deserved.


Dad also spent many hours working in this very building, donating his time and energy to his beloved St. Francis parish. Since his retirement from the phone company Dad spent most Mondays volunteering here, lending his knowledge and strong back to the maintenance team. The school PA system, the new parish center, the lights dangling above you right now and many other items on these grounds have Dennis Hailey's stamp on them. Dad was also a devoted member of the collection counting team and within the last couple of years found one of his new passions, the church's sister parish, La Merced, in Nicaragua. On two trips to Managua, which for Dad were part mission, part vacation, he had wonderful experiences that he truly treasured. He was very much looking forward to another volunteer venture this summer.


Dad was quick to help his friends and neighbors. He, at times, was sort of the neighborhood handyman dispensing advice and cleaning up messes for those who didn't know a wing nut from a coconut. He'd lend a hand hauling furniture or repairing electronic equipment or assisting with a science fair project. And usually all it would cost you was a beer and being the butt of some good-natured ribbing.


These have all been facts about my dad. Important pieces of his life, no doubt, but not what I will remember most. I'll remember the man who was a complete contradiction of terms. He was laid back, but hard working. He procrastinated on starting a project, but was a careful craftsman. He kept a sloppy work truck, kept many of his account records in his head and has a garage full of tape measures because whenever he couldn't find one he'd buy another, yet Dad was a stickler for details. Dad never missed an opportunity to needle me about rolling through a stop sign, wondering aloud when they started making yield signs with 8 sides. He relished pointing out that saying PIN number was redundant and I can promise you that if they get the Daily Times delivered in Heaven he checked yesterday's obituary for typos. These are the things I will remember.


I will remember the dedicated husband who stood side by side with my mom for nearly 39 years honorably raising two boys who lacked nothing in their upbringing. I'll remember the man who worked overtime and took night classes so upon retirement he could open his own business that could simultaneously pay the bills and allow him the freedom to work when and how he wanted. Dad grew this business into something I don't even think he expected. Despite the fact that he never took my advice to make his electrical truck look "cool" by painting lightening bolts on the side of it, this one-man gang grew so popular that loyal customers would wait weeks or months for Dad's services instead of finding another electrician. I'll remember the family man who used the freedom of his retirement to visit far-flung relatives, lending a hand on projects large and small. I'll remember the hard worker who nearly single-handedly remodeled my first house because I was qualified to be nothing more than a gopher.


And I'll remember most distinctly the grandfather that adored his three grandchildren. He routinely joked that he couldn't wait to have grandkids so he could fill them with candy, wind them up and send them home to mom and dad. And while he fiercely protected his grandkids, his joke wasn't far from the truth as I think the grandkids had Grandpa wrapped securely around their fingers.


In fact, it was his most recent and last interaction with one of his grandchildren that perfectly illustrates for me the way my Dad lived for 59 years. Last Sunday, my wife and I both had to work so Mom and Dad were babysitting our daughter. Mom was a bit under the weather, so my Dad took Grace to a friend's birthday party. It didn't matter that he barely knew anybody attending the party. It didn't matter that he would have to single-handedly chase Grace around. He did it without hesitation because he knew it was important to us and that it would make Grace happy. Simple as that. He gave and asked nothing in return.


I could fill these pages with a hundred more stories or memories like this, but I don't have to because most of you wouldn't be here today if you didn't have your own. So I'll close with this:


My dad had two sayings that always stuck with me. One, which he often used to calm a family of hypochondriacs, was that, "I'll worry when there is something to worry about." The other was that, "When your number is up, your number is up." It didn't matter how careful or safe you tried to be, when it was your time to go, it was your time to go. Well, on Tuesday my dad's number was called. But the beauty of it is now he has nothing to worry about ever again because thanks to his faith and his contributions to this world, he has moved to the next to enjoy the eternal rest that he has earned.

"That's a Man, Baby"

For whatever reasons, perhaps getting older or maybe deciding what lessons I can teach my kid, I've been thinking a bit about knowledge and how it is acquired. Thinking experience is our greatest teacher I started compiling a list. Not a bucket list or a list of things that "make you a man" or even a list of things that I want to do. For instance, I've caught a fish, think it's pretty handy to know how to catch a fish, but I don't like to go fishing. Simply a list of things I think a guy my age ought to have learned or done by now. I haven't done them all, nor do I want to. Here's my incomplete list in no particular order, please add you own items if you'd like:

Learn how to throw a curveball.

Change the oil in your car.

Fire a gun.

Get in a fist fight. (One in which something, even if only your pride, is truly in peril.)

Grow something. (A garden. A tree. Your own special blend of hydroponic wonder grass. Sea Monkeys. Something.)

Set something on fire just to "see what happens".

Own a dog.

Surf.

Drive a stick shift.

Build something besides a mammoth sandwich.

Build a mammoth sandwich.

Sit in a major league ballpark on Opening Day.

To be continued...

Here We Go Again

It is not easy being a fan of the Washington Capitals. I've previously described it being similar to drinking until you're wearing beer goggles. You spend the entire regular season dancing with and buying drinks for this funny, great looking gal. Then you wake up in April and realize that instead of going home with Natalie Portman you went home with Natalie from The Facts of Life. (Dated '80's References for 1200, Alex!) While that statement might not be very kind to Mindy Cohn, it is an accurate assessment of how I feel about my beloved Caps. Last year's first round flameout against Montreal served as one more reminder that aside from a magical Godzilla-backed run in 1998 this franchise regularly performs below postseason expectations.

That brings us to this enigma of a regular season. This current Caps team really can't make up for last season's disaster until April when a new playoff tournament provides a new shot at the Cup. Unfortunately, reaching the postseason is no longer a lock for this team. With one hand covering my eyes and one hand hovering over the Panic Button let's review the good and bad of the season so far:

GOOD:
-The defense, with the growth of John Carlson and Karl Alzner, has been much improved. Mid-season addition Scott Hannan has helped solidify an area that has long been a weakness. Mike Green, while not scoring regularly, has been steady in both ends of the rink.
-The penalty killing unit, currently ranked second in the league(no that's not a typo) has improved drastically. A shift in strategy to a more aggressive pk has been Coach Boudreau's finest move all season.
-The three-headed monster of young goaltenders has been more than adequate. What could have been a weakness has been a strength. The perhaps unanticipated strong play of Braden Holtby along with the steadiness of Michael Neuvirth and Semyon Varlamov may make one of these three expendable at trade deadline time.

