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.

Step Away From The Candy Bar...

I should have known better.  Tuesday, I found myself with a sweet tooth, so I went rummaging through Grace's Valentine's candy stash.  While certainly not as prolific as the Halloween stash, the Valentine's candy bag, thanks to Grace being enrolled in two different schools, was impressively filled.  Surely, she would not miss a few stolen pieces.  Among the sticky lollipops and chalky "Be Mine" hearts I spied a full-size Baby Ruth.  Jackpot.  I'm not really sure who doles out full-size chocolate bars to their 5-year-old's classmates, but Jackpot nonetheless.  All was well until Wednesday night when Amanda, also feeling a chocolate craving, asked me if I wanted to split the Baby Ruth her co-worker had given her on Valentine's Day.  Oops.

In our nearly eleven years of marriage I have made enough boneheaded moves to learn Amanda's looks of anger and disappointment.  Sometimes you get what I call the Glare.  This is when you stupidly try to explain yourself.  Sometimes you get the Flare, the tiniest flexing of her nostrils, as she breathes in, weighing the idea of choking you.  This is when you don't even consider trying to explain yourself.  Sometimes you get the Glare and the Flare.  This is when you get in the car in pursuit of a replacement Baby Ruth.

I am exaggerating (a little) about Amanda's reaction, but that should have been the end of the story as we laughed as I headed out the door for a new Baby Ruth.  I told you earlier, I should have known better.  Leaving the driveway, I considered my shopping options.  There are three convenient stores within two minutes of my house.  I don't usually shop at any of them considering they are all poorly lighted, populated with shady characters and filled with questionable aromas of indeterminate origins.  Needing just a candy bar, however, I figured one of these was preferable to the chain gas stations or grocery stores ten minutes away.  Nope.  The first place was seedy, smelly and had a register that wouldn't read my debit card.  The second place was seedier, smellier and filled with blank eyes and vacant stares.  I'm pretty sure the dreaded Zombie Apocalypse is here; instead of feeding on human flesh the walkers are simply feeding on smack, meth and 24 oz. beers.  Unfortunately, what store number two was not filled with was Baby Ruths.  Aisles of snacks and munchies, not one Baby Ruth.  Store number three, while better-lighted and having a friendly proprietor, also sold no Baby Ruths.

Now nearly fifteen minutes into what should have been a four minute errand, frustration is starting to set in.  Instead of being 10 minutes into the next episode of House of Cards, I am on my way to the chain store.  Imagine my surprise when it turns out WaWa also doesn't sell Baby Ruths.  I ask the employee stocking the candy shelf from a giant cart of snacks if they sell Baby Ruths, maybe I am just missing them.  He just looks at me and shrugs.  Seriously?  Does the owner of Scary Store #1 have some sort of Comcastian monopoly over Baby Ruths in this town?  Now, completely perplexed and regretting my weakness for candy a day earlier I do what I should have done at Scary Store #2 (Or would have done if not distracted by the fear of stepping on a used needle.): I go all in on the sweets, grabbing four different candy bars and a doughnut for good measure.  Surely, something in my newly purchased sugar cornucopia will appease the Wife.  Fortunately, the register reads my debit card just fine.  I am smiling until I read the total price.   $6.66.  Ah, Baby Ruth you were a devilish snack choice, indeed. 

Today Is The Day

Arise from your slumber,
Shake off your long winter's nap,
Feel the warmth on your face,
Reach for your cap.

Gather your friends in this time of hope,
Witness the first page of this yet written story,
A tale of ballplayers,
And their search for pennant glory.

Limbs to be loosened,
Hearts to be won,
Skills to be honed,
Under the hot southern sun.

Our Birds have flown South,
Dawn breaks on a cherished day of sport,
It matters not yet what summer will bring,
For this glorious day, pitchers and catchers report.

A Fan's Lament

Aside from an occasional movie review haiku, I don't dabble in poetry because, well, I'm a lackluster poet.  But this hockey season will do strange things to a man.  Therefore, dear reader, I give you-

A Fan's Lament

What a joyous day it would have been,
A day to wistfully wonder why,
To whisper thanks to the hockey gods in the sky.

What a joyous day it would have been,
No longer challenging a player's mettle or pedigree,
Less questioning of a coach's wisdom or philosophy.

