Cap-sized! Rangers Flip Series, Sink Washington In Seven

I want you to try something.  Call a buddy over, you are going to need some help.  Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart.  Now ask your buddy to kick you in the nuts as hard as he can.  I don't mean a gentle toe tap.  I mean a kick that drives one of your testicles so far inside you surgery will be required to remove it.  Go ahead, I'll wait... Hurts doesn't it?  Why would you ask somebody to do that?  Are you stupid or somethin'?  Now you know how it feels to be a Washington Capitals fan.  We stand, feet spread, wincing as we accept, practically beg for,  a big 'ol nut punt Spring after Spring.

It's like some sort of decades-long fraternity hazing.  Thank you, Sir! May I have another? Yes, I will stand here and endure all these Daniel-san crane kicks to the ballbag, but it will all be worth it because at some point I will get my pledge pin and get to play beer pong with pretty girls, right?  No dumbass!  You are going to take all those scrote-ripping groin busters and the big Swedish goaltender is still going to kick in the door, steal all your Milwaukee's Best and take your woman upstairs.

I mean, seriously?  Can something be inevitable and impossible at the same time?  101 seconds from Round 3.  A disallowed goal.  A puck deflecting off a defenseman's skate, through the goalie's pads to be tapped in for a goal with .3 seconds left in the period.  Simply more markers on the road map charting the Hockey Heartbreak Highway that Caps fans have traveled for decades.  Run your fingers along the route with me.  (Not that longtime fans need a map.  We can find every exit and way station with our eyes closed.)  Gonchar falling in OT.  Joe Juneau failing to convert an overtime penalty shot.  Tom Poti's penalty.  Esa Tikkanen. I've  got a dozen more, but you get the point. 

This blog, whether discussing my dad skills or my favorite teams, is frequently fueled by pessimism and incompetence.  In this regard, the Capitals are a flippin' nuclear reactor.  The negative energy emanating from this franchise is unreal.  Almost literally unreal.  It seems impossible that every time they land in a Game 7 after blowing a 3-1 series lead they end up completing the fall.  But here we are, 5 for 5.  Impossible yet inevitable.  Who didn't think when they lost Game 5 in OT that they were done? Liar.  Then a frantic comeback in Game 6 provided false hope that maybe they could pull something off in Game 7.  Lucy pulling the football from Charlie Brown one more time.  Good Grief indeed, Chuck.  There will be fans talking about what a great game Game 7 was.  They will tell you it could have gone either way.  They will tell you the Caps stood toe to toe with the better, favored, President's Trophy-winning Rangers through seven one goal games.  This is all true.  Also true, however, is that Washington once again choked away a 3-1 series lead.  I don't care how big an underdog you are, you must finish that series. 

Because if you don't, despite having a new coach and a new GM and new players and a new attitude and new resolve, you are still just the same old Caps.  Is it October yet?

Who You Gonna Call?

Well, here we are.  The place any team would love to be. The place any fan base would love to be.  The Washington Capitals are one win from their first trip to the Conference Finals in seventeen years.  One win from Alex Ovechkin's first venture beyond the second round.  With Wednesday night's victory the Caps built a commanding (legally required to use that cliche there) three games to one series lead over the hated Rangers.  But Caps fans know well the perils of 3-1 series lead.  We have borne witness to blown leads and choke jobs.  We have watched helplessly as the likes of Lemieux and LaFontaine, Jagr and Halak, have yanked our hockey  hearts from our chests and mercilessly ground them under their skate boot.  Out of two hundred seventy occurrences of  a team holding a 3-1 series lead,  only ten percent of the teams have blown that lead.  Four of those twenty-seven teams,the most in NHL history, have been the Capitals.  Four times I have watched as a team unraveled, as history repeated itself, as a series slipped away almost cosmically as if it were a fate preordained by the hockey gods.

Don't get me wrong; I haven't fired up the Doomsday Siren yet. Yet.  But I am looking for the keys just in case.  Such is the life of Caps fans.  The worry reflex has kicked in.  Muscle memory instructs us to expect the worst.  We are wary when things are riding too high.  I'll watch Game 5 through my fingers.  A Game 6 would elicit the paces of an expectant father.  A Game 7 would tighten sphincters across the region.  I have seen what can happen and it's not pretty.  It is hard to shake the feeling that New York has us right where they want us.  

So, why can't I get my head around the idea that these might not be the same ol' Caps?  Maybe because, unlike the opening round, I have been able to watch precious little of this series.  In fact, I have seen less than twenty minutes of game action combined through four games (fortunately, a few of those minutes included Joel Ward's Game One buzzer-beater).  I can't really speak to how the Caps are playing.  Everything I read, hear and see in the highlights seems to indicate, carrying over from the first round, that they feel "different".  Quotes from the locker room indicate the players are quite serious about finshing the Rangers.  Unfortunately, this is typically where teams of the past, and Ovi's Caps, let up.  Whether in an individual game or in playoff series, the Caps tend to let teams off the mat.  The Rangers are good.  Lundqvist is good. Good enough to come back and win this series.  That's why I worry.  However, in Round One optimism was my vow and a Ghost of Playoffs past was banished.  Once again, I'm willing to let optimism be my spirit guide.  Somebody call Ray Parker Jr.  For now, I ain't afraid of no (playoff) ghosts.

Charm City?

I will never suffer the indignity of being pulled over for Driving While Black.  I have never lived in a neighborhood that fears a police presence.  I have never felt like my vote didn't count.  I can never truly give full voice to to the anger of feeling marginalized  due to the color of my skin.  I have never been, and hopefully never will be, placed in the back of a police vehicle.  If I do find myself in police custody, however, I deserve, as does EVERYONE ELSE, to be treated with dignity and fairness until justice is served.  So I can't fully live the experience of all my neighbors, but I can stand with those seeking answers in Ferguson or New York or with those wanting to know what really happened in the back of a paddy wagon in Baltimore.  I can appreciate the outrage.  I acknowledge it.  I get it.  What I don't get is using this outrage as an excuse to indulge in wild, illegal, destructive behavior.

The looting and rioting has eclipsed any positive message the peaceful protestors sought to spread.  Thousands of people protested peacefully Saturday.  Unfortunately, a much smaller number of people (not entirely unprovoked, by the way) decided to show their asses.  This destruction, and the coverage of it by local media, seemed to give license to troublemakers who took to the streets with the craziness after Freddie Gray's funeral yesterday.  Just like in Ferguson and New Orleans after Katrina and countless other places before, opportunistic losers took advantage of a grievance to act like assholes.  I have been pissed about a lot of things in my life, but I promise you I have never once thought, "You know what would make me feel better right now?  Burning down a CVS after I steal all the Charmin."  Vandalizing your own neighborhood, "getting mines", attacking police with bricks, destroying businesses-these things make no sense even in, maybe especially in, this context.  My favorite, in a hilariously sad way, video from yesterday was a news chopper feed of the one mall being looted.  One of the looters ran from the store with an armload of clothes, which she had to put down so she could unlock her car.  Rioting Pro Tip:  Be sure to lock up so no one steals your stuff while you are off stealing someone else's stuff. Brilliant!  What are we doing here people?

Thank goodness for those who cut through the nuttiness to help.  Thank goodness for Robert Valentine and for the mom who slapped some sense into her son.  Thank goodness for the man who quietly started sweeping up in the middle of the chaos.  Thank goodness for the hundreds of first responders who stood watch last night while the city burned around them.  I love Baltimore.  She is a proud city.  Despite making fun of her for once being the most syphilitic city in the country, I constantly defend Baltimore to the naysayers.  We have never had trouble going to ball games or to Johns Hopkins for my daughter's surgery and follow-ups.  I hope the city finds peace.  I hope communities across the nation can find peace. How that happens, I don't know.  We are talking about systematic injustice and mistrust.  We are talking about drugs and the violence and sadness they leave in their wake.  We are talking about selfishness.  We are talking, but not always listening.  Criminals and victims.  Sometimes, criminals as victims.

