Super Duper

I thought it would be a long time before I enjoyed a movie as much as I loved Star Wars:The Force Awakens, but Batman v Superman:Dawn of Justice just might be the one.  Mere months after TFA comes a movie that surprises, entertains, and even makes you think.  I am glad I braved the theater despite the awful reviews.

Expecting to be dissapointed, I instead was surprised by a movie that turns superhero convention on its ear.  Lately, the genre has been too quippy for me.  I have grown tired of The Avengers cracking jokes in the middle of danger.  Saving the world is serious business and B v S conveys the proper serious tone.  A city being flattened is somber, not just a backdrop for stunts and flashy costumes. 

Batman v Superman also touches some deep philosophical notes.  You can have your wisecracking Deadpool, I would rather watch a movie that makes me think.  Think about political theory and the role of the state.  Think about the Law of Unintended Consequences.  Think about power and responsibility, good and evil, perception and reality, god and man.

Admittedly, there is a lot going on in this movie, but Jesse Eisenberg, as a young, hip, unconventional Lex Luthor, really ties the whole story together.  Okay, sorry, I've got to stop right there...if you still believe what I have been writing-HAPPY APRIL FOOL'S DAY!

To paraphrase Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park, the makers of this fetid pile of stink spent too much time thinking about what they could do and not enough on what they should do.  This movie is a bloated, overstuffed bucket of diaper filler.  All your worst fears from seeing the trailer come true. They tried to cram WAY too much stuff in to one movie.  Eisenberg (who I generally like) is awful as hipster, crazy Luthor.  The only thing cheesier than the action is the dialogue.  Even the score is too loud and overbearing, as if I need one more cue that a particular moment was supposed to dramatic.  Finding good parts of this movie to highlight is like trying to unearth the undigested kernels of corn from a turd.  If pressed, I would say there were two: one scene when they actually let Batman be ass-kicking Batman and Wonder Woman.  That's it.  Beyond that you had a bunch of scenes that were stitched together in a silly, incoherent blanket of sadness.

Speaking of sadness, could the movie be any darker?  Literally from the opening shot, the tone of the movie is somber and funereal.  Two angst-riddled superheroes is two too many.  I understand what Zack Snyder was trying to do.  Lending gravity to situations and having the protagonists wrestle with the real implications of their actions could have been interesting had it not been laid on so thick.  This movie, though,  is too heavy with clenched jaws, furrowed brows, and far away stares.  Between this mess and Daniel Craig's James Bond, I think Hollywood is ready for some Prozac.

Of course, like Man of Steel, it wasn't just the tone that was dark.  The film's pallette is washed out and colorless.  The whole thing is grainy, rainy, and bleak.  Someone should tell Snyder to stop playing with the filters; I bet his Instagram is the most doctored thing you'll ever see.  Some of us would like to see Superman's cape a bright red or watch Batman fight in a building with the lights on.  I suppose that doesn't match our heroes' tortured souls.

I think there are great, deep stories that could be told using superheroes as the backdrop.  They are probably being told in the comics by better storytellers than Zack Snyder.  Maybe I should start reading those.  Unfortunately, in this battle of Batman versus Superman, moviegoers are the real losers.

Hold Your Nose, Life's a Gas

Like most children, my daughter Grace is a study in contrast.  She likes to dress up like a princess, yet enjoys running, jumping, climbing and crashing into things all over the playground. In school she is an angelic teacher's helper. At home she can be a wild child.  With her charm and manners, she can win over a room. And with toots that would make the cast of Blazing Saddles jealous, she can clear a room.  Grace takes great delight in ripping a high-quality pant rocket .  Yes, much to my wife Amanda's chagrin, Grace has discovered one of life's Indisputable Human Truths: Farts are Funny.

It is true. No matter what your family calls the act- tooting, beefing,  cutting the cheese -farting is funny.  Think about it, through the course of history, what has elicited more giggles,  chuckles, or outright howling laughs than a well-timed ass blast?  Exactly.  Of course, the key term in that sentence is "well-timed."  As you can imagine, Amanda and I have different definitions of a "well-timed fart." 

As parents, we are trying to provide a united front.  As students of comedy, we disagree slightly on the rules of engagement.  At the dinner table?  Off limits.  In a quiet classroom, church, or meeting?  No way.  Every other situation? I say use your best judgement.  Amanda then reminds me I'm an idiot.  The fact remains farting is funny  and my girl has a gift.  I am, as Amanda sees it, to blame for Grace's gift/curse/ability to conjure up a cloud of hot garbage.  I get it.  After all, my wife has never passed gas. Never. Ever. Not once.  She lays the blame squarely at my cheeks feet.  I think Amanda is taken aback by our cute seven-year-old girl acting like a twelve-year-old boy.  Grace has become a bit obsessed with all things bathroom related.  Talk of poop, toots, and the like send her into fits of laughter.  I get it.  I still think bathroom humor is funny.  Deep down I am still twelve.  Amanda, not so much.

This leaves me with a big challenge.  It is my duty (heehee, I said doody) to balance teaching Grace manners with sharing my supposed knowledge and fartistry.  Because if I am going to be blamed for making Grace a gaseous monster, I am going to get my money's worth.  So far, Grace only knows floating an air biscuit equals big laughs.    She must study the deviousness of SBD, dutch ovens, and crop dusting.  She must revel in the simplistic joy of Pull My Finger.  She must beware the perils of the shart.  And, of course, she must learn nuance.

Grace, like Spiderman before her, must accept that with great power comes great responsibility.  For the fartist, timing is everything.  She must understand that just because you can, doesn't mean you should.  But it is sometimes hard for me to be stern with a lesson when all I want to to do is laugh along.  She really does have a knack  for bringing the thunder from down under at hilarious times. And her peals of laughter are hearty and genuine.  It is hard to not laugh with her.  My eyes often tear up, either from pride or because Grace has made a room smell like the zoo.  So, we seek balance, we seek the line between Grace being a lady and the girl who recently, after being chastised for stepping on a duck, told her mother, "Fartin's a part of life, Mom!"

"You play hockey? On ice?"

Humans mark milestones as a way to honor the past, to pause for reflection.  Not all anniversaries deserve fanfare; some pass with barely a whisper.  It's often just as well, as we tend to over romanticize the past.  In the next few paragraphs, please permit me to do just that.  Sometime this month, I have no idea the actual date, marked the twentieth anniversary of the end of an era that only a handful of people even care about.  Twenty years ago this month, a tiny rag tag recreation league ice hockey team played its last game together ending one of the most formative times of my life. 

You wouldn't think playing on a beer league ice hockey team could have such a profound effect on someone, but playing for KNK Vending (just a sponsor nice enough to foot the bill for jerseys) actually changed my life.  Two friends, Matt and Eddie, pushed me to join the ice hockey team they were forming.  I was reluctant.  I could barely skate and, though I enjoyed the sport thoroughly, I wasn't trained in the intricacies of the game.  I was also shy and afraid to try new things.  In the team's second season, my buddies pushed enough that I signed up, hoping to have some fun.  I am forever grateful to Matt and Eddie, for it was some fun that we had. 

On the ice we eventually found success.  We were a bunch of inexperienced young players with some older veterans sprinkled in.  We were brash, fast, and took ourselves way too seriously.  The other teams hated us.  What we lacked in skill and experience, we made up for with fitness and hustle.  We became better the more we played together.  We wanted to win and fought (sometimes literally) hard to do so.  We attacked each Saturday night game with a Stanley Cup-sized thirst that, in retrospect, seems quite silly.  Not that I would change a thing.  Though we never won a championship, we had a blast turning the stodgy rec league on its ear for a few seasons. 

Personally, playing hockey benefited me greatly.  I found an athletic endeavor at which I was actually halfway decent.  I quickly became the fittest I have ever been.   I learned that mucking and grinding, winning the puck battle along the boards is about the most fun you can have with your clothes on.  I figured out that nothing is quite as refreshing as an ice cold beer in the locker room after a game.  Hockey gave me confidence; my wife used to tell me she wished I was half as aggressive in real life as I was on the ice.  Saturday night, and the chance to skate freely, was often the highlight of my week. Of course, the hockey itself was just a springboard.

The real gift hockey gave me was my teammates.  Without responsibilities like families and careers, we basically ate, slept, and skated hockey (and beer and tacos).  We held team meetings that were equal parts strategy sessions and beer-fueled hijinks.  We sported team jackets and held Wacky Hat Nights.  We played midnight street hockey on any well-lit tennis court or parking lot we could find.  We hurled terrible insults and nicknames at each other; the more vile the better.  We raced shopping carts, carried each other out of bars, and laughed as much as I have ever laughed.  Friendships grew and were strengthened.  Stories were born, stories that make our wives roll their eyes as we tell them again and again.  Yes, my teammates, and the silly shit we got into, the fun we made for ourselves, was the real gift of KNK Vending.