What a joyous day it would have been,
No more trades to ponder,
Not another playoff lead to squander.

What a joyous day it would have been,
Putting Milbury's critiques to rest,
No longer shamed to don a team's woeful crest.

What a joyous day it would have been,
Spared looking up at every rival,
Relieved of anticipating a squad's revival.

What a joyous day it would have been,
An outcome so unforeseen,
Freed from hurling insults at a shimmering screen.

Oh, what a joyous day it would have been,
If only it were real,
The day Gary Bettman said, "With the players, we will reach no deal."

Phony Phather

We have a winner.  The award for Most Unrealistic Dad of the Year goes to....Subaru Car wash Dad.  You've seen SuperDad haven't you?  The dad whose reaction to discovering his kids have scrubbed his Subaru outside and IN with suds and toothpaste is to chuckle and tell them they missed a spot?  What a guy!  I would have had a very similar reaction.  As in, "You missed a spot.  The one on your ass where I'm going to plant my foot."  Many of us dads are out here trying to do the right thing, trying to balance being a good father, a good husband, a competent employee and maybe, call me crazy, carving out a little time for themselves.  Then along comes Subaru Guy making us all look bad.  If he makes Jason Seaver look like Adolf Hitler, how the heck am I supposed to compete?

I know it's silly to compare myself to fictional dads and, truthfully, I don't.  But also true is that I have been examining my reactions to Grace.  I do lose my patience too often.  As Grace grows up, she grows more obstinate and I grow more frustrated.  Any event that requires time management, especially bedtime, as everyone edges toward crankiness, has become a nightmare.  When the clock is running on something she doesn't want to do, Grace turns into the Human Stall Machine.  I swear she's considering a career as a mercenary protester.  (You need someone to go rag doll so as to be difficult to drag away from this tree/historic building/oil refinery?  I'm your gal.  "Hell no, I won't go!")  She'll find any excuse to put off what she needs to do.  Playing, setting up baby dolls, asking for a glass of water and delivering hugs are all tactics employed to delay the inevitable.  Each night she picks at least one task (brushing teeth, going potty, putting on pajamas) and treats it like a death sentence, desperate to avoid it at all costs.  All the foot dragging makes each bedtime longer and more frustrating than a James Cameron movie.

As the stalling goes longer, my patience grows thinner.  Asking turns into encouraging.  Encouraging turns into cajoling.  Cajoling turns into threatening.  Threatening turns into arguing.  Arguing turns into threats carried out which turns to tears as Grace gets a story or stuffed animal taken away.  I am truly searching for answers because some nights I feel like a terrible parent.  I walk the line between, "Oh, she's four, get over it." and "She needs to learn respect and responsibility without questioning or ignoring every request."  Is cooperation and compliance too much to ask?  Nearly every bedtime disintegrating into a crying, shouting struggle does no one any good. 

We've tried lots of plans -making a game of it, clearly explaining expectations, earning rewards- yet nearly every night, no matter how pleasant it begins, ends with me battered, feeling I have barely survived a street fight.  If bedtime is a basketball game, I am the Washington Generals .  Of course, once we get to lights out, Grace still makes her room tougher to exit than the Hotel California.  A million questions about tomorrow's schedule, adjusting the nightlight, exchanging her stuffed animals, anything that will keep us in the room "one more minute."  I always feel like a dick when I finally pry myself away and tell her enough is enough.  She needs her rest and Amanda and I need time to unwind.  I don't want to turn in to a drill Sergeant with cartoon steam pouring from my ears, but it seems that's where we head most nights.  I long for the night when the great things about bedtime (stories, snuggles and goodnight kisses) are the only things about bedtime.  Until then, I trudge wearily off to battle.  Somebody cue "Sweet Georgia Brown".

Two Years Too Many.

Sometimes it feels like two days.  Sometimes, sadly, it feels like twenty years.  It doesn't really matter how long it has been because it still isn't easy to comprehend, but for the record, my dad passed away two years ago tonight.  Every day since, Grief and its evil companion , Anxiety, have traveled by my side.  These two, packaged together, are sneaky devils that toy with your mind and, if you let them, will consume you.  Aside from posting the eulogy I delivered so out of town family could read it, I haven't written about my dad's passing or how it has affected me.  I have started this post a half dozen times because I find writing to be a therapeutic outlet and maybe what I write will help somebody else working through similar struggles.  Maybe not.  Either way, today felt right to write.