 What I do know, is that we can all help.    We must be sensible and sensitive.  Respectful and responsive.  Caring and careful.  And I know that burning police cars and smashing in windows or skulls is none of those things.

Game Seven:The Two Most Exciting Words In Sports

Bring it in Caps Fans.  Huddle up.  You guys out there on the ledge-climb back in the window.  You over there muttering, “Here we go again”- come on over.  You there, holding your Ovechkin sweater- put down the butane lighter and get over here.  Take a knee and listen up.  I know it doesn’t look good.  Home Game 7s (Games 7?) haven’t treated the Caps very well. (1-4 record in the Ovechkin Era.)  Our stars seem to shrink in these moments.  Big Mo seems to be on the Isles side.  Jaroslav Halak is 6-1 in elimination games during his playoff career.  So what? I choose optimism.  It may not be rational.  It may not be logical.  But it sure is more fun. 

 

You see, I don’t Rock the Red because Big Ted’s marketing team tells me to.  I root for the Caps because they are my team.  If I was going to stop rooting for this team when things looked bleak, I would have stopped 25 years ago, or during the era they wore Red the first time.  Yes, I predicted the Islanders would win the series in seven games.  That doesn’t mean I want to be correct.  And you know what?  The Islanders might win.  They are a damn strong team.  All the more reason to watch with excitement tonight; if the Caps pull out a W, it will have been well earned. I’ll chew my nails through Game 7.  I’ll don my lucky hat at game time.  I’ll let Grace watch a few minutes before bed continuing her indoctrination into this roller coaster ride that is being a Washington Capitals fan.   I’ll believe in a win until the scoreboard reads otherwise.

Tomorrow, if this team I love has laid another Game 7 egg, I will gladly listen to your “I told you so.” To, “Ovechkin isn’t clutch.”  To, “this organization is cursed.”  To, “Barry Trotz is just Bruce Boudreau with a goatee.”  I will listen to all criticisms and likely add a few of my own.  But tonight we cheer.  Tonight we cheer, for we are fans and that is what fans do.  Because the possibility still exists that the Great 8 will net a hat trick, raising his game as he wills his team to Round 2.  There still exists the possibility that Braden Holtby shuts out New York.  There still exists the possibility that this time the Caps prevail in four overtimes.  Of course, there also still exists the possibility my optimism is entirely unfounded.  I’ll let you know after Game 7!

Wow Me.

Okay, I admit it.  As I've gotten older I have become a little jaded.  I think we all do as we age.  I suppose we develop a "I've seen it all" mentality.  Fewer things knock my socks off.  I find myself saying, "It was fine" when asked how something was.  I might enjoy stuff, but rarely am I wowed.  Dinner at that new restaurant? Fine.  That book I just finished? Fine.  The Fourth of July fireworks show? Fine.  (Seriously though, I can't be the only adult that is bored with the fireworks, can I?  If you've seen one, you've kinda seen 'em all.)  This is one of the many reasons having a kid is so great.  You can see experiences through their eyes.  When they experience things for the first time, you can experience it anew vicariously through them.  When Grace tells me a day at the beach jumping in the surf is the BEST DAY EVER! who am I to argue?  Instead of dismissing it as hyperbole, I should remember that, yeah, this is a pretty good damn day.  Child-like wonder can do us all some good.

Two separate kid moments cut through the clutter for me today.  Today was a day of errands and other routine distractions.  As we completed them, Grace asked if we could stop by the library.  How could I say no to the that?  (What I should have said no to, though, was letting her check out the Frozen soundtrack sung in Spanish.  I long for the due date so I may then sing Libre Soy.)  One of our post-library traditions is stopping by the nearby pizza shop for a slice.  We had fun just chilling with some pie in the warm afternoon sun.  The real awesome moment came later when Grace started reading one of her borrowed books.  She has been learning and diligently practicing reading in and after school for a few weeks now.  It has been neat seeing her move from letter sounds to blending words and piecing together syllables.  Today, however, was the first time that she has thrown open a book, begun sounding out the words and nailed it without needing or asking for help.  Needless to say I was filled with pride.  It is so cool to see the puzzle pieces clicking in to place as she determinedly sounds out the words.  Wow Moment Number One.

Wow Moment Number Two  was a kid moment, too, but more because it tied to my own childhood.  The internet blew up this afternoon as the second Star Wars teaser trailer debuted and was subsequently shared by a Death Star-sized percentage of my friends list.  Sure it was only a thirty-second snippet. Watching that tantalizing morsel transported me back to childhood.  Some may say it is only a movie, nothing to get so so excited about.  For them, that may be true.  And that's cool. I'm sure they have their passions.  After all, I believe we are all giant nerds about something.  It might be craft beer or baseball or comics or photography; we all have things that we geek out on that leave others scratching their head.  For me, that trailer hitting the Net (do people still call it that?) was a big ol' NERD ALERT.  Hearing John Williams' score, listening to talk of the Force and watching the Millennium Falcon blast across the screen made me feel like a kid again.  Because for me, and millions of people my age,  the Star Wars Saga was not simply a collection of movies.  It was a gateway to so much more.  It inspired creativity and play time. It fired the imagination and it embodied, right there on that big screen, child-like wonder.  And it was just so damn cool.  That is why today's trailer was important to me.  It was a not so sublte reminder that, "travelin' through hyperspace ain't like dustin' crops, boy."

Now, the jaded me worries that the movie might suck.  A friend, and fellow fan, reminded me that the best part of Episode I was the trailer.  I admit, as happy as I was to see Han and Chewie on screen again, Harrison Ford's gravelly voice sounded a lot like Krystal Skull-era Indy. (Shudder.)  But none of that matters.  I will sit with Christmas morning-like anticipation as the house lights go down December 15th.  Not only will I get to be a kid again, but I get the opportunity to take Grace to see a Star Wars movie in the theater for the first time.  Peaking into a Galaxy far, far away through my eyes and hers could be awesome.  A shared joy and Wow Moment Number Two.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Forecasting the unpredictable NHL postseason is a bit like having dandruff- people think you are weird and you are often left scratching your head.  Knowing just how much the internet is clamoring for my predictions, I have doused my crystal ball with Selsun Blue, so let's get started.  Who wants to talk about the Caps-Islanders Eastern Conference Quarterfinal match up? 

WHY THE CAPS WILL WIN THE SERIES:
1. BARRY TROTZ:  During his first season in D.C., Trotz has installed a tight-checking, gap-control system that the players are actually buying in to.  Playing as a five man unit defensively, players see that sound defense can quickly transition to opportunistic offense.  Trotz has a good feel for his team.  Whether talking line combos, goalie starts or healthy scratches, he has often pushed the right buttons.  That he has never advanced any deeper into the playoffs than the Ovechkin-era Caps is a valid criticism, but Trotz  never had in Nashville the offensive firepower that he has in Washington. 

2. TOUGHNESS:  Trotz has demanded a level of toughness that even hard-ass Dale Hunter could not coax out of these Caps.  Opponents remark that the Caps are now hard to play against.  Washington has big bodies that can grind a team down.  I'm not saying they are the second coming of recent Bruins teams that punished defenses under a relentless forecheck, but the Caps are swift enough and rugged enough up front to make teams pay. Now, will they?

3. DEFENSE: For years, fans begged GM George McPhee to improve the defense.  Yet trade deadlines and offseasons passed year after year with only a rotating cast of has-beens and minor league journeymen manning the back half of the defense corp.  During free agency new GM Brian McClellan overspent to land stud defenseman Brooks Orpik and fellow blue-liner Matt Nisskanen.  They have stabalized a realigned defense that is now a team strength. 