Sometime that March, after we lost our final game playing together, I closed my eyes for a moment.  When I opened them twenty years had passed.  During those years, some of us played together again, sometimes even against former teammates.  Many of us have "retired", but remain friends.  We have stood in each other's weddings and consoled at funerals.  We have watched our kids grow, some even playing the game we love.  Some of us still play, no doubt being harried by some young punks like we used to be.  Circle of life and all that.

Twenty years after peeling off that red sweater for the last time, we don't see each other often enough.  We mostly talk through Facebook or texting.  Hell, some of us don't even speak anymore.  And that's okay, times change.  What will never change, for me at least, will be the fondness with which I look back on that era, or the love I have for those guys.  Happy Anniversary, Gentlemen.

Indiana Jones and the Grab for Cash

Far be it from me to tell Steven Spielberg how to shoot his new Indiana Jones movie, but if he asked my advice I would start with the following steps:

Step 1) Hire JJ Abrams
Step 2) Make this the first page of your script:

Fade in.

Int.  a small, quaintly decorated bedroom

Tight shot of a sleeping Indiana Jones.  Indy wakes, rolls over, and rousts a sleeping Marian
                         Indy:
You're never gonna believe the nightmare I just had.  We had a kid and there were swinging monkeys and aliens and a poorly drawn villian. It was awful!

                        Marian:
That sounds terrible.  Of course, we do have a son, you know.

Camera pans to a photo on the night stand, a family potrait of Indy, Marian, and son (Chris Pratt)

Cut to Indy with that famous lopsided grin

Cue first trumpet blares of iconic "Raiders March"

The news of Indy 5 did not fill me with the same delight that I felt at the announcement of The Force Awakens.  Star Wars is such a vast playground with nearly infinite possibilties for characters and settings.  Indy's world is far narrower.  Yes, Harrison Ford acquitted himself quite well in TFA.  But with Indiana Jones he is the WHOLE movie.  A Ford/Jones in his seventies has a lot less, how to put it nicely, range of motion.  Sure, we could have transition to a new main character.  However, the passing of the fedora is far more complex than with Star Wars.  Unless, of course, Indy's son finds an artifact, say an alien laser sword, you know, an elegant weapon from a more civilized age, that he uses to murder his father on a bridge.  Yes, I suppose that would be one way to do it.

I'd love to say I trust Spielberg enough to make something better than Crystal Skull.  I'd love to think Indiana Jones and Help I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up will be a palate cleanser capable of erasing Crystal Skull like TFA erased the prequels.  The problem is Spielberg likely doesn't think Skull is the dog turd it is.  The truth is it does not really matter if Indiana Jones and the Raiders on the Rascals needs to be made or not.  Spielberg knows he can mine Gen X for its nostalgia dollars.  Raiders of the Lost Ark is my second favorite movie of all time.  Like with TFA, I will be stoked to take my daughter to see an Indiana Jones movie in the theater.  Just like when Lady Ghostbusters  is released this summer, when Indiana Jones and the Early Bird Special hits theaters I will happily walk to the ticket window and say, "Please take my money!"

The Myth of Donny Dangerously

I admit it. I was waaaaay wrong about Donald Trump's staying power.  I thought he was a showman on a lark that would be bored by now.  I thought it was hilarious at first. A blowhard that will say anything? Awesome.  What is he gonna do, make Omarosa Secretary of State?  Hahaha!  The whole thing, at least to me, seemed silly and frivolous, not to mention impossible.  I think his entire campaign was delivered with  the wink and nod of an inside joke. Until Trump saw that he could win, that is.  Once he saw that no one would, or at least competently could, challenge his bluster he doubled down on the rhetoric.  As the poll numbers rose, the arrogant prick in him would not allow him to walk away.  That leaves us with a an unchecked celebrity egomaniac as the presumptive nominee. 

As one man, Donald Trump is not dangerous.  He will run to the center for the general election.  To be truly dangerous, one has to have actual ideas, and I am not sure Trump has any of those beating around under that disaster of a hairdo.  Shouting about making America great again and promising to not make bad deals hardly qualifies as think tank material.  

It is the concept of Donald Trump that is terrifying.  The atmosphere created by his candidacy is incendiary.  While the carnival barker riffs from behind his podium, his supporters aren't getting the joke.  It's all just a show, but his supporters can't ( or won't) see behind the facade.  Instead they take his violent , jingoistic speech as a license to act like idiots.  When push comes to shove (literally), Trump's calls for bullying have been many, his pleas for restraint too few.  The concept of this mythic figure, Trump the Aggressor,  has made it okay for his fans to pour out their hate.  His fans wear their anger like a badge, as if they have been deputized as modern-day freedom fighters. (Freedom from what, I don't know.) They foolishly pin their frustrated hopes on a man who has always looked out for just one thing: himself.  A man who likes to hear himself talk.  A man who will say anything to get elected. A man who likely does not give two bits about the people that cheer him on. 

Yet, cheer him they do.  People from all walks of life rally behind Trump.  Intelligent people embittered by eight years of a Democratic President.  Frat boys who never met a mob mentality they didn't like.  Dunderheads thinking they too can appoint their bathrooms with gilded toilet seats if we can just get The Donald in office long enough to wave his magic wand.  Listening to them as they are interviewed in line outside a Trump rally, his supporters can offer no more coherent argument than the candidate himself.  I suppose it is no surprise in the era of celebrity and sound bite journalism that people are swept away by inarticulate catchphrases.  "Make America Great Again"  and "You're fired!" are the new "Hope" and "Change".  All empty,  meaningless words leading sheep to the polls.

Sadly, the options are not much better.  Bernie Sanders, the mad scientist mixing promises and suspect economic policies in his Vermont laboratory.  Mrs. Cilnton, a tired remnant of a bygone era.  John Kasich, so desperate to seperate himself from the negative antics of the  game show-like debate stage that I am surprised he didn't just continually shout, "One dollar, Bob!"  Marco Rubio, whose every recent television interview looked like a hostage video.  And Ted Cruz, equal parts snake oil salesman, preacher, and condescending professor, lecturing me slowly because I am too stupid to otherwise keep up.  These are the great lights that will lead us from the darkness of our discontent? 

Donald Trump the celebrity billionaire TV host has been around a long time.  Donald Trump the presidential candidate may have arrived at the perfect time.  His angry rhetoric has fomented a fervor that is as ugly as it is popular.  His campaign may have coalesced at the intersection of desperate ignorance and Twitter, but it might keep rolling right up Pennsylvania Avenue on Inauguration Day.  God help us all.

Of Politicians, Buffoons, & Jerks

America, we need to talk.  There is a great divide in this country that needs healing.  Opinions are strong, tensions are high.  Conversations, even among friends, simmer with contempt and distrust.  Half of our citizens, though well-meaning, do us a great disservice.    When I volunteered to step in as a savior candidate that can rescue the Republican party at a brokered nominating convention, I introduced myself with a short blog post knowing I would need to further flesh out my platform.  Today, for you America, I add another plank to that platform.  I am no ideologue, but on this particular issue I will not bow, for I know I am right.   No doubt, not everyone will agree with me, but America, I assure you my way is THE way.

This is an issue that strikes at the heart of the American family.  People are destroying a beloved institution.  A bedrock of family values is being undermined by folks who, apparently, don't know any better.  Now, I know I will never be considered a typical family values candidate by some.  I support gay marriage and adoption.  I support the further decriminalization of marijuana.  You see, while I am neither gay nor a pot smoker, I do know how to mind my own business. You wanna put your lips to a penis or a pipe, who am I to judge?  To each his own, except when the kids are involved. 

And that is where my next  platform plank comes in.  I have seen things.  I have visited business offices and school lunchrooms.  What have I seen that worries me so? Believe it or not, half of America does not know how to correctly make a Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwich.  It's disgraceful.  Sure, you can half-ass it and leave your children sticky and gross.  Or you can do it the right way, the American Way, leaving your children fulfilled and ready to lead.  Yes, I have my preferences regarding bread choice and jelly selection (potato/strawberry jam), but this is more about technique: when making this American staple, the PB&J, one should always put peanut butter on both slices of bread.  This move seals the bread, locking in the jelly.   As one of my key advisers of the #EverForward movement says, you have to "make a pocket" for the jelly.  This Peanut Butter Pocket (copyright pending) protects the fingers of the wee ones from the evil forces of stickiness and soggy bread.  Think of the school children able to leave the cafeteria confident and ready to learn instead of embarrassed and smeared with Smucker's grape.  This is how we regain our edge, America!

