Wasted

You know what really gets me fired up?  When I'm told my vote will be wasted if I cast it for Candidate X or Y.  I am happy to debate, argue, listen intently, and be wooed by your side.  My vote, though, is sacred and it's mine.  Choosing to cast it for a candidate that stands little chance of winning does not mean my vote is wasted.  It means I voted for someone that keeps my conscience clear.  There is no perfect candidate; I understand that.  Yet, voting for the lesser of two evils is no bargain.  Why would I vote "against" Donald Trump to ensure a Clinton victory when I don't like her either?  And vice versa?  So, let's debate all you like, if you'll stow that garbage about me wasting my vote.  I'll do with it what I please.

If you are on the fence, though, wondering which of the "lesser" to vote for, have I got a deal for you!  I'm ready to make this race to the bottom a three-way. (Ewww, sorry, that was a poor choice of phrase.  Like the stuff of nightmares.)   If the lesser of two evils is okay, why not make it the lesser of three?  It's like the old joke about two buddies being chased by a bear.  You don't have to be faster than the bear, only faster than your friend.  I may not be the World's Greatest Candidate, but I can make the case that I'm better than the Big Two. 

Let me make my case.  Let me tempt your taste buds.  What turns people off about Clinton and Trump?

Clinton's Email Scandal: Email leak?  No such worries here.  I barely know how to log on to my computer.  Is CompuServe still a thing? 

Trump's Temperament: That guy pops off more than Fat Albert's belt after Thanksgiving dinner.  I, on the other hand, keep it together seeing the worst of humanity while working retail.  I deal with homeless masturbators, messy magazine browsers,  If It Doesn't Scan It Must Be Free Lady, and Venti Iced Half Caf Soy CocoMoco Three Pumps of Raspberry No Whip Guy without stabbing someone in the eye. (Brief side note:  I have had Republicans tell me that the media is driving the narrative that Trump is a thin-skinned hothead.  No sale.  I have eyes and ears.  I have read his Twitter feed and watched his speeches.  I know a bully when I see and hear one.  I don't need the "news" to color my opinion.)

Hillary's Trustworthiness: You want trust?  Have you seen the photo at the top of the page?  I can even throw on an Abe Lincoln hat if you'd like.

Trump Doesn't Use Big Words:  I once won a fourth grade spelling bee and I own Word of the Day toilet paper.

They Are Both Hawks: I would suspend the drone program on Day One.

Trump Says Awful Things About Women:  I love women and I support Girl Power.  Although, I admit I am not a woman, so Hillary might have me there.

Dubious "Contributions" To The Clinton Foundation:  The only time I have dealt with foreign donors was when I answered that email from that nice prince in Namibia asking for help getting his fortune into the country. 

Trump Is Small-minded:  I have a huge head! See, opposites.

Trump Wants To Build A Wall: Relax, I have never built anything in my life.

Both Clintons Are Phonies: Could I BE anymore sincere? *wink*

Trump's Lost His Ass In Atlantic City: I once walked through his casino without losing a dime.

Clinton's Pant Suits And Trump's Hair(?):  Three words: My Red Pants

You see, America, I may be the best of the worst.  I'd like to think I'm more, what with my previously laid out  Peanut Butter Pocket Initiative and solid platform, but if it's the top of the bottom of the barrel you seek, I can be that guy, too.  As I said above, your vote is your sacred bond to our shared history.  Do with it what you like.  No matter what you choose it is not "wasted."  I would never tell you what to do with it, but I think you know the right thing to do if you want to get this country moving #EverForward. 

#Hailey4America  #Hailey2016  #FollowTheNose 

 

Girl Power

Recently, after watching a bunch of Comic-Con movie trailers, my wife, Amanda, confided she might be turning into a nerd. This news was backed up by her watching the Rogue One behind-the-scenes-look/trailer dozens of times the previous week.  Amanda has always tolerated my love of Star Wars, and to a lesser extent comic movies, watching the movies with casual attention.  I couldn't put my finger on why she suddenly had a lot more interest.  Trust me, the Justice League trailer didn't look that good.  Then it dawned on me: look what a few strong female lead characters can do.  Wonder Woman, Rey in The Force Awakens, and Jyn Erso all did, or look like they will, kick butt on the big screen.  These are characters my wife and seven-year-old daughter, Grace, can identify with as they blast across the galaxy.  I admit, this wasn't even something I thought about until we watched The Force Awakens.  A hero is a hero, no matter their gender, right?  It was only after watching Grace watch Rey that I realized a little something was missing.  Sure, she had loved Princess Leia in the Original Trilogy, but this was different.  This was the main female character, driving the story, engaging in tons of action, all while dressed in burlap rags.  (That last part is not insignificant, by the way.  Look at how other female supers heroines, such as Lara Croft and Black Widow, or even Leia in the gold bikini, are portrayed on the big screen.  Yes, they too demonstrate strength and courage, but if you don't think they are costumed and filmed in ways to enhance their "assets", then you are not paying attention.)  Rey was a strong female character that Grace could grow up with.  Not that Grace "needs" to have female movie characters as role models; she has some fantastic ones in real life.  I have tons of bad ass women in my life-Amanda, my mom, my boss, to name just a few- that Grace can aspire to be like.  Not to mention incredible historical figures, such as Amelia Earhart, that we have introduced.  But we all know as kids we pretended to be what we saw on television or the movie screen.  On the playground, I portrayed all my heroes, real and fictional.  From Han Solo to Eddie Murray to Indiana Jones, my imagination spun wild creating scenarios.  It's how our minds blossom.  So, yes, Grace, has real heroines to emulate, but I am happy that she also has some awesome fictional ones that capture her imagination.