BAD:
-It's hard to believe that Alex Ovechkin and Nick Backstrom have been THIS off all season. I know plenty of players would love to have Ovi's 19 goals and thirtysome assists, but that is well below where the Caps captain should be at the all-star break. Is Ovechkin's production down because Backstrom is off and not setting him up well? Or are Backstrom's numbers down because Ovechkin's not finishing like in previous seasons? It doesn't really matter if they get it kick started by April.
-Both players would have much better offensive numbers if the Caps' power play could get rolling. Once as feared as any in the league, this year's PP unit is riding near the middle of the pack. With so many one goal losses on the ledger, the Caps' record would be much improved if the power play could find the back of the net more often.
-The worst of the "BAD" , and what I believe continues to be this team's fatal flaw, is their lack of heart. Overall, this team's personality is soft. Desire and hustle show themselves randomly, missing from shift to shift, period to period, game to game. Teams built to win the Cup -see this season's faves the Bruins, Flyers, Penguins-are tough with an unwavering desire to forecheck, win the corners and grind out victories. My all-time favorite hockey quote from Philly's former captain Bobby Clarke, "We take the shortest route to the puck and arrive in ill humor.", has never applied to this current crop of Capitals. Sadly, I'm not sure this thought has ever occurred to many of them.

So where does that leave us? I must admit I'm being a little hypocritical with this post. After last year's meltdown I said I would be fine seeing the Caps head into the playoffs as a fifth or sixth seed, not saddled with expectations borne of a terrific regular season. The Caps are in the fifth spot and playing well enough that they should make the playoffs. However, I worry because they haven't shown many signs that a breakout or special playoff run are looming. I'd love to be wrong. History says I may be. Last season, the Blackhawks lost nine straight games during the regular season yet got hot and won the Cup. The young New York Islanders went out earlier than expected in the 1979 playoffs, had a shaky, doubt-filled 1980 regular season yet won the first of four straight Stanley Cups that spring. I don't think these Caps have it in them. Oh, how I'd love to be wrong.

Mall Toddler Play Area:Enemy of the Paranoid Father

I have been reluctant to take Grace to the toddler play area at the mall, however, I have recently been outvoted by, well, everyone else who has a vote including the G herself. I was hoping she would, upon being plopped at the entrance, give me a look that said, "Seriously? What is this garbage? Let's get the hell out of here Daddy." Instead, she did what any normal kid would (and should) do-promptly forgot about me and went running.

Why have I been reluctant? Because in this play area there are things she can CRASH into. Things she can FALL off of. Things she can get STUCK in.

Then the germophobe takes the wheel of my brain sending it careening into such negative thoughts like 'I wonder how many kids have already touched that lever today?' or 'How often do you suppose they sanitize this equipment?'. Of course, there's always at least one kid who's hacking more than Val Kilmer in Tombstone. Wonder what ailment he's launching in little spittle bombers waiting to drop their atomic disease all over everyone else?

Also, Grace, as many young learners do, loves to observe and follow the bigger kids. I think it is awesome that she is not intimidated by them and most of the bigger kids have no problem with Grace tagging along. Yet there are often a few that dangerously run and jump with little regard for anyone else. Not coincidentally, these are often the kids with the parents who can't seem to pull their eyes away from their book or texting. I don't want to see these kids accidentally play Scott Stevens making my Grace an unwitting Eric Lindros . But it is fun watching Grace follow the bigger kids, though she is about a half step behind them. By the time she enters the tunnel they are out the other end. By the time she arrives at a piece of equipment they are off to the next. Still, she trudges on, happy to be part of the group. Today, I got a little emotional watching her play, knowing that our baby is long gone; she's now a tiny person ready to engage this world head-on.

While it is true that I exaggerate (sort of) my anxiety levels for laughs, it brought me joy to watch Grace run, climb and play carefree, completely unburdened by fear or worry. It is my great wish for her that this will always be true.

Goin' Back In Time.

If you had tickets for two round trip rides in a time machine, where would you go? For the sake of the experiment, exclude visiting friends or relatives who have passed because I think that would be an obvious choice for most of us. My first stop would be sometime during the Second Continental Congress when breaking free from England was debated and chosen as a course of action. My second choice may be a bit silly and frivolous because I would be blowing an opportunity to see a time/culture vastly different than ours. However, I would love to have attended the Miracle on Ice at Lake Placid in 1980. Where would your time passport be stamped?

Gaffigan Was Right.

Perhaps I was bleary-eyed because I was shopping late at night. Perhaps the Wal-mart freezer door was fogged with condensation. Whatever the case, I recently misread the label on my Lean Pockets box. It doesn't say "Surprisingly Delicious", but in fact reads "Satisfyingly Delicious" which is far less accurate than the former. Despite the fact that I eat Lean Pockets regularly, there really is little delicious about meat type-product blended with cheese-type product stuffed into bread-type product. And the only thing that Lean Pockets satisfy is the FDA's apparently low requirements to be called "food" and be sold in your grocer's freezers.

For a funny take on Hot Pockets check out Jim Gaffigan's stand-up bit about them.

If You Click It More Than Once, You're Playing With It.

I don't make it a habit to know what others are doing in public restrooms; I'm a silently stare at the wall above the urinal kind of guy. Rarer still would be me commenting on what others do in a public restroom, but yesterday I heard something that brought questions to mind. While at the urinal, I heard the distinct click-clacks and beeps of the gentleman in the stall beside me firing off some text messages. I assume he was texting. I suppose he could be some sort of cyborg with a robot appendage that clicked and beeped as he pleasured himself (which, given the volume of unwrapped magazines we find in the bookstore bathroom, appears to be an all too frequent occurrence.) For my sanity's sake I will assume he was merely texting.

So, the question is- Do you multi-task by making and taking calls and/or text messages while in the john? Because if I am forced to use a public restroom for a sit-down, and believe me that occurs only in the most dire circumstance, I can assure you that I'm not lingering to send out some LOLs. The germophobe and technophobe in me can't think of anything that couldn't wait until I was finished. Does this make me an old fuddy-duddy? Has "instant" messaging become so pervasive that there is no sanctuary from communication? Or have I simply missed the boat and not realized he was texting on the newest social networking platform Shitter Twitter?

Paging Dr. Kevorkian

I'm not generally in favor of euthanasia, however, I think it is time the Super Bowl Halftime Spectacular be put out of its misery. Like most things surrounding the game, the halftime show has grown bloated and meaningless. Don't get me wrong, I like The Who, but last night's CSI theme song medley was boring and hardly surprising or spectacular. Maybe some Woodstock-era broads enjoyed getting a peek at Pete Townsend's old man paunch every time his shirt flipped up; I can assure you I did not. Like the last five or six performances, last night's was unnecessary, yet hardly the nadir of halftime spectaculars.

Though many would probably point to the Janet Jackson NipSlip as the low point, I think it was actually three years prior. The 2001 "Kings of Rock and Pop" disaster featuring Aerosmith, NSync, Britney Spears, Mary J Blige, Nelly and others was the blunt force trauma that rendered our patient a vegetable. Overdone, overstuffed and poorly lip-synched, this garbage made me want to pluck out my eyeballs and use them as earplugs. Since then there have been a few hand squeezes (U2 after 9/11, Paul McCartney) giving false hope that our halftime show might recover. Mostly, however, we've been subjected to great but safe (old) performers giving lackluster (tired) performances beefed up by too many fireworks and too little freshness. I say unless the Elvis, Michael Jackson, Tupac Reunion Tour is debuting next February at Cowboys Stadium, it is time to pull the plug and let the Super Bowl Halftime Spectacular exhale its last breath.