Of course, the night Dad died and the ensuing days were tough.  I clearly remember specific details-hell, I think about them at the exact time most Tuesdays- but those memories don't cause the problems.  About six weeks after his passing, I was feeling pretty good when out of nowhere my heart started racing and felt like it was going to flip-flop out of my chest.  From that day forward I have battled Grief and Anxiety, wondering on many occasions if this was the day I was going to die.

Two pieces of background to, perhaps (or not), put that last statement in some context.  I've never lived what you would call a care-free existence.  I've had what I call low grade anxiety for most of my life.  I'm a worrier and  a hypochondriac with a little OCD thrown in for fun.  I play up the hypochondria for laughs and have a good time with it.  The anxiety was always present, yet did not  dominate my life.  My anxiety was like pre-steroid Barry Bonds.  Dad's death turned my anxiety into Home Run King Barry Bonds.  The second piece of information is that I don't know what caused my dad to drop dead.  We can make educated guesses, assumptions really, but without an autopsy (a choice made for several reasons) there is no definitive answer.  It is this mystery that I believe is the main source of my anxiety.  When you are always waiting for the other shoe to drop, it is helpful to at least know what shoe to look for.

Fortunately, my doctor understanding my mind-set and my recently updated family history, ordered a battery of tests to determine the cause of my palpitations.  After an EKG, an echocardiogram, a nuclear stress test, a 24 hour monitor and a 14 day event monitor, my heart was determined to be healthy.  Most people would be satisfied by that answer.  I am not most people.  When something is stuck in my head I can not shake it.  I just knew the doctors were wrong.  They had to be missing something and for that I would pay the ultimate price.  It is not sensible and it is not rational, it is just what I do.

So what would be an occasional blip on my brain's radar became a full-time obsession.  Instead of spending a few minutes pondering whether I may actually have Mesothelioma every time I saw some ambulance chaser's commercial, I began a constant vigil, monitoring all my on-board systems.  I can tell you, nearly two years later, this is a hard way to live.  Much of the time my brain power is split.  One portion is living my life.  The other portion is in steady assessment mode.  Remember the view from inside the Terminator, where you would see what he saw?  In his field of vision was this rolling scroll of diagnostic readouts and system analysis.  That's what the one half of my brain feels like it is often doing.  I am fully functioning, but distracted by the scroll.  Because when you are always looking for something, oh, the things you will find.  Palpitations became chest pain.  Chest pain became dizziness.  Dizziness became back pain.  Back pain became surely I'm dying, right here, right now of exactly what killed my father even though I have very little clue what really killed my father. The internal dialogue would be hilarious if it weren't so draining.
 
      "What was that?"  "That feels weird."  "That pain in my shoulder could be from lifting heavy boxes earlier but it probably the first sign of my impending heart attack."  "Is it heart burn?  It's probably heartburn.  But what if isn't heartburn?"  "I knew the doctors were wrong."  "Elizabeth, I'm coming to  see ya.  This is the big one." 

As anybody that has experienced even a little anxiety or panic disorder knows, it is a very short trip from one negative thought spiraling into a full-on panic attack.  It is a vicious cycle.  Do the symptoms cause the anxiety or does the anxiety cause the symptoms? 

I think I do a pretty good job of functioning normally given that many of my days are filled with these cycles.  I have only had one full-blown panic attack in this two years, but I have had many moments weighing if the situation warranted a vist to the doctor or ER.  Even a good day can turn quickly.  I might go hours without worrying about a thing, but the moment I realize I haven't worried about anything for a long while, my brain kicks in and I'll feel "something".  I am doing better, though.  A few months after everything started I moved from thinking I was dying to being afraid I was dying.  That is a subtle but, to me, important distinction.  So, if anytime in the last two years I have seemed distracted, off my game (What game, Bryan?  How would I possibly know if you are off what little "game" you have?) or haven't corresponded like I should, I'm sorry.  This is part of the reason why.

Last fall, I finally made the decision to seek help from a support system outside my friends and family.  My counselor/therapist was terrific and taught me many strategies to better deal with all that I have going on, attacking the problem from all angles.  I am grateful to her and hope that I can successfully heed and hone her lessons.  I wish I had sought help sooner.  Mental health struggles, no matter the type, deserve our attention and require hard work to fix. 