4.MIKE GREEN:  Perhaps the biggest beneficiary of the revamped defense has been Mike Green.  Relegated to the third D pairing has been a blessing.  He appears to be healthy after no longer being asked to play thirty minutes a night.  Bruce Boudreau irresponsibly ran this kid into the ground.  Green has responded to playing less minutes by producing nearly the same number of points in far fewer minutes than in recent seasons.  He is getting hot at the right time and could be a major offensive weapon in this series.  Though, I reserve the right to move him to the WHY THE CAPS WILL LOSE THIS SERIES column as soon as he makes a bonehead, high-risk pass to the other team.

5.NUMBER 8:  Alex Ovechkin has had some masterful playoff performances (dueling hat tricks with Sidney Crosby, Game 5 against the Rangers in 2009), but he has yet to elevate his game to an elite status during a deep playoff run or  even an entire series, for that matter.  This has probably been Ovi's best all-around season.  He has played better defensively (Let's be honest, it would be hard no to.), he has played well with many different linemates and he has led by example with his physical play.  Is this the year he is less Pavel Bure and more Mike Modano or Steve Yzerman, still a potent scorer, but a more mature defender and leader?

6. BRADEN HOLTBY:  Solid, bordering on spectacular regular season.  Most playoff-ready backstop since Godzilla.  My chief concern is the number of minutes he has logged.  73 games played is a lot.  In fact, not since Grant Fuhr twenty-nine years ago has a Cup-winning goalie played so many games during the regular season. But In Trotz, We Trust.  (Not that I think this team has what it takes to win it all.) 

WHY THE CAPS WILL LOSE THE SERIES:

HAVE YOU MET THE CAPS?  This collection of misfits deems it their annual mission to make ME, a complete stranger only loosely connected to their place of work on a geographic basis, miserable.  The Islanders are talented, have a goalie that has previously foiled the Caps in the first round and may be poised to embark on a magical, last hurrah, history evoking Cup run to say farewell to Nassau Coliseum. 

As Dave Letterman would say, this is an exhibition not a competition, so please, please, no wagering.  But if I were a betting man, I'd say Islanders in 7.

Hardware Wars

Behold and bear witness to one man's valiant attempt to win both Husband of the Year and Father of the Year in the same day.  Ignore for the moment that this humble warrior is grossly unqualified to complete the tasks that he dreams will win him these accolades. How will our hero, used to doing battle with words and a keyboard, fare wrestling projects that require complex notions such as math and...tools?  Will he land in some catalog of Pinterest fails or cheesy Buzzfeed compilation of home improvement disasters (23 Photos of People Who Should Have Hired a Contractor)? Or will he win the hearts, minds and hearty cheers of his loving family? Stay tuned.

My mission this day was, as stated above, two-fold.  My wife, Amanda, and I have been wanting to create a backyard in which we can hang out and relax.  Unfortunately, our last few backyards have been either dust bowls or tiny, grassy postage stamps with no privacy.  Our current yard is large and fenced in. Check. Secondly, our daughter, Grace, has been bugging us to sign her up for gymnastics.  Since we don't need to add ANYTHING ELSE to our Gracie Shuttle Schedule, I hoped building a gym bar in the yard would hold off her requests for a little while longer.  Room for Grace to twirl and flip. Check. With procrastination being my default setting, my big ideas are often left on the vine to wither and disappear.  Today, though, I was determined get the job done and surprise my ladies with my craftsmanship.

My one requirement for any structure was that it could be fairly easily moved or removed.(In case Amanda hated it or thought it would work in a better spot in the yard.)  This requirement, and a looming afternoon thunderstorm, meant any posts could not be secured with concrete; I would need another method.  My plan was simple, if a bit flawed.  But that is okay because Simple and Flawed are my middle names. With a plan in my head and determination in my soul, I headed for the Home Depot.  Yes, the Home Depot.  That place where, like church, the gym and the health food store, I get looks from the employees that seem to say, "Are you sure you are in the right place?"  You see, in my family, I am the least likely to build, make or fix anything.  My mom is a crafter with a yard that is like a fairy garden filled with flowers,  bird baths and squadrons of hummingbirds hovering nearby.  My brother has an engineer's brain and has remodeled two homes.  He inherited those skills from my dad, who, in addition to being an electrician, contractor and all-around handy guy, fixed engines changed the oil in his cars for years.  I can barely change the television channel with my X1 remote. Anyway, like a tourist in a strange city, I wandered around until I found what I needed.  I packed the car (Hey look, the boards actually fit!) and headed for home.

My simple plan included posts for a hammock, posts for a gym bar and festive lights strung all around.  Because I wanted temporary, I chose to use deck spikes to hold the posts in place.  The spike consists of a metal base that acts as a seat for the 4" x 4" post.  Attached to the metal base is an 18" spike that sticks in the ground to keep the post (allegedly) from toppling over.  The spikes are not exactly designed for what I am using them for, but I figured by securing the posts together there would be enough rigidity to keep everything upright.  And there might have been had I actually completed my plan.  I had the posts in place and the hammock hung.  One hammock post was securely attached to an existing fence post.  I had not, however, secured the bar or the support braces when, smugly, I decided to test my handiwork.  Ignoring the fact that my plan called for everything being attached together for rigidity, I slowly eased into the hammock.  It felt good.  For a brief moment I allowed myself to think of summer afternoons spent right here- SNAP- the popping sound pulled me from my day dream, as I landed with a thud, tangled in the hammock with an 8' salt-treated post in my lap (No, that is not a euphemism).  For half-a-second, I thought I had pulled the existing fence down.  Idiot! Nope, just my one hammock post fell.  A quick survey revealed that only my pride and the deck spike were damaged.  The post did not break; the welds of the spike base did.  My eagerness impatience and stupidity had ruined my first attempt.  Discouraged but undaunted, I hit the Depot for another spike.

With  the new spike and all the planned pieces secured, I was confident everything was going to work fine.  I decided I will keep my fat ass from testing the welds.  I will leave the hammock to the lighter members of my family.  All that was left was to string the lights.  The area to be lit is a square measuring approximately 25 feet on each side.  My 150 foot string of colorful lights will be more than - wait, what? 150 count measuring 50 feet? Dammit.  So much for words being one of my strengths.  On my third trip to the store I picked up another pack of lights and considered another spike, this one to drive into my skull as punishment for thinking up this scheme in the first place. A few minutes and a few calming breaths later, the lights were up and my project complete.

I don't yet know if I will win any awards, but I will call the project a success.  Grace was surprised and delighted to have a "flipping" bar.  Amanda greeted her backyard oasis with a bemused, suspicious look, probably wondering who helped me.  So, friends and neighbors, I invite you to join us in our backyard, uh, paradise.  Just be gentle with the hammock.

A Rivalry Renewed

You're right Pittsburgh media outlets, Alex Ovechkin is a monster.  A menace to society. Deport his sorry ass for the blatant act of violence committed against poor, helpless Penguins defenseman Kris Letang last week. I'll grant you Ovechkin's stick work probably should have been called  a penalty, though the hyperbole coming out of Pittsburgh was a bit much.  But I don't mind the trash talk.  In fact, I love it.  I love that America's Top Douche, Chris Kunitz, retaliated by cross-checking Ovechkin after the next whistle. I loved it even more when an undaunted Ovie laughed in his face. Because all this can only mean one thing: this is a rivalry reborn. 

For too long, the Caps-Pens rivalry, once a pressure cooker ready to boil over at any second, has been set to a tepid simmer.  Six years without a playoff meeting has cooled the hatred built upon  passionate playoff matchups.  During that span, Ovie's game went MIA for a bit as did Sidney Crosby's ability to stay healthy enough to be in the lineup.  A once proud rivalry has taken a back seat to others.  Since 2009, these teams, which are more alike than Pens fans probably like to admit, have been stuck in neutral.  The young teams, once expected to duke it out for dynasty status, have been passed by the Kings and Hawks as the  top teams and top rivalry in the sport.  The Caps-Pens regular season matchups though always hyped, are often more network bluster than actual substance.