Don't Judge a Book By It's Cover-or How I Inadvertently Taught My 15-month-old Daughter Where Bacon Comes From

After spending months helping maintain the kid's book department, I should have known better. Maybe, just maybe, it would be best to pre-read the entire book myself before unleashing it on my fifteen-month-old daughter. Sometimes kids books have messages that, while not necessarily objectionable, just aren't lessons I want to teach my girl. Or sometimes the problem is more obvious, like the book about a worm that, unfortunately, looks like a giant penis leaping from every page.

While combing the clearance section (yes, part of the problem is that I'm a cheapskate), I came across Animals on the Farm. Cute animals on the cover, Grace loves animals, let's plunk down two bucks and hit the road. The book went on the shelf at home and wasn't thought of again until Grace picked it out for me to read to her.

I really love story time with Grace, so I'm really getting into it as we comb each page, reading about and looking at pictures of the different topics- "The Animals in Our Lives", "Noisy Birds in the Barnyard", "The Other Birds on the Farm", "Visiting the Rabbits", and "The Peaceful Cow". Then she flips to this page:

Now, I'm no prude and I'm certainly no red-paint-throwing vegan PETA member. In fact, I'm quite delighted to reside at the top of the food chain. However, I'm not ready to explain to Grace that the pork chop she had for dinner last night was, according to the handy diagram above, sliced off the top of a cute little piggy. Especially not with Piglet and her piggy bank staring me down from the dresser top. Obviously, Grace can't yet read and I omitted the crucial info, but I suppose it does beg the more serious question of when to have these types of conversations with your young children. Perhaps I'll tackle that question another time; right now I'm more worried about this how this little misstep is affecting my Father of the Year chances.

"Hump" Day

With the expansion of cable "news" and the explosion of reality TV, it comes as no surprise that there are more humps than ever on TV today. You know, humps, one level worse than a clown, but not quite as bad as the overused term douchebag. You could sub in any number of words- asshat, dick, putz- but I like hump because it sounds like chump only a bit dirtier. Besides douchebag should be reserved for the truly obvious shitheads few people care for like Kanye, Limbaugh, The Situation, Dr. Phil, the cast of CBS's NFL Today and anyone who as ever been annointed a villian on Survivor. See, douchebags are those you would like, if ever granted the opportunity, to punch in the face. Humps are generally those celebs or pseudo-celebs that you wish would simply disappear. However, if their show is strong enough in other aspects, it's sometimes possible for humps to be tolerable despite their humpiness. That's why I've broken my list into two categories-Humps I Wish Would Go Away and Humps I Can Live With. Please feel free to dispute or add to the list as you see fit.

Humps I Wish Would Go Away:

Jay Leno, Talk Show Host/Backstabber- Leno's new show may have been at a new time and in a new studio, but it had the same bright colors and shiny lights designed to distract viewers from noting the same unfunny delivery that sucked at 11:30. Submarining Conan was just the icing on this hump cake.

Al Roker, Weatherman - Mostly humpy with an 80% chance of unfunny.

Chris Berman, ESPN Blowhard - Wish we could go back, back, back, back to a time before he relied solely on his catchphrases and tired schtick.

George Lopez, Comedian?- Como se dice "awful disaster of a late night show"? Makes Magic Johnson look like a talk show savant.

Glenn Beck, The Thomas Paine of Today (serious eye roll) - This Teabagger deserves some credit-he's Pied Pipered his listeners and viewers into purchasing everything he publishes likely making him a wealthy man in the process.

Humps I Can Live With:

Guy Fieri, Food Network Host - From his style (spiky highlights, wristbands, sunglasses on the back of his neck) to his catchphrases (You're the Mayor of Flavortown, off the hook) to the way he pronounces his name (FIERI!) it's a wonder he's not on the other half of the list. But as long as he keeps showing me places I can order bacon-wrapped meatloaf we're gonna be just fine.

Joe Scarborough, MSNBC Host - He's not real polished and enjoys talking over guests and co-hosts alike. He also has what may be the most balanced, intellectually honest cable news program on the air.

Chris Hardwick, Nerdist/TV Host - He's smarmy, sarcastic and funny as hell.

Mike & Mike in the Morning - One is a neurotic, hypochondriac geek. The other is a fat dope. It's like looking in a double mirror every morning. Also like me, neither Mike is nearly as funny as he thinks he is. They do, however, have great sports guests and solid analysis. Beats Sportscenter anyday.

Richard Dawson, Hump I Can Live With Emeritus - Creepy kissing bandit and overtanned symbol of 70's sexist cheese. Survey says: greatest game show host/panelist ever.

Movie Review Haiku: G.I. Joe

Had to see how bad,
Knowing is half the battle,
Won't waste time again.

Genies, Fistfuls of Applesauce and 'O' Captain, My Captain

Diaper Genie I need only one wish granted- Please start working again. Do you have an expiration date I was unaware of? Should I have purchased the extended warranty? Has 15 months of subduing funk finally brought you to your knees? My little Stinkerbell can fill a diaper with a load strong enough to stop a freight train, but usually the Diaper Genie contains it with no problem. Not anymore. The other day, not long after changing Grace, I returned to her bedroom only to be nearly flattened by the stink. I immediately searched the room for the gangrenous, rotten-broccoli-eating ferret that someone had obviously unleashed in our house. My search turned up neither a rotting ferret, nor a year old, sulphur dipped hunk of Gouda so I turned my extra large sniffer towards the next obvious suspect. Mr. Genie you have served us well, however, I feel it is time for an honorable discharge. So, I'm off to rub another lamp, but before I go here are a few other random notes from Grace Land and beyond:

-Most folks use utensils to eat their applesauce. Not my G. Though she's perfectly capable of using a spoon (ok perfectly may be a stretch, but her manual dexterity is pretty good) for other soft foods, applesauce gets the finger treatment. Never mind that from the moment she scoops the applesauce up it is a race to get her fist to her mouth before all the sauce squeezes from between her knuckles.

-I'm finding Grace really is a fan of slapstick comedy. I often let her "knock me down" or bowl me over with the slightest of taps. She loves my exaggerated reaction and runs over to whack me again. Tonight, Amanda accidentally squirted Grace in the face with water from one of her bath toys. Grace laughed heartily and continued to do so every time we squirted her chest, arms and face again. Maybe I'll get her a seltzer bottle for her birthday. Honestly, I think she might howl with laughter if we smacked her in the face with a pie.