Alas, as with any sea change, come the haters.  I remember reading internet comments after The Force Awakens debuted lamenting that, suuuuure, Disney just had to shoehorn a female lead in the movie to drive sales by bringing more girls to the theater.  Seriously?  These kinds of statements were laughable on two fronts.  One, of course, Disney tried to increase ticket sales by including a strong female lead.  Yes, Star Wars has always had many female fans, however, if you could grow that number, why wouldn't you?  Disney is in the business of making money, after all.  Two, and more glaringly obvious, is the crazy notion that a female be the focus of an action movie.  God forbid we tarnish our favorite space opera with a girl!  Thanks Disney, now we might all get cooties.  And just because you wanted to get more girls to come to the theater.  Because it couldn't possibly be because you had an interesting story to tell about a woman.  Especially one that is not simply a scantily-clad sidekick or damsel in distress. 

Again, I will admit, I was a little dense in thinking about this issue.  Even after The Force Awakens, I didn't really appreciate the level of outrage directed at women characters corrupting the domain of men.  Until a little remake called Ghostbusters sent the internet supernova.  A handful of the thousands of comments you could sort through if you'd like: 

"Lazy Hollywood film making "let's make a ghostbusters remake but with women!" Only soccer moms and feminist bimbos will watch that trash."

"Mark my words, the Ghostbusters reboot will be both pandering to feminazi's and completely unfunny to anyone not already a Michael Bay fan."

"F&*k you and your C#%tbusters."

"Wasn't it sexist to cast women for roles that had traditionally been held by men? We already know who the Ghostbusters are, and they are 4 men. Taking male roles and casting women in them is like casing Nicolas Cage to play Malcolm X."

Now look, count me in to the group that didn't really think a new Ghostbusters needed to be made.    Generally, long-awaited sequels and reboots, especially of a beloved movie such as Ghostbusters, are awful (I'm looking at you Blues Brothers 2000), or, at the very least, lend little to the original.  There are dozens of examples.  Mining old characters, providing suspect fan service, besmirching cultural touchstones, often in a cash grab, are usually reasons enough to skip the reboots.  I would have fine with never seeing a new Ghostbusters.  An annual (if not more often) viewing of the original sufficed.  For me, questioning a sequel has zero to do with the female cast.  The comments like the ones above are vile.  Why is it so awful to have females?  That's right, it isn't.  I may not have thought a remake was necessary, but I was fine with Lady Ghostbusters.  Once the project was official I knew I would watch it.  It's Ghostbusters, after all.  If nothing else, I would watch it so I could come here and tell you how awful it was. 

But it's NOT awful.  It's not super, either.  After watching it, from an entertainment standpoint, I could take it or leave it. Some of the jokes are hilarious, some fall flat.  I would not feel like I was missing out had it not been made.  But from a Dad view, I am damn glad I took Grace to see it.  She is a fan of the original film and enjoyed the reboot.  Enjoyed it enough that she wants to be a Ghostbuster for Halloween. Enough that she wants to have a Ghostbusters themed birthday party. (Both of which excite me and sent me scrambling for ideas.)  She never wanted these things after watching the original.  Yes, my seven-year-old identified with the all-female cast.  She rushed to show Grandma the cool way Kate McKinnon's Holtzman blasted the ghosts with her re-invented proton pack.  She wants the action figures.  She asked me if I could, for her costume, spray paint her hair black so she could be Patty (Leslie Jones) for Halloween.  (Incidentally, I don't even think it crossed Grace's mind that Leslie Jones is black and that she is not.  Kind of a proud papa moment, there.)  She is a fan.  And that's all I care about.  Whether it's Patty, Holtzman, or Rey (or even Chewbacca or Darth Vader, for all I care), I'm glad Amanda and Grace have characters to spark their imagination and enjoy.  Gosh, it's almost like a woman can do anything, even be President of the United States.*

*Just not this current nominee, please.

B Smart, America.

This week's Republican National Convention has reminded me that watching political conventions on television is a bit like having dinner at McDonald's.  You know you shouldn't, but everything looks just appealing enough to dive in.  Then, an hour later, after a few crummy speeches, the horsemeat IED detonates in your lower intestine forcing you to spend the rest of the evening nursing your tummy ache of regret.  At the Clown Show in Cleveland this week, we have heard much more about stopping Hillary Clinton than we have about why we should elect Donald Trump.  Some speakers barely uttered his name.  When the Dems get Silly in Philly next week it will be more about how to dump Trump than the electability of Hillary Clinton.   This is what we are left with?  Two parties distracting us from their flawed candidates by demonizing the other?

America, I believe the phrase you are looking for is "Viable Alternative."  Sick of voting for the lesser of two evils, we seek another option.  But who?  Bernie's been beaten.   The roster of Republicans was Shock and Awful.   Gary Johnson is kinda boring.  Jed Bartlett is a fictional character.  (I know, it makes me sad, too.)  I don't want to say I told you so, but I think it's time you get cozy with the truth.  There is but one man for the job.   He is thinner (barely) than Taft!  He is more paranoid than Nixon!  He can leap nothing in a single bound!  It's a bird, it's a plane, it's ME!  Search for your feelings, Luke America, you know it to be true.  I'm your guy.  I tried to tell you to force a brokered convention in Cleveland.  Now we have to do it the hard way. 