I think of my dad every day and, though I don't mourn him every day (he would hate that), the repurcussions of his death affect me always.  I think a friend of mine said it best when he asked me not long after Dad died, "It fucks you up, doesn't it?"  Indeed, it does.
     

Movie Review Haiku: Hit and Run

Love a good car chase,
Characters make it better,
Funny little ride

Ovie, We're Not In Kansas (Or the Playoffs) Anymore.

After struggling for days to organize my thoughts regarding the Washington Capitals dismal start, I realized that I didn't need to struggle; L. Frank Baum has done the work for me.  Like Baum's iconic Oz characters, the Capitals organization is lost and lacks brains, heart and courage.  For years the Caps have succeeded despite their flaws.  This season, for whatever reason, the team's shortcomings have resulted in losses piling up at a clip unseen since Alex Ovechkin's rookie season.  General Manager George McPhee may dismiss fans' opinions because we are not "in the game", but I do have eyeballs and it is plain to see that this team is in trouble.  But enough about GMGM.  I'll get back to him later; there is plenty of blame to go around.

In athletic circles, heart is a synonym for desire, for passion, for "want to".  In hockey, playing with heart means beating your guy to the puck, holding your defensive position, winning the loose pucks, etc. because you want those things more than your opponent.  The Caps are consistently out-hustled, seemingly playing at half-speed.  Until they are down a goal with five minutes to play, these guys play with little urgency.  What is so hard about playing your ass off for 45 seconds, sitting for two minutes and jumping over the boards to bust your ass again?  Seriously, why do these guys look like they are skating in quicksand while their opponents dance around them?

Maybe they are indecisive, partially paralyzed by trying to play their fourth system since late 2010.  Instinct has been replaced by, "Oh shit, where am I supposed to be now?"  Hockey blog Japer's Rink makes a compelling case for why the team should have never moved away from its run and gun style.  Whether a change should have been made or not is debatable.  Whether the change was forced upon coach Bruce Boudreau by General Manager George McPhee (there's that guy again) is debatable.  What is not debatable is that this team hasn't been right since then. 

The second possibility is that these players simply don't care enough to play hard every shift.  I'd like to think as a paying fan that this was impossible.  I'm not quite so sure anymore.  Former Flyer badass Bobby Clark once said of his Broad Street Bullies, "We took the shortest route to the puck and arrived in ill humor."  Show me one Cap who plays that way every game.  Certainly not the Alex "The 'C' on my sweater is for Circles" Ovechkin.  Ovie seems bored and uninterested for long stretches of his shifts.  He circles the zone or stands around waiting for a turnover or breakout and hoping somebody puts the puck on his stick as he darts out of the defensive zone.  Does he not understand that by hustling, by forechecking aggresively, by squeezing every ounce from his once immense talent he would cause more turnovers thereby creating more chances?  And, even though I think every player should be able to motivate themselves, should we be surprised that the rest of the team follows the lead of the underachieving captain?  I'm no mind reader, but I think Adam Oates, who as a player was as prepared and professional as they come, is shocked that he has motivate these players on a nightly basis.  In his media session yesterday he basically questioned his players' professionalism.  If he finds the heart he might find success.

Riding shotgun with heart for an athlete is courage.  (I think courage is an improperly used word when talking about sports, but I use it here for sake of the Wizard of Oz reference.  True courage is exhibited by folks like firemen and soldiers, people battling devastating diseases and those who stand strong in the face of injustice, not a linebacker who comes back from injury earlier than expected.)  Hockey courage is a toughness, a willingness to go to the nasty areas of the rink.  Crashing the net, digging a puck out of the corner to start the cycle, tying up your man in front of the net-these are all hard things that require sacrifice.  These are all hard things that are basic functions of successful hockey teams.  These are all hard things that the Caps don't do often enough.  The Caps don't score dirty goals because they don't get dirty. 

Hockey courage is also about continuing to battle in the face of adversity.  This season the Caps have folded whenever something bad happens.  Once Pittsburgh scored their second goal on Thursday, I had zero faith the Caps could suck it up and get back in the game.  Nevermind that they had dominated the Pens in the first period.  Instead of fighting to tie the game at two, these clowns rolled over and were down 5-2 by the end of the period.  Playing sixty minutes of great hockey seems beyond their reach. Good teams use crushing losses in games and playoff series to build resilience and fortitude to rely on in future battles.  Bad teams panic at the first sign of trouble.  Resilient these Caps are not.