- I was happy to see that the Washington Capitals named Alex Ovechkin captain. Ovie is the heart and engine of that team; giving the C to any other player would have seemed disingenuous.

Finally, though I hate all things Redskin, I feel bad for Jim Zorn. He may have been a disaster as head coach, but he was far classier than those around him. Zorn kept his head up and mouth shut while wee little Napoleon Snyder tried to humiliate him out of town. Congrats, Jim. It may not have ended the way you like, but at least you get to walk away with your dignity and several million severance dollars.

Cool Music Video.

This video was made by an artist, Big Vizion, who was a high school classmate of mine. He's played a lot of shows in and around Maryland, but I think he could be headed for even bigger success.
"Oh My Lord" video

Just Do Her. And Her. And Her.

Many questions have been asked and debated regarding the Tiger Woods marital situation. Are his "transgressions", as he calls them, news? Does Tiger deserve less privacy simply because he is a highly-paid product endorser? Will his endorsers stand by him? How will his golf game be affected? Has he given new meaning to "playing in a foursome"? All these questions might make great fodder for sports talk radio, but I'm generally uninterested. I don't buy Gillette products because Tiger plugs them, I prefer my newscast to be filled with news not TMZ infotainment and I couldn't care less whether Tiger and his wife stay together or not. I do, however, have one thing to say to Tiger, who has said that he was "dismayed" by the media reaction- The one sure way to not have to discuss your infidelity in public is to not cheat on your wife.

I don't care if Tiger Woods, David Letterman,the governor of South Carolina or my neighbor down the street want to bang cocktail waitresses all across the globe, I just don't think they should do it while married. I'm tired of hearing guys excuse infidelity because It's biological. I'm innately programmed to spread my seed to further the species. Look, if Tiger wants to dump his multicultural, supercompetitive, ultrafocused DNA in/on/near strip club hostesses then he shouldn't have gotten married. I don't begrudge a billionaire superstar wanting to take advantage of some of the "perks" of fame and fortune, but nobody forced him to make a vow. I mean, how awful for him to be stuck with one gorgeous blond Swedish nanny for the rest of his life. America weeps for him.

I'd Rather Have Coal In My Stocking.

Working in a book store has many great benefits including seeing at least one new book per day that I'd like to read. Of course, you must take the good with the bad. Here are nine current titles that scare the heck out of me:

Thank You and You're Welcome
A self improvement guide from Kanye West.

Little Book of Pandemics:50 of the World's Most Virulent Plagues and Infectious Diseases
A germophobic hypochondriac's worst nightmare. I'm wearing latex gloves while reading it.

Going Rogue
Duh.

Stealth Germs Inside Your Body
I always figured I was allergic to myself.

The Morning Show Murders
Mystery fiction from Al Roker. I understand the first victim was a dozen doughnuts.

Howard Dean's Prescription for Real Healthcare Reform
(Shiver)

New Dawn:Your Favorite Authors on Stephenie Meyer's Twilight Saga
Because not everybody was lucky enough to dream up glittery emo vampires.

The Manga Bible
Thanks, but I'll take my Scripture (not that I've been reading much of it lately) in something other than Japanese comic book style.

The Elf on the Shelf
Use the creepy elf doll to scare your kids straight for the holiday season.

You Betcha!

So, tonight I was able to read a bit of Sarah Palin's Going Rogue (on shelves Tuesday) and it is awesome. And by awesome, I mean so bad that it's good. Sort of like the Arnold Schwarzenegger classic Commando or a stinky fart. This opinion has nothing to do with political leanings or the book's content, it's all about the writing. It's true that I would rather discover that Glenn Beck is my illegitimate half-brother than spend an afternoon with Sarah Palin, but I might read her book cover to cover. The first paragraph alone is filled with enough cheese ("autumn bouquet", "small town America") to lure me in. I also need to say here, despite the fact that I don't personally care for Mrs. Palin, I hope we sell the shit out of this book. I also hope the publisher has contacted Revlon, because we are going to need more lipstick for this pig.

Movie Review Haiku

National Treasure 2:

Okay, As long as
You do not stop to ponder
How preposterous.

Whip It Good!

One of my birthday gifts was babysitting services provided by my in-laws so Amanda and I could hit the movies. With nothing "must-see" currently playing, we decided on the roller derby flick Whip It. While not the greatest movie ever, there is a lot to love: Ellen Page is adorable yet saucy, Kristen Wiig is funny as always, hot chicks in short shorts and roller skates, there are enough recognizable location shots in Austin to make me pine for a return trip there, a Daniel Stern sighting and a tiny, but funny homage to one of my favorite movies, Slapshot. All in all, not a bad way to spend two hours.

Enlarging the Lexicon.

My wife, Amanda, inadvertently helped me coin a phrase last week. Much to her chagrin, mostly because the phrase is crass and juvenile, I haven't stopped using it since. I was watching one of my favorite Food Network shows, Diners, Drive-thrus and Dumps, when apparently I made a sound like I was enjoying the idea of bacon-wrapped meatloaf a little too much. Amanda sarcastically asked me if I had popped a boner and I told her, "Yes, dear. A food boner."

So now I'm out to make "food boner" the preferred measuring stick(so to speak) for rating dishes. Male food critics of the world I implore you to drop the star system in favor of the Food Boner Index. Your sushi was fresh, delicious and perfectly rolled? How about three food boners out four? The food was okay, but the atmosphere was terrible? Perhaps this cafe only merits two food boners. Better yet, since I'm not terribly interested in counting boners, maybe we could make it all or nothing, pass/fail style. If the food and experience rock, you get a Food Boner. If the food and experience stink, you get a "Flaccid" next to your name in the write-up. Help me America, join in the crusade to make "Food Boner" so popular that it joins bling, green-collar and staycation as ridiculous additions to Webster's Dictionary.

And while on the subject of words, I'll hip you to another of my mini-crusades(you'd think I really have nothing important to do)-I want to bring Grass back as the preferred slang term for marijuana. Not pot, weed or dope-grass. As in "Pass the Grass." or the cheesy bumper sticker form decades past, "Ass, gas or grass, nobody rides for free."

Happy Birthday Grace

It seems impossible to me that my daughter is turning one today. To say the least, my life has changed immeasurably in the last year. As I watch her laying stretched out sleeping I can't believe how big she has become. Though she is neither talking or walking, she is far more toddler than baby. It's been awesome to watch her change, seemingly daily, as her temperament, attitude and personality develop. Sure, there have been big milestones and markers this year-rolling over, pulling herself up, recovering from her palate surgery. But I realized that I have measured this past year in many much smaller moments strung together to form our father/daughter bond- bouncing and a happy squeal when I get home from work, her crawling across the living room to knock over every stack of blocks that I build, a headbutt "kiss", her pointing out her head and Mommy's belly button, her grabbing her hairbrush attempting to comb her hair and mine. The past year has been everything people said it would be and more. It's been faster, more difficult, and most importantly, far better than I ever could have imagined. Thanks, Grace. I love you and Happy First Birthday.