If I criticize the current candidates for bashing others more than promoting themselves, then I guess I should lay out my platform.  With a limited campaign budget, there will be no grandiose, bloated, arena-filling, televised convention.  We'll probably just push together a few tables in the side room of the local Denny's.  Until then you can read my platform planks. (Not including the plank the two-party system is currently forcing America to walk.  Dad jokes!)   I have previously told you here, here, and here a few reasons why I am this nation's next best chance.  But I am not simply about peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and foxy red pants.  Here are a few more reasons:

*Love who you love.  Marry who you want to marry.  If you don't want to issue a marriage license to a couple of dudes, then you don't get to work for that part of the government.  See you stocking my grocer's freezer, Kim Davis.

*Three words: Surgeon General Pikachu.  That dude (dudette?) has done more for child fitness than anyone in the last forty years.

*Feel free to own a bazooka, but you can only buy it after passing a stricter (or any) background check.  There's no reason you can't wait a couple weeks for ownership of your arsenal. 

*There will be an official National Sandwich.  I'm currently thinking cheesesteak, but am accepting suggestions.

*Smoke all the weed you'd like.  In your own home.  And don't drive under the influence.  Pot is not for me, but if you want to sit in your underwear all day burning tree and gobbling Doritos, what do I care?

*Goodbye church tax breaks.

*Goodbye Pittsburgh Penguins.

*We're gonna shelve this drone program.  We can not continue to indiscriminately drop bombs on innocent people.  I read an interesting article questioning whether Turkey would be justified in sending a drone over Pennsylvania to kill the cleric they say fomented the recent coup attempt.  Think about it, that is not much different than what we do.

*Dr Teeth and The Electric Mayhem will be my house band for all press conferences and televised addresses from the Oval Office.

(There's more, but the future First Lady and I need to put the kid to bed.  Tweet me more potential platform planks @Hailey4America.  Use #EverForward)

In conclusion, we have each candidate telling us why the other is bad instead of selling themselves.  Why?  Because they both stink.  So, rather than holding YOUR nose in the voting booth this November, follow THE Nose.  Write in The Big B.  Write in me, Bryan Hailey.  How could you possibly regret it?

#Hailey4America #EverForward #FollowTheNose

Not Yet a Yogi, But Plenty of Boo Boos

For the last two years, meditation has been one of my tools to combat my anxiety disorder.  It helps me relax, get out of my head when I need to, and prepares my body to better respond when anxiety hits.  Recently, I decided yoga was the next logical progression in getting healthier in mind, body, and spirit.  I have toyed with the idea for years, encouraged by many friends to give it a go.  Figuring it was time to shed the extra of My Two Dad(bod)s, I finally got off my ample duff and dove into some beginner videos. 

So far, the yoga is fun, productive, and completely kicking my ass.  I had no illusions that it would be easy.  After all I'm about as flexible as a brick.   After my first session, I laid on the floor feeling that rewarding, "good" tired feeling which comes with expending effort.  The same tired I would feel after an afternoon of pick-up basketball.  The next morning, however, I felt like I had been in a street brawl. I'm using muscles that likely haven't been activated since I last played ice hockey a decade ago.  Little muscles that the next day say, "Hey, f%&ker, remember me?"  Little muscles that I should have been nicer to all these years.  Little muscles that were so neglected they nearly put me in traction last year simply for loading the dishwasher.  My elbow hurt for days.  My lower back laughed at me.  My surgically repaired knee barked its displeasure.  But by sticking with it, I am slowly whipping them all into line.  Of course, making progress is not the same as getting easier.  I still don't look great in my skin tight yoga pants.  (Let that image settle in.  You're welcome.  Do I really wear yoga tights?  Wouldn't you like to know.)  When the teacher instructs me to tuck my chin, I still have ask which one.  Many of the poses still present great challenges.  Humorous challenges.  I-could-probably-sell-tickets challenges.  Grace watches me practice with much amusement.  I laugh at myself trying some of this stuff.  It's like playing a demented game of Hokey Pokey.  Put your whole self in, put your whole self out, put your whole self in, trying not to quake or pout...

My favorite moment, so far, occurred while I was home alone, fortunately.  I was attempting a tree pose for the first time.  A tree pose includes balancing on one leg while tucking the bottom of the opposite foot against the thigh of the first leg, then stretching your arms skyward.  My first attempt went swell.  Much better than I anticipated.  Then I switched legs.  I lost my balance as I reached for the sky, but didn't want to bail on the pose, thinking that I could pull it together.  Instead I ended up hopping across the living room on one foot, like some sort of ill flamingo, nearly crashing into the couch and end table.  That, kids, is why you start practicing in the privacy of your own home.  I can only imagine the squeals of laughter had my girls been home.

As my practice deepens, my fitness improves, and my mind calms, I hope to shake loose a little enlightenment.  I could use it. I question everything right now.  I talk to my friends who have similar questions.  Are we good role models for our kids?  Are we saving enough money?  What the hell is happening in the world?  Do I have a job or a career?  Does that even matter?  When did Guns n' Roses become Classic Rock?  Call it our Gen-Xistential Crisis. 