I have heard (and dismissed) the rebuttals of my detractors.  They say my method uses too much peanut butter. I say There is no such thing.  They say doubling the peanut butter throws off the delicate ratio of PB to J. I say Making the pocket allows you to double down on delicious jelly.  They say if you eat fast enough the sandwich does not have time to get soggy.  I say Don't wolf your dinner down so quickly, lest you get a tummyache.  I say Be empathetic to the student whose lunch is smushed in his locker all morning.  I say Imagine yourself so distracted by a particularly compelling Wheel of Fortune puzzle that you ignore your sandwich until the bread IS soggy.  You'll thank me when you don't have to pry yourself out of the LazyBoy to wash your sticky fingers before Jeopardy starts.  They say I must be in the pocket of Big PB, taking money from Skippy or Jiff.  I say Check my records, I am only beholden to making America's sandwiches great again.

Vote for me, and together we will Save the Sandwiches!
#EverForward #MakeThePocket #SaveTheSandwich

Let's Go Caps!

I really considered not writing this post. In fact, I probably shouldn't.  By doing so I may anger my friends and alter the course of history.  You see, we hockey fans are a superstitous bunch.  We believe we somehow affect the outcome of a game, series or even a season by the choices we make.  The hockey gods reward or punish us depending on which sweater we choose to wear, where we sit while watching the game,  our pregame rituals and meals, or perhaps the maintenance of our playoff beards.  I have not written about my beloved Washington Capitals all season.  Which is odd because, besides my escapades as a dorky dad, the Caps are probably the thing about which I have blogged most frequently.  I've wanted to write about the Caps; they are in the midst of a terrific regular season.  However, my superstition-addled mind has prevented me from doing so.  The Washington Capitals have never won the Stanley Cup during any season in which I have written a blog post about them.  So, simply by penning this little blog post I am running the risk of ruining the Caps' season.  Of course, folks of sound mind, not afflicted  by years of playoff futilty and curses, you know, normal people, would tell me how silly this notion is.  They might point out that my writing, not to mention what I wear or eat on game day, has zero to do with whether a group of men I have never met win a championship.  They may also point out that the Caps have not won a Cup in the forty years they have existed, not just the ten during which I have blogged.  It is true that they don't need my help in screwing this up.  Since a couple items of Caps news have made me climb back behind my keyboard, I will throw myself upon the mercy of the court.  Blame me if you must  when this goes South.  I'm pretty confident that no matter what happens I am just along for the ride.

Item number one was a column by Dan Steinberg that appeared in the Washington Post last week.   In the column, Steinberg takes to task journalists and Caps fans who have said that what the team has done in the regular season does not matter.  He says that if you can't enjoy the season then you shouldn't even be a fan.  Well first, Mr. Steinberg, you don't get to tell me how to root.  Secondly, the two ideas are not mutually exclusive.  I can enjoy  the regular season (which I am) AND feel that it is all for naught if the Boys in Red flame out in the postseason.  I have been punched in the goobers enough times by this team to be cynical. 

We fans know the team is excellent so far this season, but truly, it can not change the overall tenor of how we feel about this franchise until April, May, and (cross your fingers) June.   Mr. Steinberg likely can't comprehend how badly I want this team to win.  He must understand, though, regular season records, however historical, are just window dressing.  I can get giddy over the emergence of Evgeny Kuznetsov, appreciate the consistency of the HoltBeast, and marvel at the continuing brilliance of the Great 8 and still call the season a dissapointment if Washington does not make an epic playoff run.  Until this team wins a Stanley Cup, it will be measured by Stanley Cups.  With its ratio of playoff futilty to regular season success, what this team does October to April matters, but not by much.  As soon as the Rangers eliminated the Caps in Game 7 last year, the first thing I thought was that this team can not prove anything to me until next April.  As April approaches, the song remains the same. Show me.  Don't tell me about potential based on this awesome regular season. Show me in the postseason. 

The other bit of news this week was the trading away of Brooks Laich.  Laich was the longest tenured Cap and, by all accounts, one of the nicest men to have donned the Red, White, and Blue.  During Laich's twelve year run in D.C. he was a great penalty killer, probably should have been named captain, and, for a time, rode shotgun with Alex Ovechkin and Nick Backstrom on the top line.  But like those running mates, Laich most symbolizes  the playoff shortcomings this team has endured.  Laich was a good quote, but also a bit of an empty suit.  Said all the right things, but talked a better game than he delivered.  Injuries robbed him of his game the last few seasons, leaving him unable to play up to the most recent contract he was stupidly given by George McPhee.

I like Brooks and wish him well in Toronto.  What I don't like are the fans that feel the Capitals betrayed Brooks Laich.  Hockey is a  business and, frankly, I am surprised GM Brian McClellan was able to dump Laich's bloated salary.  I have read message board comments (my first mistake) berating the Caps for trading away a good soldier like Brooks Laich while on the cusp of winning a Stanley Cup.  These commenters are what I like to call...stupid.  Firstly, if future President Trump ordered me waterboarded for my true opinion, I would say the Caps will not win the Cup this season.  Secondly, McClellan's only responsibility is to make the team better.  He did that by freeing up some salary cap space with the trade.  We thank Laich for his service, but Washington did not owe him a shot at the Cup this year.  After all, he has been here for all the failures; it is not like he has been playing for a team that has never reached the playoffs.  Sometimes sports sucks.  I know Laich understands this.  I wish the fans would.  Besides, they don't have worry about Brooksie missing out on a Cup run because I have just put on the blog jinx, right?

33=60

Baseball, more than any other sport, is a game that honors its numbers.  Fans memorize the back of trading cards and recite the record books.   We can recall decades-old uniform numbers and love unique ballpark dimensions.  As kids we kept scorecards, pored over box scores every summer morning, and grabbed our calculators to extrapolate stats into season-long projections.  The game has become even more stat-heavy with the proliferation  of advanced metrics and the ease of internet research.  Today's relevant numbers, though, are 1,33, and 60.  As in, my #1 favorite player, Baltimore's #33, Eddie Murray, turns, 60 years old today. 

Number crunchers are often dismissive of Murray, calling him a classic compiler, consistently posting pretty good stats, while staying around long enough to finally reach milestones like 500 homers and 3000 hits.  I'm not sure when consistency became a bad word; I'll take Murray's Baltimore production any day.  Over the 13 years he played in Baltimore  (including his 60+ games in his brief 1996 return) Eddie's stats per 162 games included 93 runs, 31 doubles, 29 homers, 105 RBIs, and only 83 strikeouts.  Perhaps not the mammoth numbers of steroid bloat, but damn strong.  He was the 1977 Rookie of the Year, a consistent (there's that word again) MVP vote getter, and earned several Gold Gloves.    He was dangerous when it counted the most (19 career grand slams, among the all-time leaders in sacrifice flies, two homers in the Series clincher in '83).  Former O's lefty Mike Flanagan called Murray, "the best clutch hitter I saw during the decade we played together."

I'll let the sabermetricians have their say because the sum total of Eddie Murray's  career can not be measured in mere digits found at Baseball-Reference.com. For me, and countless Orioles fans my age, Steady Eddie's legend was measured in many other ways.  Like how loud we could chant "Ed-die, Ed-die, Ed-die!" from Memorial Stadium's upper deck.  Or the immense joy we felt when he answered our chants with a moon shot over the centerfield fence.  His impact was measured by how many kids imitated Eddie's low, leaned-back batting crouch during neighborhood wiffle ball games.  It was measured by the length of his sideburns and the cool poof of his afro.  It was measured by how many of his cards I could acquire for my card binder. 

Sure, I'm viewing Murray through my nostalgic, orange-colored glasses, but he represents an era when my baseball fandom took root.  He represented the Oriole Way, which in those days was not a punchline.  He anchored a line-up that, along with solid pitching and a healthy dose of Magic, capped a brilliant run of excellence with Baltimore's most recent World Series championship.  Murray was feared by opposing pitchers, respected by his teammates, and loved by (most of) the fans.    For a decade, during the latter half of which I fell in love with the game, Eddie Murray was among the baddest men in baseball.  For this, I am forever grateful.  Happy Birthday, Eddie.

Playboy:Really, Truly Just for the Articles Now

2016 has not been kind to our icons.  Several titans have passed since the turn of the calendar-David Bowie, Justice Scalia, Playboy magazine.  Oh sure, Playboy relaunched this month without nudes, but rest assured, it is a Dead Mag Walking. While I applaud innovation, this seems less like innovation and more like limping to the finish line.