Damn You, Victoria!

I've decided that Victoria's Secret must not like men very much. I know that sounds somewhat irrational given that the retailer provides great joy to men who date/marry Victoria's Secret shoppers and provides great "catalogs" for those men that don't. But how else can you explain the BioFit Seven Way Bra ? I was walking through the mall recently when the V.S. window sign advertising the BioFit scared the hell out of me. Apparently, this technological marvel has straps that can be fastened in seven different configurations. There's the Standard, the CrissCross, the Crossback, the ZigZag, the Loopty-Loo, the Flying V and the Cloverleaf. For decades, men have been confounded by ordinary bra straps and clasps, now we have to wrestle something that I need an engineering degree to decipher? Hopefully, the packaging includes a diagram and instructions for removal.

As a married man I know there is a narrow window between "Let's fool around," and "Nevermind, I wonder who's on Letterman,". I can't be wasting crucial seconds staring at blueprints. If Amanda purchases one of these things I may be in real trouble. I'm going to have to dispatch some Bothan spies to steal the plans to this thing or the Rebellion in my pants is going to be short-lived. Of course, even with instructions I'd still need my ham hands to cooperate. I'm not exactly operating with a surgeon's finesse. I'd hoped that as I aged I'd get smoother and more confident, kinda like the Dos Equis Most Interesting Man in the World, but now this bra threatens to make that a "one step forward, two steps back" proposition. Thanks, Victoria's Secret.

Rejected Halloween Costume #2

Amanda has vetoed another Halloween costume for the girl: Grace and I wearing matching white suits. Ah, just as well, she's too young to say "Da plane, Da plane." anyway.

"There was nothing normal about that."

My daughter Grace had surgery five weeks ago to repair a partial cleft of her soft palate. The surgery was successful thanks to the fine docs and staff at Johns Hopkins. While sitting around Grace's room after the surgery I was thinking about how I would describe the whole process. I thought about Tom Petty's lyric, "the waiting is the hardest part". And the waiting was tough-the anxious anticipation in the preceding days, the nervousness during the actual surgery and the boredom in the room after the surgery -but it turns out the waiting was not nearly the hardest part. In the evening following the surgery Grace sent a worrisome father's heart rate skyrocketing, giving me the biggest scare of my life.

As I said, the surgery was a success; we simply had to stay overnight until Grace recuperated enough to start feeding properly. Around dinnertime, Grace, who was acting pretty happy, if a little off from the anesthesia and her big day, decided to throw up. Blood. A lot of blood. One moment she's sitting in her hospital crib looking around. One cough later she's pouring out a coffee colored Niagra Falls. Sissy Spacek had less blood poured on her in Carrie. I don't know how Grace's digestive system housed that much blood. And, of course, her little body decided to do this while the nurse was out of the room.

I have genuinely feared for my safety a handful of times in my life, but I've never been as scared as I was at that instant. In that way that time slows and you can think a thousand things in a millisecond, I was instantly afraid for her, wondered what the hell was going on and felt incredibly helpless. As Amanda ran to Grace's side, I punched the nurse call button and, in what I can only imagine was a squeaky Peter Brady croak, yelled to them to please send someone because my daughter was vomiting blood everywhere. Grace, who has grown into big girl, suddenly looked impossibly tiny sitting in a blood covered hospital gown.

Our nurse responded immediately and calmly explained that this occurence was normal post-surgery and that since the blood was not bright red (fresh) we shouldn't be concerned. (I should say here that this was one of the instances that made the Hopkins experience great. The nurse was in no way condascending or dismissive when she explained all this. She understood our concern and anxiety, but her calm kept us calm. Because in my mind all I could think was that this was anything but normal.) So, since the blood looked like barbecue sauce and not bright red Hollywood blood the sutures were probably intact and the blood Grace threw up was old blood that had drained down her throat during and since the surgery. A visit from the Plastics resident confirmed this and set us somewhat at ease. Although, the resident also used the word normal and I maintain there was nothing normal about what I witnessed.

Hopefully, I'll never again experience that combination of fear and helplessness. The good news was that The Puking, though it scared Amanda and I, made Grace feel a whole bunch better. Grace has a check-up next week to see how she is healing. Hopefully, that day I'll hear the word normal and believe it.

Welcome New Readers

Since I may have a few new readers via Facebook (thanks for reading guys) I have decided to post links to some of my favorite posts so that, if so inclined, new readers can check out some of my older stuff without having to read all of the archives. Check out these links to see my thoughts on:profiling potential terrorists, why I despise Coldstone Creamery , my frustrating weed eater ,space travel , how President Bush has lost my respect, the marketing of the human male, flea markets, my fear of foodborne illness, the wussification of America, my raging germophobia, my first solo trip with Grace to the grocery store and my adventures as an amateur orthodontist.

Rejected Halloween Costume.

I'm sure this will not be the last, but I have had my first halloween costume for Grace vetoed by the wife. I thought we should dress Grace like the creature from Alien and then I would wear her in the Baby Bjorn which would be decorated so it looked like she was bursting from my gut just like the movie. Oh well, back to the drawing board.

We Now Return To Regularly Scheduled Programming.

Okay, so that was a much longer hiatus than I anticipated. I haven't blogged since early June because it has been a very busy summer. Since Memorial Day I have: moved (twice, technically), started working at the Big Green Bookstore again (glad to be back working with my buds), stepped down as the Governor of Alaska (You Betcha!), sweated my Dad's five day hospital stay (he's fine), ignored my fantasy baseball team (sorry Warren), learned much (about myself and others), helped remodel our rental house(man, I hate painting), called the President a liar during a joint session of Congress, beamed proudly as Grace learned to crawl and pull herself up (she'll walk soon I think), worried mightily through her cleft surgery and recovery (she recovered great and hasn't missed a beat), memorized a half-dozen Elmo DVDs ("Read, read, read, read, Elmo's a pirate who loves to read."), was eliminated from the AL East race by September 1st (wait, that was the Orioles) and had reaffirmed for me what I already knew (that as long as I have Amanda and Grace, I have everything I need). Now that I've updated, how about a return to snarky, sarcastic, insignificant opinion and nonsense?

Even though I wasn't writing, I spent the summer observing, worrying, cheering, reading, complaining, fretting, watching TV, wallowing in pessimism...well, the usual. I have some notes, on paper and in my head, so hopefully I'll have some rapid fire posts out of the gate. Though, time management is not a strong suit of mine and available time seems ever dwindling. We'll see. Tonight I start with a short post-a few unimportant questions that have been nagging me lately.

Will landscape designers who plan layouts for business properties ever take into consideration how their shrubs/trees/hedges affect a driver's ability to see oncoming traffic? I'm tired of having my front end almost ripped off by a passing vehicle because I've had to inch out into the street to peer around an ill-placed hedge. Or maybe I should just stop going to the mall.