Then something happened last week.  There was snarl.  There were huge hits.  There were chops and chips and facewashes after every whistle.  For maybe the first time since the New Patrick Metropolitan Division was formed, a Caps-Pens game had some real juice to it.    And I watched with glee.  You see, as a young hockey fan, I suckled at the teat of this rivalry.  The first Caps game I attended was against the Penguins.  Mine is a hockey fandom burnished by the vicious rivalries of the old Patrick Division-battles with the hated Pens, the filthy Rangers and the despicable Flyers.  My buddies and I practically swung from the rafters of the Capital Centre, cheering our hockey heroes and disparaging the enemy.  We bore witness to so many formative moments in that barn: penalty filled games stopped to scrape the blood from the ice, chants of "Barass-hole, Barass-hole", games that featured more fights in the seats than on the rink, hand-written signs questioning both the length of Ron Hextall's, uh,  goalie stick and the sexual prowess of his sister.  We drank it all in and learned.  Then we carried on the proud traditions and created a few of our own along the way: talking shit with visiting fans, sneaking in airplane bottles of liquor to supplement our colas, tackling each other as the siren wailed after another Capital goal.  Sorry, but the likes of Columbus and Florida don't feed the rage quite like a good ol' Patrick Division showdown.  Make special "Blue Jackets Suck" t-shirts for the game? Nope.  But "Flyers Suck" was a different story.  We witnessed playoff victories and bitter playoff disappointments. Many of those defeats, admittedly, at the hands of the Pittsburgh Penguins.  That is why last Tuesday's game was so fun to watch.  It conjured so many wonderful memories.  The game was also an important step in the Caps-Pens history.  It was a beacon of hope, a symbol of things to come, a sign of a rivalry re-ignited.  

Last Tuesday's game was also an important step in the development of this current Caps team.  The Capitals, long in search of an identity, may be coming together.  The nastiness of the game didn't seem to bother the Caps.  They seem tougher than before.  Perhaps they can shed their reputation for softness.  Outside of goalie Braden Holtby's stellar play it is difficult to pinpoint the exact reasons for their climb in the Eastern Conference standings.  But a tougher attitude and being harder to play against seem to be at the top of the list.  Why?  Is it Brooks Orpik's leadership?  Is it Barry Trotz's coaching style?  Is Alex Ovechkin maturing into the all-around player he could have always been?  I don't know.  What I do know is that when the Penguins got dirty with cross checks and sucker punches last week, the Caps didn't blink.  Players that shy away from the rough stuff were in the mix.   To paraphrase the announcer in the movie Slapshot, "The fans are standing up to them!  The security guards are standing up to them!  The peanut vendors are standing up to them! By God, even Eric Fehr is standing up to them!"  An identity forged of toughness, togetherness and offensive firepower could make the Capitals formidable down the stretch.  

Which brings us to tomorrow night's rematch in Washington.  The Pens have cheap shots to answer for.  The Caps have home ice to defend.  Pittsburgh is likely surly as the Caps have had their number so far this year.  Washington can pass Pittsburgh in the standings with the victory.  There is a lot at stake.  A possible bloodbath in the making that can continue the shenanigans from last week and lay the groundwork for a possible matchup later in this Spring.   I hope somebody pulls a Reg Dunlop and pays the ambulance driver to take a few pre-game laps up and down F-street ringing the siren to stoke the bloodlust  of the fans coming to enjoy the rivalry.  A rivalry renewed.

The Elf Has Left The Building.

Despite my previous run-ins with Santa, I still love the magic of Christmas.  I do, however, despise lying to my kid to perpetuate the magic and myth.  You know the questions that dominate the holiday season- Is Santa real?, Is that guy in the mall really Santa's helper?, How does Santa fly all over the world in one night?, Daddy, are you really going to eat all those chocolate covered cherries?  I love the joy my daughter, Grace, finds in Christmas.  From opening the advent calendar to setting out reindeer food to wide-eyed excitement at seeing what Santa delivered, I hope it lasts a few more years.  It is the lying I hate.  But lie I did when Grace recently found her Elf on the Shelf packed away in the drawer of the nightstand.

In case you are unfamiliar with the Elf on the Shelf, allow me to explain this plague.  The Elf is a creepy inanimate doll with weird follow-you-across-the room eyes that visits your home daily during December to keep tabs on your child, reporting naughty or nice behavior back to Santa when he or she makes his or her nightly flight back to the North Pole.  When the Elf returns to your home each morning, it lands in a different perch where it waits to be found by the child. "Ambitious" parents create a fun, perhaps mischievous, scene each day such as the Elf shitting out peppermint candy poops into the toilet or spilling cereal all across the breakfast table. (Oh, those pesky elves!)  Less ambitious parents simply hope they remember to move the elf to a new hiding spot before their child wakes.  Is the Elf on the Shelf a delightful family tradition or a shameful extension of bribing our kids to behave by telling them that Santa is watching?  Is it fanciful holiday fun or a grim lesson to our children that Big Brother is always watching?  You make the call.  All I know is there were several mornings I had to sprint out of bed to toss our elf, Katie, into a new hiding spot as Grace was waking.  There was at least one morning I had to make an excuse (for which there are entire websites dedicated to assisting you in creating your lie) as to why Katie was hiding in the same spot as the day before.  You would think this would have left me prepared when Grace found Katie packed away.

On the afternoon I almost ruined Christmas, I had left Grace upstairs in my bedroom watching tv on our tablet while I cooked dinner.  I was downstairs only a few minutes when I heard a mournful wail.  "Daaaaaady!"  I headed for the stairs thinking something was truly wrong.  "Daaaaady, why is she in there?  Why is she in this box?"  I turned the corner into the dining room to see Grace standing perfectly still, sadly looking at her elf smushed in the box she holds in her hands.  Suddenly frozen with panic, my first thought was to chastise Grace for snooping in our nightstand.  Then I realized now was not the time to chastise, now was the time for damage control.  For I had not only stupidly packed the elf away in the box it was purchased in, but I had packed other important things in the box such as Grace's Christmas list, older letters to Santa and the note she left with Santa's cookies this year.  All things, along with Katie the Elf, that should currently be hanging out at the North Pole.  Grace unleashed a flood of legitimate questions.  "Why is Katie here instead of the North Pole?"  "How come Santa doesn't have my letters?"  "Has Katie lost her magic?"  "Is she even real?"  All I could think to myself was, Oh, shit.

As I stood there stammering, trying to formulate a response, I could see Grace's wheels turning.  I could see the puzzle pieces clicking into place. The Elf Truth would lead, eventually, to the Santa Truth which would lead to the My Wife Is Going To Kick My Ass Truth.  The jig was up. If I didn't act fast, my family's Christmas magic would be lost forever.  Stay calm, Bryan.  You can do this.  Fortunately, my Dad Reflexes, innately reserved for moments like these, kicked in.  I made up some bull about Katie missing Grace so much that Katie  secretly flew back to be near her.  Katie had to stay hidden because she would be in big trouble if Santa found out she had left the North Pole.  I think she's buying it! Emboldened, I pressed on.  I explained that Katie must keep something like a case file on Grace; that she is in charge of keeping all of Grace's documents with her even when she travels.  That was why Grace's letters were in the box. Yes, bore her with details of elfin bureaucracy!  I told Grace to say goodbye to her elf because surely Katie would have to fly back to a better hiding place the North Pole that night.  Grace's face softened.  Her look shifted from confusion to skeptical acceptance.  The crisis had been averted, at least temporarily.  I felt bad for lying, but order was restored.  I'm just glad Grace hadn't peeked in the other nightstand drawer.  That would have required a whole other level of explanation.