For red-blooded, heterosexual American males there was nothing more exhilarating growing up than stumbling upon some elicit stash of Playboys.  (Well, except, you know, that first time you actually got to touch a real boob.) You were immediately grateful that your friend had discovered this magical pile of glossy magazines in some remote corner of his dad's garage and had dared to share this forbidden knowledge with you.  Flipping open that centerfold for the first time sparked the imagination, opening up a whole new world. A new world you wanted to visit ASAP.  You did not know or care who Hugh Hefner was, but it seemed extremely important to know Miss July's turn-ons and future plans.  And that she looked great wearing nothing but earrings.  Playboy played a fundamental, if perhaps dysfunctional role in shepherding millions of boys through puberty.

The flip side, of course, is that Playboy, and the entirety of Hef's lifestyle and empire, can be considered misogynistic, degrading and encouraging the objectification of women.  It was a symbol of excess and inequality.  Playboy paved the way for other, more explicit, magazines which paved the way for dirty movies and the bajillions of  porn sites that clog the internet today.  Unfortunately I'm sure many of these sites mistreat and exploit young women.  Pornography, it can be argued, gives men license to treat women poorly.

However, is it inconceivable that Playboy also helped women find a voice? Were women in the Sixties able to shed labels and stereotypes as they shed their clothes? Did Playboy help bring nudity and sexiness out of the bedroom and into the light? And, if so, is that a good thing?  I am unqualified to answer those questions as I am neither a female, nor an anthropologist.  But I am the father of a young daughter.   I hope that her mother and I can equip her with the right tools and mindset to value herself and make decisions that serve her best.  Television and the internet don't raise her, we do.  Is it hypocritical of me to hope my daughter never aspires to be one of Hef's Girls of the Big 10, while still thinking Playboy serves a useful purpose in American culture?

Which brings me back to Playboy's current relaunch.  I don't lament the change because it means there is one less nudey magazine on the newsstand; except for flipping through the new issue to see the changes, I have not read Playboy or any porn magazine in years.  I lament the fact that an icon feels forced to change.  Be who you are, Playboy!  There is a place for a magazine that caters to the erudite pervs that want soft porn and interviews with world leaders.  Be who you are!  This is like McDonald's pushing salads.  If I have made the decision to walk into McDonald's, I have already made the bargain with myself to eat garbage.  If I want a salad,  I'll go to the produce section of the market.  If I want an Egg McMuffin at three in the afternoon, I'll go to Mickey D's.  Similarly, if I wanted some nudity, a page of dirty jokes and a preview of the upcoming NFL season all in one place I could grab a Playboy.  Until now.  Now I get some articles, some "artsy" photos of scantily clad women and inane style tips. In other words, I get Maxim or Men's Health.

Hef's reps argued that eliminating the nudity  would allow Playboy to move from NSFW to mainstream.  Does anybody really think we'll see Playboy sharing space with People and Reader's Digest in the dentist office magazine rack anytime soon?  Sure, circulation has plummeted.   Maybe because we can get our porn anywhere for free.  Maybe because tastes change.  Making the magazine less explicit will not boost sales.  I predict this relaunch is more Willie Mays wobbling in a Mets uniform, than a brand-saving innovation.

Another icon may be on it's way out, I just think it should go out the way it came in: unapologetic and unashamed. Be who you are, Playboy!

The Evolution of (my hatred for) Jaromir Jagr

I have a confession to make. An admission that might confuse my hockey buddies.  Words so contrary  to anything I previously believed.   Words that I may one day regret,  forcing me to say, "Forgive me Dale Hunter, for I have sinned."  Words 19-year-old me could never have envisioned saying: I no longer despise Jaromir Jagr. In fact, I respect him. 

Twenty-plus years ago, I hated Jaromir Jagr with a white hot fury that should be reserved for people that have actually wronged me.  I hated him in the silly way that crazed sports fans hate people they have never met.  Playing Robin to Mario Lemieux's Batman, Jagr and the rest of the Pittsburgh Penguins regularly systematically dismantled my beloved Washington Capitals throughout the 1990's.  Mario with his loathsome cocky smirk and Mario Jr (an anagram of Jaromir, trivia buffs!) with his girlish mullet flowing freely down the ice. Two pricks in a pod.  Those two responsible for so much of the Capitals hapless April mythology. Those two responsible for so many broken television remotes, flung in disgust at another Penguin goal or Penguin victory. 

It was easy to hate Jagr.  He was sooooo good.  (Seriously, YouTube his highlights.  They are amazing.)  Often at the expense of my team.  Hatred could not diminish the appreciation for Jagr's game, though.  He was the total package.  Big enough to protect the puck in traffic.  Powerful strides to rush end to end, blowing by defenders.  And those hands, bestowed by the hockey gods, enabling him to deke defensemen and goalies as well as any player ever.  Statistically, and to the eye test, Jagr is one of the greatest goal scorers to ever skate.  And my buddies and I cursed him for it every step of the way.  We cursed him because we could only dream of our team having a player so great.

Then, suddenly, in the Summer of 2001, Jagr landed in Washington via a blockbuster trade.  Fans did not know how to react.  It is difficult to turn off the kind of loathing that I reserved for Jaromir Jagr.  As my friend Rob eloquently put it, "Look out, the Devil's come to church."  I remember writing an email to my hockey pals about the trade, but I can't remember my advice.  I'm guessing it was something about rooting for the uniform not the player.  I probably talked about giving  the benefit of the doubt.   Yeah, probably something stupid like that.  Fans didn't want Jagr in Washington.  The irony, of course, is that Jagr did not want to be in Washington, either. 

Whether fair or not, Jagr was often tagged with descriptors like mercurial, brooding, and selfish. I would describe his two-plus years in Washington as underwhelming, wasted, and can-we-just-get-this-over-with.  Jagr's play was not awful in Washington, yet he was not nearly the player he was in Pittsburgh.  Was he unhappy? Was he better suited to be Robin than THE guy that a franchise pinned its hopes on? Were his skills diminishing as he reached age 30?  Don't know, don't care.  I simply know that the player who posted 121 points in his final season in Pittsburgh barely matched that total in his two full seasons as a Capital.  By the middle of the 03-04 season Jagr was dealt to the Rangers in the beginning of the fire sale that led to the dark times.  The forgettable pre-Ovechkin era.  The failed Jagr experiment, including the fact that Caps owner Ted Leonsis had to continue to pay a large portion of Jagr's salary while with the rival Rangers, rekindled the hatred. 

Now, fast forward a decade.  After a stint in the KHL and multiple stops with multiple teams, Jaromir Jagr is enjoying a career renaissance.  The once "mercurial" superstar is seen as one of the game's elder statesman.  He is a solid, if unspectacular player regarded as a leader and mentor.  I don't think he was ever regarded as either while in D.C.  He seems to have grown up.

Witnessing this change in Jaromir Jagr, albeit from afar, has changed my attitude towards him. He is the last active player remaining from his 1990 draft class.  He will soon be 44 years of age.  The level of commitment and preparation required to be NHL- fit at 44 is admirable.  That he has become a veteran mentor to his young Florida Panther teammates is equally commendable.  Had it not been for the NHL's bungling of the John Scott situation, Jagr likely would have stolen the show at last weekend's all-star festivities.  As it was, all of his teammates wanted to skate on a line with him.  He smiled more in one tv interview than he seemingly did in his entire stay in Washington.  Good for him and good for the league.

As for my change of heart about Jagr, have I softened with age?  I hope so; that seems the mature thing to do.  Just like I try not to get angry at the nitwit who can not properly navigate a four-way stop, there is no need for me to hate Jaromir Jagr.  Hate is a seed better left unsown.  I can not root for Jagr; his Panthers could be a formidable playoff roadblock for the Caps.  I will always be unhappy about the damage  Jaromir inflicted on the Caps from outside and from within.  I will, however, appreciate his immense talents and be happy to have watched one of the best to ever play.

Adam Levine is Destroying My Family.

Maroon 5 frontman Adam Levine is destroying my family.  A bold statement, to be sure, but consider the evidence.  My wife is infatuated with him and he is poisoning my daughter's brain with his dangerous, insipid lyrics.  This doughy, fortyish father may be no match for you, Levine, but make no mistake, you are my new nemesis.

I am not bothered that my wife has celebrity crushes; most all of us have them (Call me, Mary Louise Parker.) Yet Adam Levine is a puzzler.  His voice is annoying; his high-pitched whine an assault on the ears.  He's boastful. Moves like Jagger? You should be so lucky.  And isn't he so cool with his stubbly beard and carefully curated bedhead?  He kinda looks dirty, if you ask me.  Are we even sure he wears deodorant?  Of course, when I mention him looking dirty, my wife looks away and mumbles something about, "yeah, the right kind of dirty."  Even walking through the mall Adam taunts me, his giant four-foot-tall head staring seductively at me from the Proactiv advertisement.  Whatever.  Perhaps I am just jealous, with my voice like an out of tune foghorn and my moves like William "The Refrigerator" Perry.  Do I think if Adam rolled up in his douchewagon that Amanda would really hop in and ride off into the sunset? No, but let's keep him on the West Coast just in case.