How did it take me this long to discover Chick-Fil-A's chicken mini breakfast sandwiches? A chicken nugget on soft, buttered roll that is the exact size of the opening of the barbecue sauce container, thereby making it perfect for dipping? Brilliant!

Why is it that while plaid shorts are deemed acceptable summer attire, plaid pants are considered ridiculous?

If Dan Brown writes a book, but there's nobody there to buy it, is it still the biggest release of the year?

Should I feel guilty if, while eating the aforementioned chicken mini, I pass a tractor trailer loaded with chickens stuffed into cages?

What will happen to all the Marvel themed rides at Universal Studios theme parks now that Disney has purchased Marvel for $4 billion? Coming in 2010-The Incredible Bulk roller coaster and Slider-man 3D thrill ride!

I understand being required to carry car insurance because I may harm someone else, but why must I be forced to carry health insurance? Of course I have coverage now, but if I was single and healthy I would consider skipping it (if given that option by our heavy-handed President.)

Somewhere, The Colonel Is Pissed.

Kentucky Grilled Chicken? Really? Let's forget the stupid slogan, "Unthink." Let's forget the knuckleheadedness (Hey, if they can make up a word so can I.) of knocking what you do best. Why can't people just stick with what they know? Dammit, there is still a place in this world for artery clogging, deep fried, grease dripping, extra crispy chicken skin. You guys are still going to sell plenty of buckets because, trust me, fat guys everywhere are working very hard to NOT unthink. You want to serve a new product? Keep the chicken and the bones and sell me a bucket of extra crispy skin. KFS!

After weeks of being bombarded with the ads and hearing one positive testimonial from a friend, I caved and bought a ten piece bucket of KGC. My mistake. Well, first, let me list the positive. I expected the grill marks to be painted on, as fake as the yellow cheese color of the mac & cheese. Much to my surprise, the grill marks appear to be real. The negatives? Still greasy (which maybe in this argument I should list as a positive), bland tasting (maybe all the finger-lickin' flavor is in the frying oil) and apparently their new grill shrinks the chicken. Seriously, these were the dinkiest pieces of chicken I have ever been served. Kate Moss, at her coke-addled worst, had more meat on her bones than did any of these ten pieces. The breasts (the chicken's not Kate Moss's) were the size of normal thighs, the thighs were the size of normal wings and I'd prefer the drumsticks be larger than the average drummette you get as buffalo wings. The bucket was half empty. Just like my head must have been when I decided to purchase the stuff in the first place.

Tough Week

It's been a bit of a brutal week here at That's No Moon World Headquarters. Sometime while we were out of town on an overnight trip this past weekend, one of our cats, Bam-Bam, escaped from the house and has been missing since. We've canvassed the neighborhood, put up fliers, contacted the proper authorities and left food out all to no avail. Now that it's been five days, things look pretty bleak. We hoped he was lurking near the house because Bam-Bam is truly a fraidy cat. Having been an inside cat for his entire nine years, he has the street sense of a frozen turkey. In fact, he was voted Least Likely to Survive Outdoors by his high school classmates. Unfortunately, he wasn't just hiding out nearby waiting for us to come home.

So, after nearly a week of futile searching and following a few leads that went nowhere, I am reduced to rooting for the Disney ending. I hope one morning I'll open the door to find him weary from his outdoor adventure. He'll come in and regale us with his tale of the magnificent journey he took, telling us of the help he received from a puckish squirrel and the dim-witted, but hilarious rabbit. Alas, this is no movie and, unless Bam-Bam is better equipped to live outside than I think he is, I fear we've seen the last of him.

I didn't expect his escape to affect me as deeply as it has. Having never had pets as a kid, this is the first real loss of a pet that I've experienced. I know I like to joke about how much I hate the cats and being only an animal tolerator, but this has left me close to devastated. I just have to hope that either he has been scooped up by someone who is now taking good care of him or that he is having a grand time frolicking about the great outdoors. Imagining any other outcome just bums me out.

I probably won't be writing much, if at all, in the short term future because we have some other major business to attend to here shortly. Please don't worry, everyone is well; I'll explain soon enough.

Thud.

So... that was a bummer. But a little perspective is in order. A quick-fire list of thoughts as the Caps season expired.

*Losing in a Game 7 blows. Losing to the Pens in Game 7 is just the worst. I'll take my good natured ribbing from family that are legit Pens fans. What I can't stomach is all the bandwagon asshats whose hockey knowledge is no deeper than the 87 on their jersey. (Sadly, there are plenty of morons wearing Red #8s that fall into that same category.)

*Rarely do Game 7s (Games 7?) live up to the hype. That this series lived up to advance OVERhyping for six games was somewhat surprising. I thought this game might be a dud. Obviously, I was hoping it would be a dud in the other direction.

*Speaking of hype, it will be fun to watch the national media rush to tear down what they rushed to build up. (Ovie, the Caps, The Game That Will Save Hockey)

*Don Cherry must be masturbating into his plaid jacket.

*As much as I can't stand to praise Sidney Crosby, I must. He is many things-a whiny d-bag, a complainer, a mini-Mario and unfortunately, a great player. One thing I can't call him anymore is a pussy. He hangs around the tough parts of the rink and gets hard-nosed, dirty work goals. Having magnificent hands doesn't hurt either. I'm gonna go vomit now.

*I wasn't surprised that the Caps lost tonight, but I sure was surprised by how they lost. It's hard to believe that they played their worst game of the season on a night that required their best. I told Killer earlier today that if they started tonight like they started game 7 against the Rangers, the Caps would get their doors blown off. I don't like it when I'm right. Did they hit the ice flat? I'm not so sure, but it didn't take long to turn into a clunker. Certainly, Fleury's save on the Ovechkin breakaway set a tone. It pumps one bench and deflates another. Then the "8 second" goal just kicks the team in the nuts. Finally, the Guerin goal 30 seconds into the second period really erases any confidence that you can bounce back from a terrible first period.

*I said before the series began that no matter what happened I would be happy with the season the Caps completed. Once the disappointment of tonight wears off it will be easier to see the progress that was made. The team advanced further than last year. Sometimes there is a steep learning curve. I think the future is very bright for this young team. On the other hand, there are a lot of good young teams that aren't just going to let the rise of Ovechkin and the Caps occur like some kind of coronation. Two of them (the Hawks and the Pens) are still playing, gaining even more experience. There will be many more battles like this series in the coming years.

*I was very happy to see the majority of fans stayed at Verizon Center after the final horn to salute what really was a fantastic season. I'm sure leaving the ice to chants of M-V-P will provide Alex Ovechkin little solace tonight, but hopefully it indicates that this fanbase is growing beyond a bunch of fair-weather bandwagon jumpers.