For decades (holy shit!), I have wondered what I want to be when I grow up.  I always thought it would one day pop into my head.  I ponder. I ruminate on it.  I pray about it.  I talk to people.  I know dazzling entrepreneurs and people who knew what they wanted to be early on and went after it.  And I know a host of us stuck in neutral, convinced we were put here to do something different/better/more productive, but unable to pinpoint it.  Now, we wonder if we are trapped between the safety of our day jobs and the risk of taking the leap if we ever figure out where to jump.  We wonder if we are wasting our time and talents working for faceless corporations, municipalities, even families that give a hoot about little more than the bottom line.  As resources are stretched thin, we are asked to trust the system, to do more with less.  Lack of support and common sense from CEOs and superintendents tilts the scales towards ejecting and finding something new.  I'm convinced, were we to band together, we could save the world, or, at the very least,  put together a kick-ass fantasy football league.  Hopefully, when an idea strikes, I will be ready for action.  Until then I head back to the mat to breathe deep, seek inspiration, and play the weirdest game of solo Twister I've ever played.

Endurance Race

There's somethin' wrong with the world today
I don't know what it is
Something's wrong with our eyes

We're seein' things in a different way
And God knows it ain't his
It sure ain't no surprise

Livin' on the edge
Livin' on the edge
Livin' on the edge
Livin' on the edge

There's somethin' wrong with the world today
The light bulb's gettin dim
There's meltdown in the sky

If you can judge a wise man
By the color of his skin
Then mister you're a better man than I

Livin' on the edge
You can't help yourself from fallin'

So, maybe the great philosophers of Aerosmith are not the most esteemed guides we can seek, but these lyrics kept popping in my head this morning.  This song, Livin' on the Edge, was inspired by the  Rodney King riots of 1992.  According to Songfacts.com, the "song talks about how the world is a crazy place, but people remain stuck in their routines and refuse to change."  I graduated high school in 1992.  This time, this era, all the nutty things that have happened in the nearly twenty-five (holy crap!) years since, are my framework for viewing the world.  I read history, I explore the past, but we can only truly understand what we witness, what we live through, what we experience.  And what I see is in the last quarter-century not much has changed in Big Picture America.

O.J., 9/11, perpetual war, mass shootings, the Pulse massacre, the politics of personal destruction, police shootings, the New York Yankees, pseudoscience, internet bullies, decades of voting for the perceived lesser of two evils.  This list is as tragic as it is incomplete.  Today, the news gets worse every time we log on.  New horrific events occur too quickly to comment on the most recent horrific event.  Respect for others has dwindled.  Violence drowns out the voices of reason.  Too often, we see each other as a meme or a statistic.  A data point in an argument we hope to win.  I know young couples who wonder whether bringing a child into the current climate is a wise decision.  We are weary with worry.  We are discouraged  when a new gut punch seems to lurk around every corner. 

So, what do we do?  We could pack it in.  We could shutter our windows, crawl under the covers, and hope for the best.  Or we can absorb each punch, take a knee, catch our collective breath, then stand up to be counted.  For we endure.  And when we endure, America endures.  From dumping tea in Boston Harbor to saving the world in World War II to landing on the Moon, we endure.  Through Rebellion, slavery, Depression, segregation, assassinations, and war, we endure.  America endures.  It has not been easy, and never will be.  We are not yet close to where we want to be.  Our endurance requires constant vigilance.  A vigilance that requires listening to our neighbor, showing compassion, and sometimes quieting our ego.  A vigilance that requires learning how others live, not thinking we know their experience.  Seeking knowledge, wondering, asking questions.  Truly arguing and debating, not shouting the loudest.  I would tell the young couple to raise a family because, though the shadows loom large, there is hope and light.  Enough of us care.  Enough of us were raised right.  Enough of us are compassionate. Enough of us know violence is not the way.  Enough of us are ready to answer this fundamental question- Why do the things that should bring us together too often drive us further apart?

In the song printed above, Steven Tyler laments, "You can't help yourself from fallin'."  Sure we can.  We don't need an orange, poofy-wigged celebri-tycoon-itican telling us to make America great again.  America is great right now.  I see it in my little sphere every day.  I see it in the volunteers growing community gardens, literally providing nourishment to their neighbors.  I see it in those delivering blankets to the homeless on cold winter days.  I see it in social workers who dutifully open the next case file.  And teachers who far exceed their mandate, giving their own time, money, and love.  And someone who stands up to a cyberbullies.  We should celebrate the creators and innovators in our hometowns, in our little piece of the world.  Together, we  can positively influence our own corners of the country. It sounds desperately hopeful and naïve, maybe I'm just a boob behind a keyboard spouting empty rhetoric, but I know by working to change all the little pictures, we can actually change the Big Picture.  I know this because as We endure, so too does America.

The Shit Happens Doctrine

Nearly two weeks after the Pulse nightclub massacre, I still don't know what to write.  I am unsure of exactly what I want to say or how to say it.  This attack stirs so many emotions within.  Probably because it hits three of the big ol' hot topics we like to argue about: Gays, Guns, and God.  As we mourn the forty-nine victims, most of us are seeking places to channel our outrage.  An act so heinous, so awful, sends us searching for understanding.  We want to know why, we want to know how, and we want to know how we stop it from happening again.  We lash out in frustration, looking for someone to hold responsible, looking for an easy solution.  We blame the NRA, homophobes, politicians, preachers, and Muslims.  Everyone has an angle.  Everyone wants his or her brand of justice.  We "like" memes, post links, and yell at the idiots on television.   Of course, there is no simple answer.  Not one we want to hear anyway.

Of the three big "G" issues involved, Gays is by far the easiest for me to reconcile.  I've written about my feelings on homosexuality before.  Love who you love. The real tragedy is that many homosexuals live in great fear every day, not just on mornings after events like Pulse.  Sadly, fearing ridicule and judgement seems on the low end of a spectrum that runs all the way to being afraid of being murdered because you were born differently.  Some want to celebrate America as this beautiful melting pot, but only if they can control the ingredients.