The more problematic reason to loath Mr. Maroon 5 is that my seven-year-old daughter knows all the lyrics to his tawdry songs.  I like songs with no ambiguity in the lyrics. If Bad Company's "Feel Like Makin' Love" or Madonna's "Like a Virgin" come on the radio, I know to flip the channel.  But with my lyrical impairment, I sometimes don't pay enough attention or recognize the trouble until I hear my daughter singing along. 

Saturday, on a family road trip, Grace was singing along to Maroon 5's "Sugar".  I was daydreaming, watching the scenery fly by at 70 MPH, until I hear Levine (and my seven-year-old) singing, "I want that red velvet. I want that sugar sweet. Don't let nobody touch it, unless that somebody's me."  Whoa, Doctor!  I looked, wide-eyed, at my wife and mouthed, "Vagina.  He's talking about a vagina.  He ain't talking about a  cupcake, he's talking about a VAGINA!"  Now, I understand Grace doesn't understand the subtext.  I also understand that most songs contain sexual innuendo.  After all, most male rock stars probably got into music to get laid.  That doesn't mean I want Grace singing along to poetic euphemisms for "down there."  Most importantly, I know my radio has an off switch.  I considered turning it off and never turning it back on lest Grace be subjected to someone crooning about a "honey pot" or "love spot."  Instead I switched over to another station, one playing AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long", which is just a quaint song about dancing, right?  Right?

I know this is just the beginning of an uphill battle.  As Grace gets older, it will grow harder to filter content.  Amanda will continue to swoon at Maroon 5's silly songs.  Be warned Sexy Rock Star Boy: I will never stop trying to protect this house.  STAY AWAY FROM MY FAMILY, ADAM LEVINE!

Follow the Nose! Ever Forward! 'Merica!

Alright, America, I'll do it.  As Republican Primary turmoil inches toward back-room panic, a brokered nominating convention seems increasingly possible.  Therefore, I stand ready  to step in and save  the Republican Party from itself.  With this awful roster of candidates, we can just fast forward to Cleveland in the Summer. (Incidentally, have you ever heard a more romantic phrase?)  We can have a few rounds of meaningless delegate votes for funsies before we get down to business. And that business is the business of moving America Ever Forward!  Nominate me and I will heal this party and sweep to victory in November.

That is some fancy talk, but what are your qualifications?

Here are but a few:
*I have been a Tea Partier for years. (My daughter throws delightful shindigs for me and her imaginary friends.)
*The only time I flip-flop is when on the beach.
*I have never had , and solemnly swear to never have, an abortion.
*I have lots of experience negotiating with the Chinese (food delivery guy).
*I have a firm grasp of the way government works after years of studying George Lucas' documentaries on the Imperial Senate and watching The West Wing in its entirety. (Twice!)
*I have more energy than Jeb, I am less smarmy than Ted "the next George Washington" Cruz, and I will never be accused of wearing a hair helmet. (In fact, look at my photo.  When was the last time you saw a candidate with a bad beard and rumpled red pants? I am the change you need America.)

Okay, so you seem at least as qualified as the current front-runner.  But what do you bring to the table?

I'm glad you asked. 

*At least four years of dad jokes. (Ex.- Winning in November will be no picnic, but I will not act like a hot dog beacuse I relish the opportunity to  ketchup in the polls so I may serve our great nation.)
*Guns for everyone! Especially the most demented and mentally challenged among us. I support the right to bear arms. And bare arms. Sun's out, guns out, amiright?
*Less of that hard, thinkin' stuff like healthcare reform and how to save Social Security and more meat and potatoes issues like making the day after the Super Bowl a national holiday.
*An executive order that states only Republican presidents may issue executive orders.

Well, your platform is no more shallow than the current front-runner's. Do you have any hats that say anything about making America Great Again?  Wait a minute...aren't you registered as an Independent?

Yes, but I see this as an opportunity.  An opportunity to bring me fame and fortune and everything that goes with it. (I thank you all.)  I see this as an opportunity to right the ship, to take back a party that for too long has spit in the face of moderates with its war mongering, world policing, free spending, Palin nominating , gay bashing, wall building disrespect for the center.  I see our opportunity to beat the other guys.  Feel the Bern? It sounds like we'll all have gonorrhea by 2017.  Mrs. Clinton?  A lady President?  Ewwww.   But we are not going to beat the left with the hobgoblin lineup you guys are trotting out there now. 

So, do what's right.  No more Trumper Tantrums, no more singing the Cruz blues, no more sleepy brain surgeons.  I'm here to help, so Follow the Nose.  There's a Hail-storm moving in, make sure you're on the right side of the umbrella, America. 

Hailey '16
Ever Forward!

Of Bullies and Bomb Threats.

Being a kid today seems like a good gig.  Vaccines ward off disease, technology advances at light speed, yogurt comes in a tube that requires no spoon.  But some childhood challenges cut through all generations.  One of those is bullying.  Our family is dealing with my daughter's first experience with the subject. As a parent, it is a little daunting, as this seems like such an opportunity to get things right, to have those teachable moments, to lay a foundation for Grace to learn how to handle these situations.  Grace, a first grader, is getting picked on by another passenger on the school bus.  It seems like a minor deal, some name calling and a little hair pulling, but it bothers her enough that she brought to our attention.  Minor, though it may be, it is something I want to nip in the bud because she does not have to tolerate it.  I don't need a PSA or an after-school special to tell me bullying is real.  I was picked on as a kid (not anything too terrible) and probably passively endorsed other kids getting bullied by laughing along, or worse yet, not saying anything at all.

My first instinct, of course, is to protect Grace.  Protect her from harm, protect her from bad feelings, protect her from the anxiety that can come from worrying about harm and bad feelings.  This is tricky to navigate. For one, I want her to be tough enough to withstand some name calling.  Secondly, she is being raised by two sarcastic parents who are products of a sarcastic, insult comedy generation.  We joke with Grace, often trading barbs with her that are really quite funny.  I have worked at jobs where we said terrible things to each other.  The employees NOT getting picked on were the outsiders.  I guess what I am saying is that I need to make sure I have my bullying recognition calibrated correctly.  I don't want to overreact, nor do I want to downplay a real problem.  I want Grace to be able handle herself, but I must make sure I do not minimize what she tells us.  I  also know the best way I can help her is teach her the tools she can use to try to resolve the situation herself.  If we want to raise a resourceful, resilient kid, we can't fight her battles.

So what are the tools with which we should equip Grace?  I want to tell Grace the next time the girl pulls her hair she should pop the bully in the mouth or least give her a good facewash (I watch a lot of hockey.)  That, however, seems a little counterproductive.  After all, we are looking to defuse, not incite the situation.  In fact, I am proud of Grace for not retaliating.  We told Grace to ask the bully to stop and warn her that if she didn't then Grace would tell the bus driver.  Grace, as shy as she is in certain instances, doesn't want to rock the boat.  She also doesn't want to be a tattle-tale.  How do we instill, in our quickly -growing girl, the confidence to stand up for herself?  Obviously, if she makes no headway with the bully or the bus driver, I will step in.  Because the  only anxiety a student should feel about going to school is whether or not she studied enough for her spelling quiz.

Which is why these cowards calling in bomb threats to schools piss me off so badly.  Kids should be able to walk into school free from "real world" worries like active shooters, bombs, and terror threats.  In effect, the callers, whether they be pranksters or terrorists, are bullying an entire community of children.  At the very least, these calls are disruptive.  At worst, as highly unlikely as it seems, they are the first act of a terror plot.  Who really knows the scoop with these calls that have happened up and down the East Coast?  If the FBI does, they are not saying.  I know investigations take time.  I have faith in the investigation. What I have less faith in is the response of the school board and local officials.

I believe local law enforcement has student safety as their top priority.  If it pleases the court, I will stipulate that, indeed, I have no law enforcement training.  I will concede that, as Sheriff Lewis pointed out in his press release, law enforcement possesses preliminary information that I do not.  But for my money the only information necessary to decide to evacuate a school is that there has been a threat.  Do I really think these robocalls are ISIS probing for information about response times and tactics? No. But you never know.  I understand that it is incredibly disruptive,  but why not evacuate a school every time one of these calls come in?  It only takes being wrong once for an awful tragedy to occur.  Fortunately, the school system has wised up (It only took a bunch of parental complaints, right guys?) and is now informing parents as these problems occur, not well after.  So far, Grace's school has been unaffected.  I suppose if her school is threatened I will have to make the choice of whether I go get her or not.  As far as I know, she knows nothing of the threats at other schools.  She has no anxiety in regards to these threats.  Other students are not so lucky.  It is a damn shame that, whether because of bullies or worse, our children can not go to school feeling safe, secure and ready to learn.