Bantha Fodder

Disney made movie news yesterday by revealing the official title of Star Wars Episode VII.  I'm not sure what to think about the title, Star Wars: The Force Awakens, but at least it was neat news for fans.  I'm pleased to announce that we here at That's No Moon Galactic Headquarters have discovered another scoop from a galaxy far, far away that may interest fans.  J.J. Abrams has kept a tight lid on the entire project, but we have inside sources (Many Bothans died to bring us this information.) that have revealed to us the title sequence and "crawl" that will open Episode VII.  Picture these giant yellow words floating into space as John Williams' title theme crescendos:

Star Wars: The Force Awakens
         (Sponsored by Folger's)

Emboldened by the droid nuptials of C-3PO and R2-D2, a union made possible by the New Republic lifting its ban on gay marriage, Han Solo makes a deathbed revelation that his relationship with his hetero-life partner, Chewbacca, has actually been a forty year love affair.

A devastated Princess Leia, fearing Wookie syphilis and a life without her scruffy looking nerf herder, flees Tatooine and dabbles in the dark side.*  Her fear leads to anger, her anger leads to hate, blah, blah, blah.  With revenge on her mind, she grows powerful and begins construction on, you guessed it, yet another Death Star.

Luke, having a "bad feeling about this", chases after the fleeing Leia.  However, he is marooned when his X-Wing Flight 815 crashes on a deserted island.  Here he communes with Jedi ghosts, including a young and old version of his father, Anakin, and a time-traveling Dr. Spock.  He is left to ponder if he is alive or in purgatory, and just how he can save the galaxy...

*No, that does not mean Lando.

Czar Me!

Put me in Coach, I'm ready to play!  Mr. President, I volunteer to be America's Ebola Czar.  I know you've got a guy, but instead of a political operative you need somebody that has really seen some nasty stuff.  My friends and regular readers (Hey, stop laughing.  I have a few.) may be scratching their heads, wondering why I would volunteer.  After all, my germophobia, previously documented here and here, is one of my defining characteristics.

Think about it, though, who would be more prone to overreacting vigilant than I would?  I've been giving hand washing clinics to my family for years.  Avoiding the bodily fluids of strangers has been my life's work.  I think port-o-potties are the devil.  I'm the guy that begs his hockey teammates not use his water bottle. (And if you do, Please, please, no lips.)  I once boiled my silverware because I did not think it was clean enough. (That is 100% true, by the way.) I believe public restrooms should be visited less frequently than the moon. Have you even seen my Pinterest board, "Fifty Ways to Decorate Your Hazmat Suit"?  Why not share my knowledge with the world?

Lest my readers think my motives for throwing my surgical mask in the ring are completely altruistic, let me remind you how selfish I can be.  You see, I figure the Ebola Czar has one of the best Bubbles.  I'm guessing the probable order is President, Vice President, apparent national treasure Derek Jeter, then the Ebola Czar.  When the shit really goes down, I bet my family and I would get space in the bunker.  And access to weapons-grade military soap.  Not to mention, as Ebola Czar, I would probably be working closely with drug manufacturers.  Maybe then I would get a chance to meet the blonde babe in that Viagra commercial that pops up between every televised inning of postseason baseball.  (Seriously, isn't that commercial a bit much?  I have a lot of other avenues to watch soft-core porn.  Were implicit scenes of guys working with wood or women taming stallions not good enough?  Now we need this woman basically promising me that if I throw the blue pill down she will throw her blue dress off?  Just get back in your mountain-top bathtubs and caution me about four hour erections, please.)

So, Mr. President, I humbly submit my resume for Ebola Czar.  May I make one further request?  Can we change the name of the position?  This czar thing has gotten a little out of hand.  The number of czars in government today is only exceeded by the number of blue-ribbon commissions created to study things.  Maybe we could empanel a commission to consider a new name.  I suggest Captain Ebola, the Hyperbolic Ebolic, or my personal favorite, the Ebolic Avenger.  Thanks for your time.

2014 > ALCS

 The Orioles 2014 season may have ended with thud, but that does not erase what was a terrific season.  It was easy to fall in love with this roster of mostly no-name cinderellas as they routinely overcame adversity, produced comeback wins and rekindled a little Orioles Magic.  It was a surprise season, as most baseball "experts" pegged them to finish third or fourth in the AL East.  Fans should be grateful the team advanced as far as it did; it far exceeded most expectations.

The ALCS result is a little hard to swallow because of the way the games played out, but also because a chance to get to the World Series slipped through their fingers.  You never know how many chances a team has to get that close.  As for the ALCS itself, I don't want to see any Bucklash against the manager.  Don't buy into the conventional media hype that has the "Genius" Buck Showalter being outmanaged by the "Dimwit" Ned Yost.  The games were exceptionally tight; the Royals just made a few more plays in the clutch.  And if I could hand the ball to Herrera, Davis and Holland in the seventh, eighth and ninth innings, I believe I could make a run at the pennant, too.  Buck should be Manager of the Year  and Dan Duquette should be Executive of the Year.  They cobbled together a lineup that overcame injuries to All-Stars and kept getting better as the season progressed.  Duquette stole Nelson Cruz for $8 million.  He added pieces from the scrap heap to help out when Matt Weiters and Manny Machado were lost to injury.  De Aza, Paredes, Kelly Johnson and Caleb Joseph -  no Murderers' Row, but contributors to winning the division.  The emergence of Zach Britton to anchor a bullpen that Buck masterfully orchestrated.  And who had Steve Pearce stepping in with 21 homers in place of the suspended (and sub-.200) Adderall Kid?  Nobody, that's who.  The clock struck midnight when the team ran into the Kansas City Buzzsaws Royals.  However, just because the Royals are out-magicing everybody this postseason doesn't mean the O's are a bunch of pumpkins.  Sometimes you just get beat.

The O's go home and the Royals move on.  I do not root for the team that beats my team in the playoffs.  I know some fans who cheer the victor so they can say their team lost to the eventual champion.  That's garbage.  After a hard fought series, I usually have grown to dislike the opponent and want to see them go down hard.  For a time, I thought it might be different this year.  Before the ALCS, I thought I might root for the Royals if they won; they were a great underdog story and play an exciting style of baseball.  Not now. Besides the awesome Lorenzo Cain, screw those guys.  I hope somebody wipes the smug smirk and Ming the Merciless eyebrows right off of Eric Hosmer's face.  Jarrod "You know you are only a fast pinch runner, right?" Dyson should shut up.  And Jeremy Guthrie is the worst. I wasn't offended by his stupid shirt; I was offended by his unnecessary apology.  Go full-on d-bag and own that.  Finally, can we all please stop pretending that the 2014 Royals invented this station-to-station, speed kills, defense wins brand of baseball?  Sure, they executed the fundamentals and made Small Ball big.  You know who else does that exceptionally well?  The San Francisco Giants, the Royals' likely World Series opponent.  Good luck.

The Kansas City Royals may leave me disappointed this morning, but they can't change the big picture.  They can't take away a season of baseball that started with watching the Opening Day telecast with Grace in my lap and a  Natty Boh in my hand.  They can't take away game updates from my mom, who rarely missed a game and fired me texts while I was working and couldn't watch.  The Royals can't take away Grace begging to go to Camden Yards all summer or wanting to wear her orange when I wore mine.  They can't erase the shared experience of discussing the Birds with strangers on the street that see your hat or jersey as an invitation to chat up the home team.  No, the Royals can't take away any of that.