That brings me to Guns.  The big "G" with which I struggle the most.  I don't struggle with my personal feelings about guns; I abhor them.  I think most of our gun violence directly correlates to a fetishist attitude that guns are awesome and necessary.  An attitude that leads to casual behavior and an ambivalence towards the real repercussions guns carry.  Whether a country fella carries because it makes him tough or an inner city gang banger carries so he looks hard, the gun culture is a foolish exercise that is swallowing us up.  To the responsible gun owners who shoot only for hunting and sport, that keep your guns secured when not in use, that don't carry on your hip like some sort of Barney badass, I applaud and thank you.  Unfortunately, we don't hear enough about you.  Frankly, the dipshits who can't be trusted with their guns are becoming far too prominent.  Toddlers pulling unsecured pistols from purses, idiots brandishing weapons in church to de-escalate a dispute (good thinking!), Chicago men killing each other at a staggering rate - it's enough to make you go crazy.  I know, I know, I know-guns don't kill people, people kill people.  Really, though, it's people with guns that kill people.  Introducing a gun into a dispute can send it from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye.  Guns have one function: destroy the target.  That is why I hate them.  Too often the ramifications are only thought of after the trigger has been pulled.  My store stocks thirty-nine gun magazines on the newsstand.  Granted, that's fewer than the knitting/crocheting section, but Granny is unlikely to wield a half-finished scarf as a murder weapon.  The magazines glorify violence and stoke fear.  They make guns seem like the best solution.  When we celebrate guns, they become mainstream.  When guns become mainstream, we become less vigilant with their use.  When guns are normalized, when the destructive power is made casual, guns seem like the best solution.  So, yeah, I'm not a fan personally.

You know what, though?  I don't make the rules.  That is where I struggle with Guns with a capital "G".  My personal wish that guns would not be fetishized, celebrated and carried in grocery stores at some point intersects with my belief in the Second Amendment.  I don't pretend to have all the answers.  I'm not advocating taking guns away from most gun owners.  Just because I don't think you need an armory in your home, doesn't mean you shouldn't be allowed to have one.  However, something has to give.  If I have to jump through bureaucratic hoops to legally drive (operate a potentially dangerous death machine), you can jump through some bureaucratic hoops to purchase a gun (a potentially dangerous death machine).  Let's close the gun show loopholes.  Let's have mandatory background checks and waiting (cooling off) periods.  Let's require safety courses.  Let's strike a balance between restricting criminals/the mentally ill from purchasing guns and upholding the second Amendment rights of law-abiding citizens.  The tired argument that usually follows is that criminals will always find a way to get guns.  True.  Maybe, though, we can limit the criminals that do.  Maybe we can save a life by restricting someone with a history of domestic abuse from purchasing a gun.  Maybe we can use common sense to help.  Maybe, instead of clinging to divisive soundbites and old rhetoric, we can find the middle ground. 

I used my third "G", God, mostly because I like alliteration.  In relation to the Pulse massacre, I mostly mean the holy war between ISIS and the West.  While I am much more likely to die by handgun violence, I am more frightened of ISIS.  Domestic attacks done in their name really are terror inducing.  Terror has come to our shores in a fashion we are not accustomed to.  Our enemy is incredibly difficult to fight because he is incredibly difficult to find.  We have gone from fighting an army "over there" to fighting terrorists trained "over there" to the guy from "here", the guy walking next to you at Disney World, wanting you dead.   No longer is ISIS recruiting American jihadists to come train at their camps before going forth to destroy.  Now, with only an internet connection and a Twitter feed, they recruit American citizens to attack other American citizens.  ISIS seemingly says, "Go kill a bunch of your neighbors.  We don't really care how you do it, whatever works best for you,  just make sure you tag us in the Instagram so we can take credit!"  How in the heck are we supposed to combat that?

I don't have a good answer on what we should do, but I know a few things we shouldn't be doing.  We shouldn't be dropping indiscriminate bombs.  Unless we are willing to turn the desert into a sheet of glass, we are not going stop the ISIS that way.  We shouldn't use attacks like Pulse as cover to close our borders and be bigots towards all Muslims.  We shouldn't consent to unfounded, generalized wire taps, email searches, and other government overreach.  We shouldn't continue to play the World's policeman, alienating in the process.  We have neither the stomach, nor budget for perpetual war.  We can not continue to incite the very hate that fuels our enemies.  

We may be the lone superpower, but in the Middle East, the United States, just a kid at 200 plus years old, is meddling in affairs that have existed far longer.  It has taken me a long time to come to the realization that maybe the world is just the way it is.  Maybe only time can heal.  Maybe slow tectonic shifts beyond our control are the only forces of change.  Whether across the globe, or in our own backyard, we can not fix everything.  Maybe some things are not to be fixed.  Maybe to live in a free(ish) and open society we must realize that sometimes awful things will happen.  Call it the Shit Happens Doctrine.  I know it sounds callous on the surface.  I know it is of little consolation to the victims of the Pulse attack, or San Bernadino, or Oklahoma City.  It would be of no consolation to me were my family involved.  I don't like it one bit.  I simply fear that no amount of restriction, no amount of legislation, no amount of aggression will ever make us "safe" enough. 