Playing hard can cover many flaws, but heart and courage are of little use to an organization if it is populated by dopes.  Right now, I think there is a serious lack of organizational "brains" in America's Hockey Capital Washington.  From a star player who appears unable or unwilling to evolve his game beyond moves that are now routinely defended to an owner who raises ticket prices after a lockout, the Caps are well-stocked with Scarecrows. 

The biggest offender is the man charged with assembling this mess, the architect, General Manager George McPhee.  GMGM's patented patience has left this team a shell of the team that dominated the Eastern Conference just two+  years ago.  He, for too long, overrated the talent in the farm system, refusing to part with prospects that could have been dealt for missing pieces of a true contender.  When he finally parted with a prospect, trading Cody Eakin for Mike Ribero, he acquired the second-line center the team desperately needed.  Unfortunately, Alex Semin, the player who could have benefited most from playing alongside a playmaking center is no longer here.  Had McPhee landed a Ribero three years ago I might be bitching about when the Caps will win their next Cup.  Instead, I am left to play what-if.  What if GMGM had brought in a quality option at 2C instead of trying to force a parade of ill-fitting wannabes?  Brooks Laich?  Good player, important cog, better suited on the wing or at 3C.  Matt Perrault? Please.  MoJo?  Could possibly get there in time if allowed to develop at a more natural pace.  Instead, he was rushed into the lineup expected to be the next Nick Backstrom.  (Shoot, I'd love it if Nick Backstrom would be the next Nick Backstrom.)  The point is, GMGM waited too long to make necessary tweaks that could have put this team over the top. 

Centerman is not the only positon GMGM has buggered up.  This man actually said in his presser yesterday that he likes his defense.  Whaaaat?  I think the Caps have three legitimate NHL defensemen on their roster.  Unfortunately, most teams skate six d-men per night.   Roman Hmrlik, Tom Poti and the rest of Should Be Watching From The Press Box Brigade are no match for a swarming, attacking offensive squad.  For GMGM to say he likes the D is astounding.  Either he is a worse evaluator of talent than I thought or he is a liar.  I'm not sure which is worse.  For eighteen minutes of pure comedy gold click on that previous link and watch McPhee's entire media session.  This is the first time I have ever seen McPhee, usually a cool customer, with a confused, lost look on his face.  It may be settling in that the arrogant way he and Teddy L. were going to do it "their way" (never hiring an experienced coach, no enforcer, Euro-heavy roster, two goalies under age 22) is not working.  Their five year plan is already past due and over budget.  This team may need another rebuild, but I don't want this guy over-seeing it.

With all that being said, I am a fan and I will keep watching.  I've come back after every lockout.  I suffered through the Jason Doig era.  I have bought in to the raised (by the organization itself, by the way) expectations.  I will watch and I will cheer, but I hope changes come if progress is not made.  Patience is no longer the play.  So, since the Caps encourage their fans to don the home color, tonight I will Rock the (ruby) Red (slippers).  Hopefully three clicks of my heels will wake the Caps to their winning ways and turn this nightmare season around.



 

Do You Really Need That Bazooka?

We spend our bedtimes telling our young children there are no such things as monsters.  I only wish that sentiment were true.  Whether twisted by loneliness, illness or evil, that boy in Connecticut was a monster.  A scarier monster than you'll find under any bed.  As I've thought about the tragic events of last Friday, I have had trouble sorting through my feelings.  And even more difficulty putting my feelings into words.  Journalists are taught to nail down the five Ws (who, what, where, when, why) and How.  Perhaps that's the simplest way for me to sort.

Sadly, the What, Where and When of this case are all too obvious.  The Who is, of course, the saddest piece.  Innocent children and their brave protectors senselessly struck down.  Lives ended nearly before they'd begun.  Too heartbreaking to think about, I don't want to hear the stories of these beautiful little children.  I pray for their peace and for the comfort of their families.  Grief is a helluva thing; a burden that we all bear at some point, just not always in the way this community is forced to endure it.