Nor can the Kansas City Royals take away Game 2 of the ALDS.  My first playoff game, which I  joyfully documented earlier this month, was more than the game.  It was spending quality time with my father-in-law, my brother-in-law and my cousin.  It was seeing the excitement in my father-in-law as he attended his first postseason game, too.  It was cold beer and laughter.  It was wrong turns and parking problems, jokes and questionable driving.  It was the community of baseball and it was a gift I will cherish.  Even if the Orioles had not won, it would have been a memory to treasure.  But they did win and we got to smile and clap and cheer our heads off.  So, I will not fret about the ALCS.  Instead, this moment, captured on video by a stranger outside the stadium and sent to me by a friend and huge Orioles fan, will be how I remember a Magical 2014 season.

Delmon Young's Game Winning Double From A Block Away

Post by Beth Rolnick.

Orange You Glad You Got Tickets?

Last Friday, through good fortune and the generosity of my cousin, I scored free tickets to Game Two of the American League Divisional Series at Oriole Park at Camden Yards.  It was a day nearly forty years in the making; this was the first Orioles playoff game I had ever attended.  To say it was the greatest game I have ever seen in person would be a gross understatement.  I was having a blast win or lose, but the dramatic way in which the Orioles delivered their fans a victory made the day that much sweeter.  Camden Yards has long been one of my "happy places", yet I learned that she shines even brighter in the postseason.  Many wonderful things about the ballpark are amplified by the playoffs.  So much orange - shirts, jerseys, and rally towels furiously waving.  Impossibly green grass.  Ice cold batting practice beers before noon.  The most enthusiastic National Anthem "O" I have ever heard.  Baseball stadiums, when full and loud, are communities unto themselves, an intoxicating blend of nostalgia and civic pride.  That feeling was never more evident than during the eighth inning Friday afternoon.

The prelude to the eighth inning was pretty good, the game score notwithstanding.  Nick Markakis opened the scoring with a two-run homer that allowed us to cheer twice, once when it went out and once again when the homer was confirmed by replay review.  The Tigers battered Orioles starter Wei-Yin Chen, but Kevin Gausman relieved and held the humming Tigers offense in check.  Two defensive gems kept the game close.  Ryan Flaherty channeled his inner Brooks Robinson making a diving stab of a Miguel Cabrera grounder, starting a 5-4-3 double play aided by Johnathan Schoop's smooth pivot at second base.  Schoop later showed off his arm again when he took Adam Jones' relay throw and gunned down Cabrera at home keeping the Tigers' lead at 6-3.  That was a huge run saved, helping make the eighth inning rally possible.  As I said, the first 7 1/2 innings were just prelude.  It was the bottom of the eighth that cemented why I love baseball.

Entering the bottom of the eighth, the Orioles trailed 6-3.  The fans, boisterous all afternoon and buoyed by a season full of late-inning rallies, remained faithful.  Perhaps a bit more pensive than earlier, but no less faithful.  Grown men donned rally caps and rearranged their seats to change the luck.  Fans cheered and chanted, driven not by a Jumbotron ridiculously imploring them to "Make Some Noise", but by pure joy and a determination to play a part in the game's outcome.  When Tiger relief pitcher Joba Chamberlain, looking more mascot than major leaguer with his caveman beard and burly physique, took the mound to start the eighth the crowd went wild.  Chamberlain had been part of the Tiger bullpen meltdown in Game One.  We hoped for more of the same in Game Two.  In a bold move that I am still not sure if I love or hate, Joba answered our mocking cheers with a sarcastic doff of his cap.  His smugness would not last long, however.  With one out, Chamberlain plunked Adam Jones and the rally was alive.

Baseball's detractors lament that games take too long, that the game bogs down as each pitch is delayed by batters adjusting their batting gloves or pitchers stepping off the mound to gather themselves.  I say it is within these delays that the game's beauty resides.  Not burdened by a countdown clock, the game can breathe.  These precious moments between pitches allow suspense to build.  The game stills but the crowd does not.  On this Friday afternoon,  the buildup to each pitch had the fans clapping and yelling.  Baseball is such a game of failure that these hopeful cheers are not usually rewarded.  Frenzied anticipation is often doused by a strikeout or rally-killing double play. In Game Two, though, the Orioles answered with line-drive base hits.

After at-bats by Nelson Cruz and Steve Pearce, each a mini-drama unfolding within the larger narrative, resulted in two singles and a run, Chamberlain was yanked.  With the Orioles now down only two runs, the fans waved towels and screamed during the the warmup throws of reliever Joakim Soria.  It's the buildup, you see.  After J.J. Hardy coaxed a walk to load the bases, Delmon Young came to the plate.  Perhaps Mr. Young doesn't enjoy suspense and anticipation as much as I do because he drilled Soria's first pitch into left field.  When the ball landed in fair territory Camden Yards erupted.  When J.J. Hardy eluded the catcher's tag, sliding home with the go-ahead run, the roar somehow got louder.  I have been to a lot of games and concerts - NFL games, NBA games, NHL playoff games - and with the exception of forty stock cars blowing past at 180 mph, I have never been ANYWHERE as loud as Camden Yards when Hardy crossed the plate.

The aforementioned grown men wept as they stared blissfully at their rally caps.  The upper deck literally shook with joy.  High fives were slapped with folks that were strangers just innings earlier.  Unbelievably, a baby near us slept through the chaos, rocked to sleep by a little Orioles Magic and a team that won't quit.  No one sat down as Zach Britton blew away the Tigers in the top of the ninth to secure the win.  No one wanted to leave the bleachers, to end the shared experience.  Postseason baseball, timeless and sometimes epic, was finally something I had experienced in person.  




        

Kindergarten Cop

It is always cool when your kid jumps out of bed in the morning merrily singing "Today is a special day!" over and over again.  It's even cooler when she is excited because she is proud to be spending the day with you.  The truth is she was a little more enthusiastic about today than I was.  She has been counting the days for weeks.  I, though, was a little nervous.  For today was my debut as Kindergarten Classroom Parent Helper. It's a little like the old saying, "It's better to be thought a fool, than open your mouth and remove all doubt."  It's better to be thought a bumbling dad, than show up and remove all doubt.  I took solace in the fact that Grace was so excited.  I sometimes forget to look at our relationship from her perspective.  I'm glad she sees me as a hero; I don't see myself that way. It would be wise for parents to remember how large we loom in our kids' worldview and act accordingly.  Besides, in the not-so-distant future she won't want to be seen within a six mile radius of me; I better enjoy it while I can. 

You may ask why I would be nervous, after all, I helped in Pre-K class and on field trips.  Well, this class has twice as many kids that I would be assisting in wrangling.  And the tiny chairs.  There is nary a chair in that building that will hold an ass my size.  Thirdly, there is the snack time pressure.  My food choices judged by thirty-two watchful eyeballs?  I imagine snack time going something like this:

Carrots? Carrots?  Let me get this straight.  You could have brought in any food in the world, something dripping with high fructose corn syrup or covered in funfetti, and you brought us carrots?!

(Weakly): But I have Nilla Wafers, too.

Oh, don't even get me started about cookies without chips, icing or a creamy filling.  You just don't get it, do you buddy?  A word to the wise- a mom brought Fig Newtons in the other morning and no one has seen her since. 
Then the pint-sized mob would raise their tiny pitchforks...

Snacks aside, relating to five-year-olds should be right in my wheelhouse, but you never know. I figure if I dole out a few high fives, pretend to confuse cows and giraffes, and make a well-timed timed joke about a quacking elephant I'll be golden.  Kindergartners love silly humor and Corny is my middle name.  I did not want Grace to feel compelled to explain away her dopey father.  (Which, ultimately, she did.  After some dumb joke, she sighed, looked around the table meeting each of her classmates eyes and calmly said, "It's okay.  He does that.  He kids around a lot.")  To sum up my mission: bring a decent snack and don't embarrass Grace by being an idiot. 