There are, however, things we can do outside of government intervention on any of these three Gs.  We can show empathy.  Maybe we make an effort to know our neighbors whether they be white, black, gay, or Muslim.  We can further educate about the dangers of guns.  I will continue to rail against the fetishists, or, as my friend calls them, "ammosexuals", asking them to stop celebrating the gun culture that takes us on a road to nowhere.   We can demand our preachers and imams promote peace instead of division.  We can set aside the politics of fear.  We can maybe, just maybe, invest a little faith in each other.  Perhaps, together, we can highlight the humanity in Humanity.

  

Droning on and on...

I spent part of my Memorial Day taking my daughter, Grace, to War Memorial services honoring local servicemen killed in the line of duty.   Even though most of the ceremony was probably lost on the seven-year-old, I felt it was important to attempt teaching her respect for the sacrifices of men and women who serve.  As I watched our veterans, so many left crooked and bent by time and battle, I thought a great deal about the human toll of war.  Several other recent events- President Obama's trip to Hiroshima, the D-Day anniversary, even the passing of Muhammad Ali- leave me trying to somehow tabulate that cost.  Our war dead pay the steepest possible price; every veteran who once donned a uniform deserves our gratitude.  That is not debatable.  I wonder, however, if we think enough of the ravaging we do on foreign soil.  Specifically, I wonder if we pay enough attention to the Bushbama Drone Strike program.

I say Bushbama because the program initiated by President George W. Bush (approximately 50 strikes) has been seemingly "perfected" by President Barack Obama (approximately 500 strikes and counting).  For the record, I voted for each of these men once.  This isn't a Republican/Democrat beef; my only agenda is regard for civilian lives.  This won't even be an argument about nation building, regime change, meddling, or generally sticking Uncle Sam's nose where it may not belong.  No, this is simply a question of methodology.

When discussing things of global import such as these, I have sometimes been treated like I just don't get it, like I can't understand the magnitude.  If we are talking about women, what currently constitutes a reception in the NFL, or the enduring popularity of Kanye West then I would agree with you, I don't understand.  But I think I grasp this concept okay.  Using unmanned aircraft in place of pilots and ground troops to kill terrorists? Good.  Killing hundreds of civilians in the process?  Bad.   When I hear presidential candidates suggest "carpet bombing" or torturing and killing terrorists' families I pray those statements are more neglectful rhetoric than proposed doctrine.  I ask them, and the defenders of the Bushbama program, what is an acceptable number of civilian casualties?  What is acceptable collateral damage?  Remember, one man's collateral damage is another man's sweet child.  In this nation, so many fight to end abortion, to abolish the death penalty, to preserve life.  Shouldn't we voice equal outrage at the taking of innocent lives abroad? 

When signing the guestbook at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial President Obama wrote, "We have known the agony of war.  Let us now find the courage, together, to spread peace, and pursue a world without nuclear weapons."  I know our drones don't carry nuclear payloads, but President Obama's administration, his military, and his CIA continue to kill innocents alongside terrorists.  Perhaps, in his words, he could "find the courage" to reign in the drone program as currently constructed, because I assure you the collateral civilians below know full well the agony of war.  I suspect the whine of a neighborhood-destroying drone overhead is a perfect recruitment poster for ISIS, fomenting hatred and creating more of the very villains we seek (rightfully so) to destroy.

It is said that sometimes the ends justify the means.  But if the means are immoral, just what ends are we protecting?  What are we fighting to preserve?  America, lone superpower, global titan, should reach out with its giant hand outstretched, not with clenched fist raining indiscriminate fire from the sky. 

Vampire Weekend

It is usually not a good thing when your wife, very early in the morning, calls up to you from the kitchen asking you to, "Please come down here now."  Her tone suggested not alarm, but at least a sense of urgency.  I immediately scrolled through my memory bank for scenes from the night before.  Had I left the lid off the peanut butter?  Forgotten to flush in the guest bathroom?  Uh-oh, maybe it was the cat.

 Let me back up a step here.  Three days prior, on Memorial Day, our eighteen-year-old cat had some health issues.  Like maybe end-of-life health issues.  Vomiting, labored breathing, and lethargy led to a trip to the animal  hospital.*   There she was subjected to diagnostics and treatments more befitting Colonel Steve Austin.  Luckily, the bill came in at (barely) less than six million dollars  and Mama Cat returned home, perhaps not better/faster/stronger, but, to Amanda's and our daughter Grace's great relief, healthier than Monday morning.  Forgive me for thinking of our two cats in terms of $$$$$; I'm just a little jaded by years of eye surgeries, specially formulated senior cat food, and a visit to a kitty orthodontist. (Yes, that's a thing.  No, we did not go all in to get the kitty dentures.)   Our cats feel more like mail order brides - we pay a lot for companionship.  So when I heard Amanda calling from the first floor, I wondered if Mama had suffered an expensive setback.

Fortunately, Mama was okay.  Instead, upon entering the kitchen, I found three animals.  Our two cats and the dead bat they had apparently killed overnight.  Yes, a bat.  Winged demon of the night.  Purveyor of nightmares.  Flying rodent.   In other words, not a guest I want in our breakfast nook.  I guess the vets really were miracle workers.  Two days earlier, this cat could barely breathe on her own, now she is Mama Cat: Vampire Hunter.  I promptly scooped up the rug on which the bat was laid out placing it gently (alright, with a slight thud) in the outside garbage.  I am not squeamish, but I am, as I may have written about a time or two, a giant germophobe.  I panicked a little, wondering exactly what the dark beast hand landed on while in the house.  Did it play around in the fruit bowl?  With no air traffic controller awake to tell him, "Negative Ghostrider, the pattern is full", did he buzz the toaster and drop guano bombs in the bread slots?  With my mind racing, I ignored more important questions.  Amanda brought me back from the brink momentarily, then pushed me right over.  "I'm curious how he got in here," she wondered aloud, "and we need to think about rabies."  RABIES?!?!  Suddenly, I heard nothing but the insistent belch of a submarine dive horn.  Yes, indeed, we should think about rabies.  I don't want rabies.  I don't want our cats to be rabid.  Methinks that would make them more annoying than usual.  Of course, that would be about my luck to have the cat gingerly and expensively nursed back to health only to be felled by rabies days later. 