*I was lucky to have an awesome season watching the Caps in person. It was a great decision to become a 6-game "season ticket holder". Had a blast with my ticket buddies, learning much about seat ettiquette and learning that it is best not to "Drown the Anger" when seat ettiquette has been violated. Through other generosity I was also able to watch two games from the club level including an AO hat trick in February and the turning-point game 5 of the Rangers series. All in all, I was 6-2 in person but unbeaten in the fun department. A truly great season in an awesome atmosphere.

*Finally, tonight is further evidence of what my friends and I have known for a long time-it is hard to be a Caps fan. There are many great joys which are often outweighed by the sting of playoff hardship. I truly believe that all the crap piled on decade after decade will only make the moment that much sweeter as we someday watch the Cup parade down Pennsylvania Ave. Until then, keep Rockin' the Red. Let's Go Caps.

The best goal I never saw.

Last night's David Steckel OT game-winner that propelled the Caps to Game 7 was, what, the 4th biggest goal scored in Caps' playoff history? I'd say number one would be Joe Juneau poking it past Hasek in OT to send Washington to its only trip to the Cup finals. I'd say number two would be Dale Hunter abusing Hextall to finish Game 7 OT versus the Flyers many moons ago. Third is tough, but I'd have to go with Sergei Fedorov ousting the Rangers in round one this year. Then I put Steckel's tip job from last night. I make this list to point out that I watched live half of the four greatest goals in Caps playoff history. I remember Juneau's like it was yesterday and leaped for joy when Fedorov connected a couple weeks ago. Which means...That's right, after years of torment by the Penguins, after seeing not one but two Pens OT winners bounce in off Capital defensemen in the last week, after riding the roller coaster that was regulation of Game 6 including rocking like Leo Mazzone on crystal meth through the final two minute penalty kill, I did not actually see David Steckel's game-winner when it happened.

We had eaten dinner and watched the first three periods of the game at my aunt's house. Had a lovely time, despite the ulcer inducing third period. Once the horn sounded, it was time to pack up and head for home in time to watch OT. Except that now with a seven-month-old, the packing up doesn't quite go as fast as it used to. High chair? Check. Diaper bag, food, toys? Check. Okay, let's hit it. Oh, yes, you're right, we should probably take the girl. Of course, then Mother Nature conspired to slow our ride with some heavy rain.

Finally, we make it home and I pick up the Comcast remote. The goddamn, convoluted, All On-button-that-never-works Comcast remote control. First the sound comes up but I realize the TV is still black. Furiously grabbing the remote, my fat fingers hit every button but the TV power. Finally, the green light on the TV starts flashing, but this TV takes FOREVER to warm up. Then I hear Joe B. shout the word SCORE! It sounds like good news, but after SCORE! I seem to have gone momentarily stupid as my brain races to piece together what it is hearing. Finally, after like ten minutes (or, more likely, four seconds) the color pops up and I am relieved to see the Caps merrily celebrating at center ice. Sweet relief, but instant disappointment as I realize that, though I am ecstatic over the victory, I missed out on the payoff moment. I missed the building tension and antsy feelings of OT leading up to the dramatic conclusion. I missed out on the joy of witnessing, at least with my eyeballs, the moment when enough was enough and Washington got a measure of payback against Pittsburgh. This will sound really corny, but I missed out on the shared experience that my far flung buddies and I have as we watch these games together. I hope the boys in Red have one more magic victory in them tomorrow night. And I hope like hell that destiny lets me hear and see this one. Rock the Red. Keep the Faith. Let's Go Caps.

Who's more the fool, the fool or the fool that follows him?

And there it was. 3:28 into overtime. Barely enough time to settle into the extra session. Had you headed to the arena men's room at the end of regulation you may have still been in the john. Or seen it on a concourse tv monitor as you hustled back to your seat. 3:28 into OT, 1:59 into the killing of a penalty that had to be called, even in playoff OT. Nary half an hour after The Great Eight had seemingly, once again, rescued a season, the Penguins had, somehow, done it again. It was a fluky goal to be sure, but with Pittsburgh fluky is the norm. And, truthfully, whether it was a bad bounce or a sure-eyed laser from the slot, it was a dagger to the heart all the same. A dagger that made the bit of optimism that Ovechkin's goal rekindled seem trivial, silly. A dagger that hushed the crowd and made Monday night win or go home for the Capitals. A dagger that sent me on a cooling off walk up and down my driveway that probably lasted longer than the overtime session.

The goal was so expected that my phone didn't buzz with a single text message from fellow fans after the game. There was no need for communication, we were all thinking the same thing. We are students of history and need no flash cards or pop quizzes to jog our memory. This was just the latest installment in a story of hockey heartbreak. Sure, the driveway walk used to be a ripping of the sweater or the smashing of a remote control. Maybe I'm more mellow, but I'm no less frustrated. Two decades of this frustration leads to a little pessimism, a little paranoia and a whole lot of "Here we go again". I knew this series was over when the Caps took a 2 games to none lead. Pens had 'em right where they wanted them. I knew this series was over when Game 3 went to overtime. I knew the series was over when the shot tipped off Varly's glove and trickled in during Game 4. But see, now I'm not so sure.

I still have an inkling of a sliver of a wisp of hope that the Caps can still pull this off. Make no mistake, hope is all that remains. Common sense, history, statistics, trends and the curse all hopped the midnight shuttle to Pittsburgh. Maybe I'll be made a fool on Monday or Wednesday, but I won't be made a fool until every bit of hope is officially destroyed. Because if there is a chance, then a fan's duty is to believe. This team, over many years, has not reciprocated the love its fans have shown. At least not in terms of playoff success. However, a real fan cheers because they enjoy the team, not solely because the team is good. And I love this team; when on, they play a style that is fun to watch. Maybe these kids, and let's not forget that is what most of them still are, really do need to pushed to the brink to bring out their best. We know they are good enough, now they must show us that they want it bad enough. I'm just dumb enough to think they can, that this year is different. So stow the doom and gloom for at least one more day. Rock The Red. Keep the Faith. Let's Go Caps.

Father of the Year.

Like most parents do with their own kids, I sing silly songs to Grace all the time. Sometimes I make up lyrics and a tune, but since I really have little to no musical talent, I usually sing goofy new lyrics to existing tunes. Lately I've noticed an alarming tendency to sing clean lyrics to the tune of dirty songs that would never ever be appropriate to sing to my six month old daughter.

Examples:when making her bottle- Oh, me so hungry. Oh, oh me so hungry. Me eat for long time.

While she's really jumping in her bouncy seat-She's a very bouncy girl, who really loves her mama. She's Super Grace, Super Grace, She's Super Gracie.

Please, no one call Child Protective Services.