Then last night something magical happened.  I read an article that took away all the pressure of being classroom helper.  Because there is no way I could be as terrible at it as the mom who took vagina shaped cookies to her second grader's class.  That's right, she baked and iced cookies to look like Hoo-has.  Lady bits. The old Velvet Glove.  It would not shock me if the article is a hoax, but let's for a moment assume it is true.  Beyond the juvenile questions about flavor or if all the cookies are the same on the inside, I've got questions.  Starting with, What the hell was she thinking?  How awful must it be to be her kid?  Is her name Mulva?  Does she sell them by the dozen?  Like on the internet?  I'm, uh, asking for a friend.

Thanks, lady, you made my morning easier.  With my G-rated snack in one paw and Grace's little hand in the other, I was able to confidently walk into school ready for action.

School Time

During these first two weeks of my daughter Grace being in kindergarten I have made a discovery.  Not a huge Columbus-bumping-into-the-New-World discovery, but a profound discovery in my little realm.  I guess I am ratting out stay-at-home moms and dads that have been hiding a dirty little secret: if you stay at home or work nights and your kids go to school full-time every day, you actually have TIME FOR YOURSELF!  Six uninterrupted hours to exercise, to read, to go to the grocery store by myself, to lay on the couch listening to sports radio-why didn't anybody tell me this before?  Chores, without your little "helpers", are completed faster and you have time for fun.
And this revelation has led to other minor discoveries.  For instance, did you know they play non-kids movies at the theater during the day? It's true!  Real grown-up fare complete with curse words and innuendo starting before sundown.   That's right, the opportunity exists to watch a matinee that is not about talking cars or smart ass woodland creatures without someone begging for $75 gummy garbage or having to pee just as the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man is showing up.  (Side note: I am so glad that I caught the Ghostbusters 30th anniversary re-release on the big screen.  It holds up, still funny as hell.)

Or, did you remember that the beach can be a place of peace?  I love taking  Grace to the beach; we managed to average a beach day a week all summer.  She had a blast crashing in the waves and learning to ride a boogie board.  But as sure as the incoming tide, no beach day went by without the following conversation:

"Grace, are you having fun?"
"Yes Daddy, but are we going to ride rides today?  Will you help me make a sandcastle?  Where is the closest mini golf place?  Are we going to ride rides today?  Let's find some shells!  I can't wait to get a funnel cake. Or maybe an ice cream cone.  Wait, I'll get both and mash them together!  Are we going to ride rides today?  When can we go to the boardwalk?  I bet the games are open now.  Which way is Candy Kitchen? Can I bury you under the sand now? Do you want to save some time and just dump all your money right in the ocean? Oh, and are we going to ride rides today?
"Um, can't we just sit and watch the waves?"

Besides her constant activity, I am hyper-vigilant about keeping an eye on Grace near the water.   There is no quiet day at the beach with Grace.   Twice, though, since the beginning of school, I was able to achieve just that.  Rare is the occasion I allow myself to be rocked to sleep by the rolling surf lullaby.  Grace is in school? Doze, baby, doze.

Today, between naps I noted the change in the demographics of beachgoers after Labor Day.  Today, it was mostly just me and some old folks.  Yes, older than me, even.  I thought I had crashed a Cocoon cast reunion.  I kept waiting for a waitress to show up with a Denny's Early Bird Specials menu.  Actually, that would have been great; I would have loved a Moon Over My Hammy right about then.  These guys were cool, though.  They were simply looking for a little peace, a little ocean breeze on their face, a little more sun on their leathery hides.  Most importantly, they were looking for it quietly.

You know who is not cool, though?  The other group joining me and the RV Brigade on the beach. The scourge of the resort town, the Obligatory Seagull Feeders.
Look, mam, you may be new here, but unless you are conducting some important  Avian  Feeding Ritual Research project, and your sagging prison tattoos and cut-off jorts make this seem incredibly unlikely, just keep the french fries in the bucket, okay?  Nobody wants to get crapped on by sky rodents.  I don't come to Baltimore and feed the smack junkies.  Maybe you could extend the same courtesy on your vacation.
Don't you just want to choke these people with the very crumbs they are tossing in the air?  Because they are never the ones that get shit on.  It is always some innocent bystander.  Fortunately, I did not get crapped on, was not forced to beat somebody up, and concluded a peaceful morning in Ocean City.

My schedule is not all sunshine and giggles, however.  I have two days off during the week, but my wife, Amanda, has weekends off.  We stagger the schedule like this to reduce the babysitting coverage we need for Grace.  This produces three results. One, my wife and I never have a regularly scheduled day off together and, thereby, we never have a full family day off together.  Two, when I work evening shifts I drop Grace at school at 9am and then don't see her again (awake anyway) until the next morning. This is a bummer.  And, three, Amanda's two days off are wall-to-wall Grace.  She is not afforded the school time freedom that I have during the week.  I feel a little guilty about this.  A little.  But I think I have devised a plan that will allow us to have boatloads of free time off together.  Today, I applied for the Avian Feeding Research Grant.  Tomorrow, we get the tattoos.

All That Glitters Is Not Gold.

One of the great joys of parenting a young child is that your house will always be filled with "art".  Refrigerator doors full of art.  Playrooms stuffed with art.  Desks completely hidden under an avalanche of art.  Parents can take great comfort in knowing that our little Rembrandts and Cassatts are churning out new masterpieces faster than we can hang them.  We are, of course, complicit in creating this onslaught. We scour craft stores for projects to stoke creativity and stave off boredom.  We stock up on supplies so our kids have something fun "to do" once outdoor playtime is complete. We find websites like "101 Uses for Pine Cones" and "Cheerios: Not Just For Breakfast Anymore". Thanks to parents like me, even though like only one guy in America still smokes a pipe, the pipe cleaner industry is booming.  We send our kids off to preschools and Sunday schools, storytimes and camps, all of which apparently follow the same model: Learn, CRAFT, Snack.  Learn, CRAFT, Snack.  What we  are left with are houses that look like the aftermath of an explosion at the construction paper factory, piled high with tissue paper flowers and Fruit Loop rainbows.

Of all the "supplies" that have invaded our home for these projects, I've come to loathe one more than the rest.  I can abide the crayons and finger paints.  I don't mind the uncooked rice breaking loose of the glue.  (Memo to new parents: the uncooked rice/macaroni/cereal never sticks to the glue.) I don't mind tripping over rubber stamps and ink pads.  What I can't stand is the glitter.  Ubiquitous, pervasive glitter.  A colorful spectrum of tiny garbage swirling about.  It shouldn't be in your home.  See it even has "litter" right there in its name.  Glitter for craft projects.  Glitter that sheds from every dollar store tiara your little princess owns.  It is as if your worst enemy broke himself into a bajillion shiny pieces and scattered himself throughout your life.  I say throughout your life because glitter gets everywhere.  It is bad enough that leaving the playroom you look like you dropped a week's pay in the Champagne Room with a "dancer" named Cinnamon, but the glitter gets dragged throughout the house.  I found some on clean kitchen plates the other day.  I see some on the couch cushions as I type right now.  If I wanted a glittery, fancified couch pillow I would purchase a Bedazzler from television.  I've shown up to work unaware that I have glitter stuck in eyebrow and on my tie.  I don't want to sparkle like some sullen teenage vampire.  I don't want someone to think I stole Liberace's coat.

So what are you to do to escape this insidious decoration?  I don't know, but here is what you don't do-try to vacuum it up.  Sure, some of it gets sucked up, but the rest of it gets blown around, suddenly airborne like some zombie flu that even Brad Pitt and Will Smith working together can't stop.  All you can do is raise the Glitter Index to red and hope for the best.  Like sand in your swim trunks, no matter what you do, it is going to be with you all day.  What's next, are the evil sorcerers that produce this ghastly stuff going to mix it right in the paste so it literally sticks with you? Wait, what's that you say?  Glitter Glue? Aaaaaaaah....