What's that you say? Shouldn't the cats be fine because they are up to date on their rabies vaccinations?  Not so fast, my friend.  Our cats our indoor cats only.  Assuming there was minimal risk, we gambled figured there was no rush to get their most recent shots.  The vaccinations have lapsed by a bit.  Only a problem when the outdoors comes inside like it did this week.  Genius.
 
To ward off the hypochondria, I set about figuring out what steps we needed to take to make sure our family is safe.  The health department told me we are not in an emergency situation; we can afford to get test results back on the bat before proceeding.  I fished the deceased bat out of the garbage so he could be shipped off to Baltimore for testing.  Then I made the terrible mistake of jumping on the Googles.  I read stories of humans contracting rabies because it is possible that you can be bitten without feeling it.  Seems suspect to me, yet if it's on the internet it must be true.  True enough, anyway, to plant the seeds of hypochondriac hysteria in my brain.   I managed to steer clear of reading about symptoms of rabies in humans, otherwise I would feel all of them within minutes.   The health department informed me we would have test results by today or possibly not until Monday.  If the bat is rabid, we learn the protocol of what happens next.  Thus begins our weekend of waiting.  If you need me, I'll be over here expecting my salivary glands to kick into overdrive, or my face to melt off, or whatever other horrible things I imagine happen as you grow rabid.  In the meantime, please pass the Count Chocula.  

*Holiday rates may apply.

The Enemy Among Us

Friends, we are in danger.  Dark forces assemble at the gates.  The enemy looms above, threatening to overshadow all that is good.  An enemy so sinister it can destroy what is most important to you.  This is a call to arms, a call to prepare yourself.  What foe lurks nearby?  An unchecked Obama making it unsafe to pee in public?  Hardly.  A Trump presidency? Nope.  I told you how to thwart that months ago.  No, it is a simpler menace, more insidious because it hides in plain sight.  A peril both universal and personal: Beware the "tyranny of the everyday grind."  I wish I had coined the phrase; I only heard it on the radio.  It was sort of a throwaway line from the host as he told a story, but it resonated with me.  This is a phrase I love and hate at the same time.  I love it for its sharp descriptiveness and hate it because I have felt the weight of its oppression. 

The "Everyday Grind", sadly, is not the name of my daily televised hip-hop dance program.  (Tell me  you wouldn't watch that!)  No, the Everyday Grind is the trap of the routines and patterns of living we fall into.  The Grind has many faces; it is different for everyone.  Maybe it is banging your head against the wall at a job you hate.  Maybe it is playing chauffeur for overscheduled children.  Maybe taking a spouse for granted.  It is not always something inherently negative that grinds us up.  Perhaps it is a career we enjoy, but to which we dedicate too much time.  Perhaps spending every waking moment with a new love until we feel smothered.  Perhaps the unfulfilled boredom of retirement.  If we are not careful, if we don't pay close enough attention, the monotony slowly builds, piling up until it topples us over and pins us down.  Being mired in the mundane, swept up by repetition, can leave us in poor health physically, mentally, and emotionally.  If you don't think the emotional part is a thing, then this post is for you.  To combat the Grind, to break out of the SAME THING day after day, you must find an outlet.  Go running.  Get shitfaced with old friends.  Crank the knob on your amp and blow away the neighbors with a jam session.  Find some way to turn the page, if only for a few hours.  Find an escape; your health depends on it.

For me, the escape is the beach.  Warmed by the sun and rocked to sleep by the lullaby of breaking waves, my troubles are carried away on a balmy ocean breeze.  What is it about the sea that calls to us?  Is it the unbroken horizon, abundant with possibility, stoking our adventurous spirit?  Is it the healing waters ready to wash us clean?  Is it the delicate balance of powerful beauty and complex mystery, at once life-giving and capable of destruction?  When we head to the coast  we are able to, literally and figuratively, shed our real world constraints.  I race to the ocean seeking renewal.  I never fail to be soothed by the steady, constant rhythm of surf meeting shoreline.

I beg you to find a way to avoid the stale muck of the mundane.  Remember life is to be lived, not endured, not tolerated, not muddled through.  Find your outlet, find a getaway.  And if you can't think of anything, come join me "down the ocean" for some sand, surf and sun.

PG-Parental Guidance Suggested

Internet, I am going to let you in on a secret.  Most of us working in retail management did not aspire to these great heights, it just sort of happens.  But now that I have reached this career pinnacle, my Olympus, if you will, I figure I have earned the right to lob a few Zeus-ian (or is it Gene Simmons-ian) thunderbolts of advice.