Ziggy and Me

Last week, I solicited Facebook friends for writing ideas.  I was subsequently challenged, based on the fact that I don't seriously listen to music or know much about it, to write a music review.  Another friend liked the idea and suggested I start with David Bowie's music since, upon learning of Bowie's death, I had mentioned I was not saddened or as touched as so many others.  So, this is where I begin.  Being too cheap to actually pay for music, even for this experiment, I listened to most of Slacker's David Bowie Top 33.  I'm sure by not listening chronologically or by cohesive album I am missing out thematically.  Oh well,  this is the best I've got.   Baby steps, people.

Perhaps this is where I should set some expectations.  I know little musical jargon; I don't know how to talk about music beyond the way it makes me feel.   This entire exercise is akin to sending a person who eats nothing but Spaghettios and franks  in to critique a five star French restaurant.  He may be able to say, "oooh, that tastes good," but he'll lack the ability to make distinctions in the palate, he may not be able to describe the subtleties and textures.  I also have always had trouble deciphering lyrics.   I don't mean analyzing their subtext, I mean literally picking out the words sometimes.  (Example: At least into my twenties, I thought Neil Diamond was singing about some overly casual preacher, Reverend Blue Jeans.)  My wife makes fun, but sometimes the volume of the music or the singers voice (I'm looking at you Eddy Vedder.) make it impossible for me to hear the words clearly.  So with this info as the backdrop, I put on my headphones, grab my Spaghettios-eatin' spoon and press play.

My Rather Short, Totally Uninformed Review:
I get it now.  I get why people felt a genuine sense of loss when hearing of Bowie's passing.  It is more universal than I realized, I guess.  There were several recognizable songs where I said, "Huh, so that's Davis Bowie, eh?"  There is a little something for everyone in his music.  Some of it is fun.  Fun in a way that makes we want to dance like I would never let ANYBODY see me dance.  (Me doling out moves like Jagger would be a true assault on the eyes.) 

Some of the music practically pulsates with urgency.  There is a yearning driving so much of it.  A yearning to escape, a yearning to be understood, an urgent yearning to stand up and shout, "Look at me.  This is who I am. Tough shit if you don't like it!"  I have long said weird is the new normal.  Weird should be celebrated.  I suppose we have  ground-breaking artists like David Bowie to thank for that.  He made it okay, through costume, through lyrics, and through deed, to be different.  He brought outsiders in.  I understand how relatable he must be to so many who struggled with identity, who struggled to gain acceptance.

Beyond what his performances represent, of course, there are the performances themselves.  The music seems complex, at least to my simple reptilian brain.  The change of pace, the "arrangements"(?) keep you on your toes.  And that voice.  The voice of a chameleon, ever adjusting to mood and theme.   A voice sometimes beckoning, sometimes powerful, sometimes playful, but never timid.  A voice stretching through the stars to entrance and entertain.  I get it now.  Bowie still would not be my first choice when reaching for a cd, but I understand why he might be yours.

So, how'd I do? I don't suppose I'll be hired by Rolling Stone anytime soon. Send all hate mail to the That's No Moon World Headquarters.  Maybe, if you are lucky, I'll make music reviews a regular thing.

Thank You, JJ Abrams.

Nerd Alert: Now that the movie has been out for two weeks, I think it is safe to deliver my official, way too long Star Wars thoughts/review/breakdown.  It will include an asteroid belt's worth of spoilers, so don't read on if you have not seen the flick yet. 

Let's start with my expectations. I was super excited to see the movie, but tried to keep my expectations and preconceived ideas reasonable.  There is a set of fans so rabid that they would have cheered anything short of Jar Jar Binks.  Fans that would have clapped had Han and Chewie  shown up wearing clown suits while riding minature ponies; that's not me.  But I also did not expect an Academy Award winner.  Why would I, this is Star Wars?  What I hoped for was a warm glass of a galaxy far, far away.  And that is exactly what JJ Abrams delivered.  He made a movie that entertained 41-year-old me and, just as A New Hope did, would have entranced 5-year-old me.  Yes, I am reviewing through nostalgia-colored glasses, but I think that is the whole point.  Star Wars is a community, a cultural touchstone, a common bond.  It is a mix of movies, quotes, toys, and playground adventures woven into a cozy blanket in which an entie generation happily wraps itself.  So, was I delighted that there were so many nods or homages to the Original Trilogy? Damn right!  I expected nothing less; JJ Abrams is a fan just like me and my friends and millions of others who were blown away the first time we watched Darth Vader step through the smoking hatch of the Tantive IV. 

I literally had goosebumps when the  Lucasfilm logo appeared onscreen.  I got a little emotional when the crawl began.  I had a moment of prequel panic when the crawl ended.  What if like Episode I, it was all downhill after the crawl?  Fortunately, the fears were allayed almost immediately.  Where the prequels were wooden, boring and dense with political explanation , The Force Awakens was fast, fun and pleasing in a raw, visceral this-sure-feels-like-a-Star-Wars-movie way.  Is it flawless? Hardly.  There are cheesy moments and there are plot holes and there are convenient things that advance the story just like, oh I don't know, all three movies of the Original Trilogy.  If you love IV, V and VI despite their "flaws", I don't know how you could not enjoy The Force Awakens.

On to the specific highlights/questions/criticisms:

Kylo Ren: I admit, upon first viewing, I was only lukewarm (you know, like the internal temperature of a tauntaun) to Ren as a villain.  Part of it was casting; I am not a big Adam Driver fan.  Part of it was seeing another sullen, whiny branch of the Skywalker family tree. (If you haven't already, check out the funny Emo Kylo Ren twitter feed.)  Upon subsequent viewings, I realize he is just a boy out of his depths.  Powerful, yes (freezing a blaster bolt in mid-air!), but not fully trained.  He's a poser trying, but not yet qualified, to fill Grandpa's boots.  I am guessing in Episode VIII we will see, through back story and training montage, a more fully formed villain.

Who is Rey? The internet is filled with theories ranging from the interesting to the preposterous.  My bet is the safe one that the movie seems to lead us to, that she is Luke's daughter.  This raises so many questions that eagerly await being paid off in the next two movies.  By the way, Rey was  by far my favorite new character.  A strong female protagonist that my daughter can root for? What's not to love?  Daisy Ridley did more acting with her eyes than the entire cast of the prequels did in three movies.  Now, if we could just get more of her toys on store shelves.

Han Solo:  Let me just say that the scruffy-looking nerfherder is my favorite movie character ever.  I collect his toys, I have quoted him endlessly and I have pretend flown the Millennium Falcon more times than I can count.  Of course, I was sad to see him killed off, but it worked with the story.  And if he had to die, this movie was a terrific sendoff.  Harrison Ford actually looked engaged (a real concern of mine going in) and gave a strong performance.
He was the heart of this movie, providing the perfect bridge between old and new.  Han was basically a dopey prop in Return of the Jedi.  Here he has a legit role as mentor to Finn, father(?)figure to Rey, heartbroken father to the villain, and one last run as the galaxy's coolest smuggler.  Godspeed, space pirate.

New characters:  Rey was awesome, Poe was cool, if inconsequential, and Finn was okay.  I liked how Finn was sort of the conscience of the film. However, when the movie veered towards being too jokey it was usually because of Finn.  I felt Finn was aboard solely to shepherd Rey into the larger story. I don't see where he has much to do going forward.  I hope JJ comes up with something neat for his character.

Death Star 3:  Probably the weakest part of the film.  I know the heroes need something to attack/climb on/be threatened by, but Come On!  We can't come up with a different type of peril?  That being said, it hardly ruins the movie.  The second Death Star was dumb too, yet that is not why I ding Jedi (that would be the Ewoks).  And I did love that they called it StarKiller Base.  A nice nod to George Lucas.

Fan service: One of the big criticisms is that the movie is too much like A New Hope, that it  has too many Easter Eggs and too many throwbacks to the Original Trilogy.  I know one guy who was annoyed that fans cheered every time a fan favorite from the OT first appeared on screen.  That stuff was exactly why I enjoyed going opening night with a theater packed with true fans.  The reveal of the Millennium Falcon, though only ten minutes in, was my favorite part of the movie.  I thought Abrams found the right balance between old school and introducing the next story line.  Critics should remember that this film had to lay out a ton of exposition as part one of the larger three film story arc.  If VIII and IX mirror Empire and Jedi I will be disappointed.  Until then, however, I trust great things are in store come May 2017.