The Why is an important piece of the puzzle.  I do not care to know much about the darkness that resided inside this punk, but somebody must learn what made him do what he did.  With that knowledge, perhaps the next Newtown/Columbine/Virginia Tech can be thwarted.  If there were less of a stigma attached to mental illness, if there were more understanding of just what can be helped, perhaps these kids would still be alive.  Mental illness is a tricky business involving many complex layers.  There are questions of access, health care and arguments I don't want to make here.

The How of this event is an argument I am ready to take up tonight.  Twenty-seven people were slaughtered last Friday, murdered at close range by gunfire.  Before I wade any further into a debate about gun laws, gun control and gun ownership let me make clear three things: 1. I don't pretend to have all the answers, but a debate in this country about this issue is more than overdue.  2.In theory, I believe anybody should be able to own anything, but something must change because I believe the ease of access to weapons makes these incidents more frequent.  3.  I'm not an idiot, nor am I an inflexible partisan sheep unwilling to have my ideas challenged.  So if all you want to do is call me a liberal weenie or a left wing pu**y instead of talking about the issue then please stow it. 

The short version of my argument is that I personally hate guns but think you have the right to own them.  (Well, certain kinds.) I hate guns because they exist for the sole purpose of destroying things.  I also know that if I owned one I would Barney Fife my way into blowing off a toe or would have it taken from me and used against me in a confrontation.  I don't believe guns are as big a deterrent as people think.  A gun can escalate a situation from dangerous to deadly in an instant.  Then there are the sad stories like the recent tragedy outside Pittsburgh.  A father, by all accounts a trained hunter, killed his own son because he got into his truck with a round still in the chamber.  The gun accidentally fired, hitting the boy.  That's why I don't want to own a gun.

So let's talk about you.  I don't care if you own guns.  I simply wish you would own fewer guns.  I know many responsible, highly-trained gun owners.  With their guns they feed their families and friends all winter long.  I would never advocate taking away that right.  I do, however, think there should be limits on the types of weapons available for purchase by Joe Citizen.  Why does anyone outside the military or police need something like an AK-47?  Seriously?  Please don't talk to me about the zombie apocalypse or that the government might come for your stuff.  News flash:  If the government wants your stuff, they've got bigger guns/missiles/nukes than you do.

Over the last week I have read three bumper-sticker-style arguments over and over again:
-Guns don't kill people. People kill people.
I don't even understand this one. Yes, people kill people. But sometimes it is with something at the end of their arm called a gun.  Therefore, guns do kill people.

-Criminals will always be able to get guns. Besides there are many ways to kill people.  I guess we should just ban beer,knives and toasters that can be thrown into bath tubs.
I agree criminals will have ways to get guns.    I also understand that there are many ways to kill a person.  I too played the board game Clue as a child.    But by reducing the availability of weapons maybe we could limit opportunities.

-Teachers should be armed.
I'm sorry, maybe I am completely naive, but I think this is a really bad idea.  Law enforcement professionals and military personnel are trained, well-practiced individuals who will tell you it is still difficult when the shit goes down.  Are we to believe that teachers, trying to wrangle a room of children, are going to disarm someone bent on destruction and chaos like these previous school shooters?  To me it is an unlikely deterrent at best and a tragedy waiting to happen at worst.  Now if you want to talk to me about posting an officer in every school, I'm listening.  I'm not sure how we'll pay for it, but I'm listening.  Someone had the idea of using military veterans as professional security in schools.  Again, I'm listening. 

I like to think our kids don't have to learn their ABCs in bunkers to guarantee their safety, but, as I said, I don't have all the answers.  Tragedies such as Sandy Hook are all too common.  Only through the considerate, reasoned exchange of ideas can we begin to take steps to make them a thing of the past.

Giving Thanks.

To the ridiculous couple that brought their one year-old child to the theater to watch "Skyfall", I say: Thank you.

Thank you for reminding me that the world is still full of selfish assholes.
Thank you for setting up your baby station/refugee camp across four seats in my row.
Thank you for being impervious to my glares.
Thank you for reminding me I have work to do if I plan on winning Idiot Parent of the Year 2012.
Thank you for teaching me restraint.  I limited myself to a simple "Are you for real?" when I really
     wanted to punch your lights out.
Thank you for teaching your child to pipe up during every quiet moment of important conversation
     or dramatic tension.  That is real skill in a one year-old.
Thank you for not realizing that it may be difficult to wrestle a stroller up stadium theater stairs
     because YOU SHOULD NOT BRING A BABY IN A STROLLER TO THE MOVIES.
Thank you for not thinking there was a chance your baby would cry as soon as the lights went down.
Thank you for making even more noise trying to shush the baby than the child was actually making
      on its own.  "Ba ba ba ba ba ba ba ba" is neither quiet, nor soothing.
Thank you for muttering in your native tongue while you loudly rustled through every bag you
     brought.  I don't speak your language, but even I know you can't find the bottle either.
Thank you for making my first child-free date night in a loooong time anything but child-free.
And by "Thank you" I, of course, mean "Screw you."