Embrace the 99%

The other morning was one of those mornings.  We woke up to a giant hairball and pool of foamy cat vomit strewn across the kitchen floor.  This was actually somewhat of a relief because the cats usually find the toughest-to-clean, most upholstered places in the house to upchuck.  The kitchen floor is much easier to clean than between the cushions of the easy chair or a basket of clean laundry.  My relief was short-lived, however, as a walk into the living room revealed that my cat friend celebrated his kitchen hairball victory with a celebratory piss on the couch cushions.  With feline murder on my mind, I set about cleaning up the messes.  Right on cue, mere minutes after I cleaned the kitchen floor, the over-sized couch cushion, which my wife has successfully previously laundered in the washing machine, caused the washer basin to go unbalanced flooding the kitchen floor.  Seven sopping bath towels later the flood was contained.  With messes fixed it was time to get ready for Grace's Pre-K graduation.  Of course, I discovered the shirt I planned on wearing, my last clean shirt, had been bombed by a bird while on the clothesline.  Wow, pee, puke and poo.  That's an animal bodily fluid hat trick!  Even Jungle Jack Hannah doesn't get that lucky.  What was there no raccoon that could scurry into my home and ejaculate in my shoes for good measure?  Later, after graduation, Grace's teacher was complimenting me, telling another mom I was like Dad-of-the-Year because I always had my stuff together regarding Grace's schedule.  I just chuckled to myself thinking I was glad she hadn't seen me hours earlier, clad only in boxer shorts and undershirt, wading through the middle of my kitchen pond shaking my fist at the cat and shooing Grace from the room.

I tell you all that to tell you this: none of it really mattered.  There were times these events would have left me cross all morning, but not anymore.  You see, I, Bryan Hailey, negaholic, pessimist, Debbie Downer, am trying something new.  It is not easy, but gratitude is the answer.  We, the unhappy among us, spend so much of our time focused on what is going wrong.  The truth is so much is going right.  Call it whatever New-Agey phrase you want - Attitude of Gratitude, counting your blessings,whatever-it works.  If you focus on the 99 percent of things that go right every day, you have nary a moment to focus on the 1 percent that isn't working.  Think about it-we take so much for granted.  Why not celebrate that our car starts every morning or that planes don't fall out of the sky?  Why not delight in the fact that our bodies function properly far more often than they don't?  Embrace the simple.  Marvel at the mundane.  Never take for granted the 99 percent.  Derive your strength from it.  Look around you and note what is working, what is going right, what makes you feel good.  The 1 percent may not be repairable, but you will never know if you ignore the 99 percent.  Be grateful for it.  Revel in it. Put your faith in it.  Then you will be ready to tackle the 1 percent.

People that know me well may be wondering if I have been replaced by an imposter.  Or if I am drunk at my keyboard at 11am.  I know it sounds very "Serenity Now".  Perhaps some of you will wager when I will blow my stack, Kramer-style, and trash my metaphorical room full of computers.  You may be right.  Be skeptical all you like.  The reality is that life isn't easy.  It smacks you around a bit.  But I am working on it; I am trying.  I am feeling my way through it, 99 percent at a time.

Something's Fishy.

In the age of helicopter parents abolishing little league scoreboards and pleading with teachers to change grades, somtimes I get funny looks when I don't rush in to scoop Grace up when she falls on the playground. If I assess that she is not injured seriously, I let her pick herself up and brush off.  I also don't let her win board games and, GASP, I make her write her homework again if she did not take the time to make a good effort.  I believe, and recent studies including one from the APA agree, that a little adversity, leads to more success for our children. Now this doesn't mean that I don't lend encouragement or that I think you should openly root for your child to fail.  But there is one situation where it is absolutely acceptaple, if not mandatory, to root for your kid to fail: when they are playing the "Win a Fish by Throwing a PingPong Ball in a Jar" carnival game.

Now this a difficult balancing act.  All your outward signals, verbal responses and body language must convey that you are 100% behind the idea of your sweet daughter proudly landing one of those balls in a jar. Meanwhile, deep inside your dark soul, you are tabulating how the cost of a bowl, fish food, and whatever other totally unnecessary, but necessary things fish require is far greater than the two dollars you just forked over for ten ping pong balls. You must stifle a whoop of joy when her first attempt barely reaches the platform of jars.  You must choke down the rage when a ball circles the rim repeatedly before falling off.  You cringe on the inside or share an eyes-wide silent scream with your wife when a ball slowly tink,tink, tinks across the mouths of six different jars.  You use your mouth to blow a breeze subtle enough to go unnoticed by passersby, but strong enough to send a ball on a wayward course.

Then it gets trickier. Then you must face the ethical dilemma when, after eight unsuccessful attempts, your little girl asks you to try to win her a fish.  What do you do when your precious five-year-old, face sagged with discouragement, asks you, one of her heroes, to slay this carnival dragon and take home the prize? My first thought was to pass the buck and tell her what a remarkable ping pong ball bouncer her mother is. My second thought was to throw the ball six feet wide of the table and say something about how, " it must have slipped." But, of course, I did the right thing; I pretended to have a cramp in my throwing arm.  No, I am not that lame. I tossed the ball high in the air and let the fates carry it to its destiny.  (Though if you looked closely you could probably see me leaning, attempting to put a little anti-fish English on the flight path.) My attempt failed to net a fish as did my wife's throw.  Suppressing a smile was easier now. But then came the toughest task, summoning the courage to pull out another two dollars as Grace begged for another ten tries.

Gateway Rub

Men, I want to tell you a cautionary tale so that you may learn from my experience.  I recently visited a new establishment, a kind of place I had never been before.  The type of transactions they conduct here are the kinds that I am used to enjoying in the privacy of my own home, for free.  But my wife told me she no longer wanted to help, so I sought service elsewhere.  I had heard about this place from a friend; you always hear about this kind of place from a friend.  Word of mouth is their lifeblood.

Upon entering the building I saw a several other men, all of whom avoided eye contact.  A woman approached, asking me a few questions about what I was looking for today.  She told me since this was my first visit they would throw in a little extra treatment for free.  Ah, yes, the first one is always free.  That's how they get ya.  After a little further discussion I was told to have a seat and that "Brandy* will be right with you."  A few minutes later Brandy, a reluctant smile upon her face, led me back.  After a little action, Brandy led me to a dimly lit room for my "MVP Service".

If you are still reading this, you may think I am some sort of pervert.  If you do, I submit it is you who is the perv because I am just talking about getting a haircut.

I had gone to uh...the place that Rhymes With SportBlips because The Wife had decided my hair had gotten long enough and thick enough that it may have exceeded her amateur barber capabilities.  I chose Rhymes With SportBlips because I liked the idea of watching basketball while I waited instead of flipping through a decades-old People magazine.  I chose Rhymes With SportBlips because I don't like small talk with strangers and thought televisions blasting the MLB Network might render it unnecessary.  (They don't.)

Now, I can't say Rhymes With SportBlips is like a whorehouse.  How could I, I've never been to a whorehouse?  I do know, however, that a haircut shouldn't feel skeevy.  And at Rhymes With SportBlips, it does kind of feel unsavory.  The haircut is normal enough, but that MVP treatment gets a little sketchy.  You are led to this darkened room and have a seat in a recliner for the shampoo.  The next thing I know, the chair is vibrating, I have a hot towel on my face (Which feels fantastic, by the way.) and the shampoo has morphed into a full-on head massage.  I don't know about you, but I feel a head massage is a pretty intimate bit of business.  It felt great, though, and there lies the lesson gentlemen.  Don't let the MVP head massage be a Gateway Rub.  Because who knows what you'll go looking for next time. 

*Name changed to protect the innocent. And because I have no memory of the stylist's real name.  For the record, Brandy was courteous, professional and was probably far more skeeved at having to massage my lumpy head than I was by having my head rubbed.