The bottom line is I was looking for a palatable, prequel-erasing movie and got that and more.  There was love for the originals with enough mystery built in to whet the appetite  for what is next.  Luke on the hill was a perfect ending.  I can't wait to read the next crawl as it recedes into space as John Williams' score blares in sweet Dolby surround sound.  I don't know what else JJ Abrams has in his plans, but after resurrecting Star Trek and Star Wars I will follow him anywhere.  What else from my childhood can he fix? CHiPs?  Thundercats?  Laverne and Shirley? Until he decides I am content to watch the Force awaken over and over again.

The Stocking Suffers

Working in retail certainly has its ups and downs. One of the bright sides is having an unusual, flexible schedule that sometimes makes things easier, like being able to go to a less crowded beach during the week or not having to request time off for doctor's appointments or your children's school functions.  That schedule becomes more daunting during the holidays. Even though our team has been planning and working for months towards our goal of selling everything by December 24th, Christmas still snuck up on me. Working fourteen of the fifteen days preceding Christmas tends to make them blend together.  You sometimes lose track of what day it is. And that is how your kid almost gets a Gas Station Christmas.

I am exaggerating a bit, of course.  Though it took more last minute shopping than usual, we had purchased Grace's gifts by Christmas Eve.  As we were wrapping them around 10pm we realized, however, that we had nothing for her stocking.  This was a problem for two reasons. We like to fill Grace's stocking with small treats because we don't go crazy with Christmas presents.  She gets a handful of gifts from Santa and a handful of gifts from Mom and Dad - we never have the tree that looks like it has barfed up presents everywhere. Also, we always pretend the stocking is filled by Santa. An empty stocking would indicate an insufficient Santa delivery and lead to questions I don't feel like answering at 7am Christmas morning.

With even Walmart closed, the lack of proper planning led to a late night run to the only place open.  As this elf plodded slowly through the gas station hoping for a miracle, it quickly became apparent that this might be the first time Santa had filled a stocking with Slim Jims, off brand motor oil and a tin of Skoal Bandit.  Throw in a Penthouse and you might have a redneck's dream stocking, but I was shopping for a seven-year-old girl.  I settled for a toothbrush (pink, at least), lip balm, and candy, lots of candy.

After leaving the gas station dissapointed, but not surprised, I drove a different route towards home.  A route that delivered the blessing of a Walgreen's that was still open.  Against my better judgement, I went in Walgreen's, which to my surprise was open until midnight (midnight!),  and became what I despise.  Despite there being many other shoppers in the store at 11pm,  I could feel the clerk's white hot glare.  Here I was, his brother in retail, irresponsibly making his life miserable as I swept through my last minute shopping.  I could hear the things he was mentally shouting at me because I had been mentally shouting them at customers mere hours earlier.

I have to be here.  Why are you here? Have you no family?  Have you no soul?  I just want to peacefully wile away this last hour until I can go home to MY family. WHYYYY ARE YOU HERE?!?

I kept my head down, picked up a few things more Christmas-y than Marlboro Reds, including some Disney pet that was actually on Grace's Santa list, and headed home.  For I had much more to do.  There was wrapping to finish, eating Santa's cookies (not such a chore, I suppose), putting away the Katie the Elf (I did better than last year), and sweeping up the reindeer food from the sidewalk.   My neighbor, catching a smoke on his porch, must have thought I was nuts to be sweeping my sidewalks at midnight, but never made eye contact or said a word.  Yes, the ever-expanding illusion of Christmas is getting harder to keep up. The man behind the curtain is getting tired.  I can't say I will be totally dissapointed when Grace discovers the truth.  I will be a little sad, but at least I can spend the wee hours of Christmas Eve at Midnight Mass not combing gas station shelves for "gifts".

Don't Get Run Over By A Reindeer

Can you feel it?  I can.  It started as a little wisp in the back of my mind.  Then it grew bigger and heavier; now it presses down on my shoulders.  Sweat accumulates on my brow as I work to keep it from crushing me.  'Tis the season and IT is the pressure to provide the perfect Christmas for my kid.  Make no mistake, it is a self-induced pressure, but a pressure nonetheless.  Maybe it's just me. After all, creating my own stress and anxiety comes as natural to me as walking and talking.  Maybe being in Retail Christmas Preparation  Mode for weeks has made me more sensitive to the subject.  However, as I watch other parents scurry from activity to activity, cramming their schedules with the joys of the season, I am convinced it's not just me.    As parents we are bombarded with "opportunities" to create memories that our children will forget by next week cherish forever.


You know the list: parades, pageants, plays, Secret Santa exchanges, tree lightings, breakfast with Mr. and Mrs. Claus, special pajama story times.  Want to ride the Polar Express?  We've got you  covered.  Want to meet Santa  and other costume characters?  Easy as fruitcake.  Stand in line for an hour waiting for a ten minute train ride through the same lights we looked at last year?  Sign me up!  I bet, if you so chose, you could find a holiday themed activity for your children every day between now and Christmas. Most will only cost you a small fortune.  And those are just activities outside the house.  Don't forget to squeeze in all our household traditions.  Decorate the tree, hang the lights,  build the gingerbread houses, make the wreaths, mix the reindeer food,  send the cards-eventually they all blur together. This year, I got the  nutty idea to go cut  down our own Christmas tree.  I have about as much business chopping down a tree as I do trying to land an airplane. And don't even get me started on my escapades with that damn Elf.


So, why we do it?  Obviously, calling it a shoulder-crushing pressure was a bit of hyperbole, but we do put undue stress on  ourselves to make the holiday season magical.  There are lots of reasons why we do it.  For one, we've been programmed that if we don't max out our kids' schedules there is no possible way they could figure out how to entertain themselves.  This is the same reason we race from dance class to scouts to basketball practice to underwater bowling to travel bingo tournaments each and every week.  We want the best for our kids; we want them to experience everything (except down time, apparently.)  Each of these activities has merit; trying to squeeze them all in is silly.  And taxing.  We are also told by commercials from every retailer from Folgers to Dick's Sporting Goods that Christmas is a special time.  Sure I get a little weepy when that grandfather-to-be opens those tiny Adidas sneakers, but it doesn't mean we have to find meaning in  every December moment.  Though, if we don't create and document a slew of magical moments how will we fill Facebook? How will you know what an awesome dad I am?  If I don't post photos of my daughter enjoying the lights or hand crafting an ornament what will I have left to post, Star Wars memes and shameless links to my curmudgeonly blog? 


I think the truth is we parents are simply trying to fulfill our parental commandment.  Not long after Keep Your Child Safe and Love Them More Than Anything In This World  is the directive Thou Shalt Not Ruin Christmas.  Despite my Bah Humbuggy tone thus far, I actually love Christmas.  Creating new traditions and carrying on beloved family traditions is important.  Too often, though, we force things. When everything is special, nothing is special.  Christmas magic should be organic, borne out of the simple, precious times we spend together.  A quiet night sipping homemade hot cocoa by the fire might just  be as memorable as sprinting from event to event (Except for story time at my store. You should definitely come hear the story then purchase every single item your kid asks for on your way out the door.)   I encourage us all to slow down and relax this Season.  I am going to start as soon as I get this tree chopped down and tied to the roof of my car.  Stay tuned for the lumberjack selfies.

Immigration Nation

Following the terror attacks in Paris, a friend and I engaged in a long chat about the ramifications in this country.  Specifically, we discussed what to do with our borders. I love this friend like a brother and am grateful that we can discuss these issues civilly, with the ability to "agree to disagree".  And, boy, do we disagree on this one.  The discussion was prompted by an internet meme (that ever thoughtful tool of debate) suggesting, that in the wake of the Paris incidents, Donald Trump's plan to build a wall didn't look so bad now, huh?  A simplistic meme that led to a substantive, nuanced discussion between us. Said friend wants to close our borders.  Lock them up tight for an undetermined period of time, even temporarily suspending the approval of legal immigrants already in the pipeline.  I think this is a terrible idea.  Basically, we argued back and forth for the better part of an hour, as fast as our fingers could type.  The fun I had debating him belies the seriousness of the situation, a situation which weighs heavily upon our future and potentially possesses grave consequences.




I have thought deeply (yes, I am capable of that sometimes) about our conversation and would like to share some thoughts it sparked in me.  I know many will disagree with me, perhaps even think me naïve, too idealistic, or foolish.  Think away, for I am confident in my beliefs.  But also, challenge me if you disagree, because these things are too important to not discuss.  Intelligent, relevant, willing-to-actually-listen-to-a-counterpoint conversations are refreshing and necessary.  And so much better than sticking our heads in the sand, calling each other names, or worrying what the Kardashians are up to.