"Welcome to the Circus"

The only thing more improbable than the Caps' Game 7 win over the Rangers was the height of my leap off the couch when Sergei Federov scored the game-winning goal. My fat ass has not jumped that high in a long time. Amanda was afraid I was going to crash into something as I leapt over Grace's play mat(Grace wasn't on it) and took a lap around the kitchen silently screaming (so as to not alarm Grace). Think about it, a Caps fan, weighed on by the memories of past playoff failures, had to be an incurable optomist to think this team could complete the comeback against the Rangers. The Caps have compiled quite the greatest hits album of hope crushers before Tuesday night: Losing six out of seven game 7s. Peter Nedved. The Jagr Experiment. The Easter Epic. Last year's comeback falling short versus the Flyers. Too many blown three games to one leads. Esa Tikkanen. That's why Tuesday's victory, despite being only a first round series victory, feels so important.

The victory allows a fan base to breathe, once again aware that there is such a thing as Round 2. It allows the mind to fill with all the great memories of Caps past that make us love this team in the first place:Hunter "in alone" versus Philly in 1988. Al Iafrate blistering radar guns at the All-Star weekend. Dino. Bonzai hanging five goals on the Lightning. Kono, Dahlen and Halpern working the cycle. Godzilla carrying a team all the way to the Finals. Joe Juneau slipping an OT winner past Hasek that sent grown men shrieking like little girls.

It allows a fan base to dissect and celebrate a wacky series that joins a host of wacky playoff series in the Caps yearbook. The loudest arena I've ever been inside. Avery being such a douche that his own team benches him. Ovie adding to his highlight reel in Game 5. Matt Bradley grinding his way to not one, but two goals. Tortarella melting down and squirting fans when he was the one that needed to cool off. Bruce Boudreau having the balls to hand the helm of The Dissapointment Express to a kid goalie. Simeon Varlamov having the balls to right the ship and make Bruuuuuce look like a genius. A Tom Poti sighting. A Brashear suspension. (Deserved, by the way. Perhaps too severe, but definitely deserved.) Federov bailing out a tight team that was on the verge of a setback to reputation and development.

The danger here is that now, perhaps, the Caps breathe too big a sigh of relief. With a goal of simply improving on last year, which they have now accomplished, they are playing with house money. But they shouldn't be just "happy to be here" in Round 2. This team is good enough to go much deeper. If they don't, I will still be happy with this season. However, it will hurt like hell to go out to the Pens. That's why, instead of feeling like an end, the victory over the Rangers must feel like a beginning. The Caps slayed one Ghost of Playoffs Past by winning a Game 7. Now comes playoff nemesis Pittsburgh, a team that gives every Caps fan the heebie-jeebies. Somebody cue Ray Parker Jr.; there is more work to be done.

Caps, Beard Soldier On.

I honestly haven't been able to put together a cohesive post regarding the Caps' huge win over the Rangers on Tuesday. As a long suffering Caps fan it was almost too much to digest. I am shocked, elated, surprised and generally stunned that the Caps completed the trip back from being down three games to one. It's almost enough to drive the pessimist out of me. (yeah, right) I'll try to write something that makes sense in the coming days; until then enjoy this beautiful photo of my playoff peach fuzz. As you can see, it remains quite sad. Even sadder-this is the fullest, most robust beard I've ever grown. Ready for ZZ Top, I am not.

"The Pig Is a Filthy Animal"

I guess Jules from Pulp Fiction was right to not "dig on swine". The swine flu was pretty easy to ignore when it popped up in Elsewhere, USA. Now that a couple of probable cases have been discovered in Anne Arundel County, however, the hypochondria in me has slipped into overdrive. I know, logically, that if I take the same precautions as I would during a normal cold and flu season that I should be fine. Unfortunately, the hypochondriac doesn't think logically. With the evening news barking in my ear, I'll wonder which of the people I pass in the grocery store is about to give me this new influenza bug. Truthfully, I'm far more worried about Grace than myself. I'd hate for her to be exposed, but a bubble doesn't seem very practical. Do they make Popemobile strollers?

Daddy Blooper.

Have you ever spilled coffee all over the inside of your trunk because you folded and stowed the stroller without remembering that the wife's full cup of joe was still in the cupholder? No? Your car thanks you.

The Beard Lives Another Day.

Through some serious good fortune I watched tonight's game 5 of the Caps-Rangers series from the club level at Verizon Center. I still think I know how this series ends, but I didn't let that stop me from enjoying tonight. What a game.

*Muckers and grinders everywhere are celebrating tonight after watching Matt Bradley pot two goals in the first period. One was a sweet deke and the other a cheapie that found a hole. Both goals gave the Caps some early mo and kept the crowd revved up.

* That was easily the loudest game I've attended. To use the tired expression, the atmosphere was electric. From the opening draw the crowd was nuts; there was a sustained buzz that I had never heard in that building before. The Caps did not need their fake decibel meter tonight; you could barely hear after the first goal. The only hiccup was the dope that apparently poured his beer on Ranger coach John Tortarella. I have no love for Tortarella, however that's just classless. That is the kind of thing that you might expect in NY or Philly. Though it was hilarious watching Jim Schoenfeld wrestle Torts on the bench preventing him from whacking the fan with a stick.

*Speaking of classless, the Rangers scratched Sean Avery tonight. It looked like they missed his edge. I was hoping to see him play so I could see him freighttrained in person. Oh well. Colton Orr kept up the dirty stuff, though, with the his clotheslining of Nick Backstrom. Bruce Boudreau was smart to keep his stars on the bench for the last five minutes of the game. If the score in game 6 gets out of hand it might explode into a bloodbath.

*Alex Ovechkin scored another incredible goal. This video does it no justice, the in-house replay showed just how great it was. He shrugs off one defender (Drury, I think) who tries to hit him, pushes the puck through the moving skates of Derrick Morris, kicks the puck back up to his stick, falls down and pushes it past Lundqvist. Silly stuff. The fans move to the edge of their seats every time he touches the puck. And are rewarded way more often than you would think possible.

*Simeon Varlomov earned his second shutout of the series. He wasn't dominant, but made every play. Even after the game, during the celebration, as someone slid the game puck towards him, he casually flipped it away from the net with his glove. H wasn't going to let any pucks behind him tonight.

So, after all that, as great as it was, the Caps still need two straight wins to win the series. Likely? No. But after what I saw and felt otnight, anything seems possible.

I Know How This Movie Ends.

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Not Yet Soured By Playoffs Past.

Gracie and I were Rocking the Red during the third period of the Caps' 4-0 shutout of the Rangers last night. Look how intently she's analyzing the Caps penalty kill unit. Or perhaps she's looking for an escape route. Either way, I was loving it. (Also, for my sanity, I've decided to write no more Caps posts until this series is over.)

New Blog Alert

I've been meaning to post a new link for several weeks now. My beautiful bride is writing again, posting at With Grace. Hopefully you'll enjoy her tales of madcap adventures raising her cute kid and putting up with her incredibly handsome and brainy husband.