O-R-I-O-L-E-S!

I have rooted for the Dallas Cowboys since I was a little boy and during the winter I eat, sleep, and breathe Washington Capitals hockey, but the Baltimore Orioles are my first and one true sports love.  The O's have always held a special place in my fan heart, that cartoon bird a constant presence in my fan soul.  The battle with the Brewers in 1982 and the World Series season in 1983 are among my earliest sports memories.  My grandfather was a great baseball fan and thankfully my mother carried on the tradition by introducing me to the joy a baseball season can bring.  I took it from there, acquiring baseball cards (caring little about value, more about picking up O's), ripping open the morning paper to scour box scores and hanging on every word broadcast by Chuck Thompson, and later, Jon Miller.  I have enjoyed many an hour watching games with friends, talking O's with my father-in-law, debating rivalries, analyzing statistics and discussing our Birds with anybody who wants to chat.  Orioles baseball is a link, bonding community and family, connecting past and present.

Sunday night, when the Orioles clinched a playoff berth for the first time in fifteen years, I was covered in goosebumps and flooded with warm memories dating back to childhood: Imitating Eddie Murray's exaggerated leaned-back batting stance, being lucky enough to win a contest to throw out a ceremonial first pitch, Camden Yards $5 center field bleacher seats, firing tennis balls off the front steps pretending to be Brooks and Cal, the '93 All-Star festivities, the 1989 'Why Not ?' season (Bob Melvin!), walking the seemingly unending ramps up to Memorial Stadium's upper deck, Eddie Murray answering our relentless chants of "Eddie-Eddie-Eddie" with a mammoth blast to center field, Wild Bill Hagy, getting an early sneak peek of Camden Yards as a student journalist, skipping class to watch playoff games, The Streak, getting misty-eyed during the final game on 33rd Street, Grace eagerly tracking the Oriole Bird through the stands, the greenest grass you'll ever see, the simple joy of sharing cold beers and batting practice with your best friends...

Of course, there have been plenty of dark times.  Most of the Angelos Era. Tony F-ing Fernandez.  Jeffrey Maier.  0-21 to start 1988.  (For which I feel totally responsible.  I jinxed the team by attending my first Opening Day that year, a 12-0 shellacking at the hands of the Brewers.)  Albert Belle.  Fifteen years of season-submarining, spirit-crushing eight game losing streaks, sometimes in May, sometimes in August, but always present.  Despite all the lean times, true fans have loyally donned the orange and black of our heroes, cheering them even when hope and faith had left the yard.

That is why this season is so awesome.  Years of despair flattened expectations.  Sure, Buck seemed to be building something, but a .500 season was as likely as there being meaningful dialogue in tonight's presidential debate.  As the team kept winning I kept looking skyward for the other shoe.  I was sure every loss was the first in a string of twelve.  As the wins continued to pile up it was difficult to ignore that something special was brewing.  Succeeding despite such an upside down run differential?  Unlikely.  Winning almost every extra inning game and one run decision they played?  Improbable.  Contributions from cast-offs like Nate McClouth, Carlos Quentanilla and Miguel Gonzalez?  Seriously?  Incredibly, yes.  Pitching, power and a sprinkle of Orioles Magic was a recipe for success that hearkened back to the O's powerhouses of my youth. 

I don't know what will happen tonight or Friday or beyond.  In many ways it doesn't matter; the Birds are in the hunt for the pennant.  They are relevant again.  Summer was fun.  September was meaningful.  October (Yes, October) is full of possibility.  This team has given its fans the greatest gift any team can give - restoration of hope and faith.  So, in the words of former Orioles public address announcer, the late Rex Barney, I say to the 2012 Baltimore Orioles, "Thank Yooooouuuuu."