To be blunt, I disagree with the notion of closing the borders.   Safety is always provided as the reason for such an action; we don't know who is coming in.  The problem with this argument is those who wish to do us harm are already here.  ISIS has been recruiting with a scope rarely seen before.  Their reach, through the internet and social media, means they can recruit  anywhere, anytime.  They prey upon the gullible, the weak-minded, those made malleable by feeling disenfranchised or hopeless. They can foment hatred and disdain from a laptop.  ISIS doesn't have to send in boogey men from a desert  stronghold, they are planning and plotting with people either already here or people born here.  Home-grown terror plots frighten me.  Putting up a wall or telling a Swiss family preparing to legally emigrate that they must wait will not likely keep out any Trojan Horses.  If the thought is to only close borders until we figure out a better screening process I fear we will never get there.  Where is the line? When would we be safe "enough"?




Elsewhere on Facebook this week, I saw another meme designed to scare.  It was a photo of a person dressed in traditional Muslim garb, in this instance with only the eyes uncovered.  The text accompanying the photo read, "Who is behind the mask? Man? Woman? Terrorist? You don't know do you?  This is a risk to our security and should be banned in all public places.  Share if you agree!"  Are we serious with this?  Let's break this down.  One, terrorists come in all shapes and sizes, not just dressed like Hollywood's stock version. Two, can I not wear a ski mask out when it is cold or cover my face on Halloween because I might be mistaken for a terrorist? Three, are there not many articles of clothing that could obscure weapons?  I don't see a great rush to  ban trench coats or backpacks in public.  Oh man, that nun might have a shotgun in her robes, we'd better not let her wear that in public!  Look, that judge might have a bomb under there, let's force him to preside in his underpants!  Folks, this type of fear-mongering prejudice is disgusting and shameful. A little green friend once cautioned an entire generation that, "Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering."  Let's not give in to our fear.  I thought I covered this way back in 2006.  Maybe if I had more than four readers I could have gotten the message out.
 


So, why is it important that we don't close the borders, or ban burquas or vaporize the entire sandy desert of the Middle East into a sheet of glass?  Because we are America, dammit!   Donald Trump wants to make America great again, but I submit what made America great was taking in "your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.  Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door."  America has been, and must remain, a beacon of hope.  We must never compromise our ideals.  If we are willing to be anything less than the place the world seeks out to pursue their dreams, then what are we even fighting for?  What will we mean when we say ,"The American Way"?  We are a nation of immigrants that is neither infallible, nor perfect.  If we forget this, we have already lost.

Stall Tactics

"I am calm!", she screamed at me, tears streaming down her red face.  Clearly my seven-year-old and I have different definitions of calm.  One thing we can agree on, however, is that getting ready for school shouldn't be this hard.

Many mornings start quaintly,  the morning sun streaming through the window, the intoxicating scent of bacon wafting through the house.  Smiles, high-fives and laughter are our currency.  Then at some mysterious moment that I'll be damned if I can identify the entire "transaction" of school preparation turns South.  Maybe at some point my sweet kid goes off the rails because she is seven. Or because she is female. Or because she is a tiny psycopath in panda pajamas. 

I say the cause is mysterious, but you don't have to Andy Sipowicz to figure out almost every time a morning hits the skids it is when Grace is asked to switch from Gracie Time to Real World Time.   Grace could la-dee-da her way through an entire day.  Believe me, I wish I could too.  Yet, the pesky school system decides when school begins, not Grace.  The girl refuses to bound by time constraints.  When I tell her we have to leave in a half hour, I might as well tell her we have to leave in six months or 12 parsecs.  And this is why we clash.  Despite learning in therapy to ease my anxiety by relinquishing the idea of controlling every detail bouncing around in my head, I hold on to the notion that getting out the door on time is one thing that I can control. If only my stubborn, independent, free spirit daughter would co-operate.  (I chuckled simply typing that sentence.) Normally, I love that Grace is independent and care-free, but sometimes when it is time to go, IT IS TIME TO GO. 

When faced with a deadline Grace slows the pace.  I don't necessarily mean she moves slower, she just stalls by doing everything but what she should be doing.  Former Major League baseball player Mike Hargrove earned the nickname The Human Rain Delay with his habit of stepping out of the batter's box between each pitch to engage in a ritual of adjusting his equipment thereby grinding each at-bat to a snail's pace.  Grace is my personal Human Rain Delay.

A typical sideways morning goes something like this:
Me: "Grace, please finish your cereal so you can go upstairs and finish getting ready."
G: "Can I have a piece of candy?"
"Of course not, candy is not a breakfast food. Please finish."
" But you gave me like a hundred grapes."
"It was 10. Please go upstairs to get dressed."
"Okay, Daddy. First, may I show you my new cartwheel/somersault/jumpkick/dance move?"
"No, please go upstairs to get dressed."
*Does cartwheel/somersault/jump kick/dance move anyway.*
"Please go upstairs."
"Okay, Daddy. As soon as I say good morning to Mama Kitty."
"Please go upstairs."
"Okay, Daddy. Let me just clean up my markers."
"No. Please go upstairs."
"Right after I put on these fifteen bracelets."
"Why are you not walking up the stairs?"
"Because I am waiting to walk up with you, my special daddy."
*Deep breath, choke down the rage, trudge upstairs, send her into her room to get dressed.*
Ten minutes later...
"Why are you not dressed?"
"Oh, I have been standing in the mirror practicing every hair style I will need,like, ever."

This invariably leads me to shout something  extremely helpful like "JUST BRUSH YOUR DAMN TEETH!" or "WE HAVE TO GO. FOR THE LOVE OF CHEESE, FIND SOME SOCKS!" To which she starts whining about needing help putting on her socks. Putting on her socks? If I had said we had two minutes to get to the playground she could have pulled off a Houdini underwater straight jacket escape, but something I need her to do? Forget it.  At this point, Grace is lucky I don't possess the Force. If I did, she'd be gasping and clawing at her throat like one of Vader's Imperial flunkies.  So we clash, we get pissed over socks, and she ends up red-faced professing her calmness. 

I struggle to find the line between running an efficient, disciplined household and having a happy-go-lucky child. Today, I think I will look for it at the bottom of a beer mug.

Stop and Smell the Eclipse

So, how about that supermoon, eh? I know it was over hyped and your news feed was jammed with blurry cell phone photos of glowing white orbs that may or may not have been the moon.  I know many of you think it was silly or overrated or not worth your time.  I didn't check out Sunday's lunar eclipse because Facebook told me to, because I subscribe to the mystical powers of blood moons, or even because it was an event that had not occurred in thirty-some years.  I dragged my beach chair into the front yard and looked skyward because the eclipse was genuinely neat.  Maybe, in this era of YOLO and extreme everything, "neat" is a quaint ideal that no longer has much cachet, but, man, sometimes the simplest joys are where it's at.

I found the the eclipse truly awe-some.  Maybe I was feeling a bit philosophical Sunday night because I had a rough day at work and Mother Nature reminded me there is so much more to my universe than unreliable employees or  selling books to angry old women. Maybe I was worn down by the failings of my fantasy football team.  Or maybe the eclipse was actually exciting.  I forgot that nature is actually exciting.  I sometimes don't look up from my phone or television or book long enough to appreciate nature's beauty.  Even the clouds that moved in, threatening to derail the show, were amazing to see.  I remembered to not be disappointed in what I might not see, but to appreciate what I could. And there was much to appreciate.  Whether you believe in God or Science or both, I think you could see the magic in the moon marching across the night sky.  Watching the sky, I felt the same way I do standing in the ocean-tiny, admiring the vastness laid out before me.  This weekend at the shore, with the surf non-negotiable and the wind-driven sand trying to peel flesh from leg, I couldn't help but marvel at the enormity and power of the sea.  Similarly, Sunday, watching the moon succumb to the shadow, I let my mind wander.  Thoughts, ranging from the serious to the silly, drifted by like the clouds drifting through the air.  I thought of my late father, eternity, space travel, werewolves, the new Star Wars movie and gentle painter Bob Ross (Let's give this little cloud a friend, shall we?).

As crickets' songs and the far off honks of traveling geese served as nature's soundtrack to the moon's show, I was reminded how rarely there is stillness and quiet in my life, inside my head or out.  We are always on the go; work or play, we stuff our lives with activity.  At work, crappy music, the bark of blenders and coffee grinders, and customers' bleats ring in the ears.  At home, sounds of music or a ball game or a jumping/laughing/shouting six year old fill the air.  Except when I try to meditate or write, both of which I do all too infrequently, the house is buzzing.  It felt so good to feel the gentle breeze, listen to the nature songs and watch the eclipse through my binoculars.  Then after about an hour or so, much like saying a word over and over again until it becomes unrecognizable, the magic ended and the moment was lost.  But the lesson remains:  Make time to enjoy the universe's grandeur.  Getting lost in it might just help you find yourself.