You see, retail managers burn out from equal parts customer shenanigans, corporate bunk rolling downhill, and having to babysit smarmy, lazy, know-it-all twentysomething shithams.  It is the last of these I would like to address directly:

           Hi guys.  I don't know what kind of leadership you have been given previously, and, truthfully, I can't promise what type you'll always receive here, but I have a few tips for you.  Dress up for an interview.  Shorts are not appropriate.  Look people in the eye.  Unless you set it up for Minute Maid, you may want to leave your lemonade stand off your resume.  Act like you care, even when you don't.  It takes more than showing up to earn a paycheck.  Speaking of showing up, you may want to do that (on time) every time you are scheduled.  You may (Gasp!) have to sacrifice something fun because you are scheduled to work.  Guess what?  I do it all the time.  Listen, remember, write it down; I am not teaching you how to do something for my health.  I actually expect you to retain and use this information.  Don't bullshit me; I have been lied to by better than you.  Don't tell another manager one thing and tell me the opposite.  Why yes, we are open every day except Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Yes, we do need to staff the store on Christmas Eve.  I also want to see my family, but we CHOSE to work in retail.  Praise is necessary, but don't expect me to hand you a cookie or do a touchdown dance every single time you complete a task that is a minimum expectation of your position.  If you don't know or remember how to do something, ask.  You may think you are saving face, but I assure you that you look twice as stupid trying to fake your way through something and doubling down by lying to me about it.  Don't be so stupid as to doodle, sit down,  ignore customers, text on your phone or steal(!) on camera.  Don't act offended when I correct your behavior.   And, PLEASE, for love of everything holy, please don't tell me how to do my job on your first day. 

I know this post will be dismissed by some as a "Get off my lawn/When I was your age/Kids these days" rant.  To me, it is more a call to action.  Kids unprepared and/or unwilling to work hard are not Bernie Sanders' fault.  They are not this way because "everybody gets a trophy."  That's too easy a narrative to slip into, too broad a brush with which to paint. I will not lay this at the feet of Millennials and Generation Z.  I know plenty of young people that are killing it. Frankly, killing it with passion, direction, and effort that I did not possess at age twenty-three.  I work with some young people who attack even the most mundane of tasks with enthusiasm, hard work, and a smile.  They do what is asked of them and more.  Sadly, in my experience, there is not enough of them.  

No, this is not bashing all young adults; it is a call to action for parents. The problems I described are not endemic to an entire generation; they are born in the home.  Mom and Dad must lay the foundations of responsibility, work ethic, and sense of right and wrong.  Our observant children learn from us their social cues and behavior modification.  Parental Guidance isn't just a label on a movie poster.  Only through our lead, will our children be receptive to criticism and lessons from teachers and coaches.  Parents, I beg you, let your children be disciplined in school, let them be coached on the field, reprimand them at home.  You are doing them a disservice if you don't. 

I hear, almost daily, complaints from parents about the roadblocks thrown in front of their kids by the "system."  Parroting critiques of Common Core and whining about summer reading assignments.  You would think the parents themselves were being asked to turn off Netflix and pick up Hemingway.  I witness incredulous mom after angry dad try to find the shortest books for their child.  God forbid we expect our child to work their way through 300 pages of  Austen or Faulkner.  Hell, we should be encouraging it.  What rankles me more, though, is that I am even speaking to the parent.  Why isn't the sixteen-year-old asking me for help instead of standing nearby rolling his eyes or scrolling through her phone with the bored countenance of a Kardashian?  Little pleases me more at work than when a young child, empowered and encouraged by their parent, asks for help locating a book.  I have to restrain myself from high-fiving that parent.  Such small steps can make a huge difference in preparing a child.  It is not that far a leap from confidently asking me for help as a kid to being able to look me in the eye during a job interview as a college student. 

Mom and Dad, you want your child to be good citizen?  Act like it.       

Dad Plaid

This may come as a shock to you, but I have never been considered stylish.  Mostly because I don't care to be considered stylish, especially by today's standards.  Man buns, skinny jeans, and fedoras?  No thanks, I'll pass.  More power to you if you can pull it off; I'll be over here dressing a little more pedestrian.  It is fair to say my style evolution has not progressed past Cro-magnon.  In elementary school I was the whitest kid to ever rock parachute pants, break laces, muscle shirts to reveal my twig-like arms, and, of course, Jams.  Junior high brought attempted preppy with some tight-rolled jeans thrown in.  High school dress code was acid-washed jeans, high tops, rugby shirts, college sweatshirts, puffy Starter jackets, and whatever semi-profane t-shirts we thought were clever (they weren't) at the time like "Big Johnson's" or "You can't beat the meat at Alan's Deli!"  Oh, early 90's you were so silly.  I skipped Grunge, never owning Doc Martens, baggy jeans, or a wallet chain.  No, I spent college in lacrosse shorts.  Never mind that I never played lacrosse or that the shorts were completely impractical with no pockets.  Since college, it has been a steady diet of long sleeve t-shirts and khakis with some ugly Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts mixed in for "variety."  Not exactly the makings of a GQ photo shoot.

Recently, I looked in my closet and realized I have unconsciously altered my wardrobe a bit.  I have developed a uniform.  I still have Converse and flip-flops, and plenty of khaki shorts.  I also saw an alarming number of plaid shirts.  I'm not complaining, I was just surprised at how many plaid shirts were populating my closet.  Long sleeve, short sleeve, lightweight cotton, heavier flannel, it is a rainbow smorgasbord of Dad Plaid.  Dad Plaid- the mid-sized sedan of men's attire.  Like a white picket fence you can take with you wherever you go.  Dad Plaid- timeless, efficient, dad-like.  Timeless?  Heck yeah.  Dads throughout history have sported the plaid, linking fathers across generations.  Efficient? You bet.  It allows dad to be comfortable, colorful, and boring simultaneously.  And, yes, a plaid shirt is dad-like in its versatility.  Tuck it in for instant Business Casual.  Untuck for Casual Casual.  Perfect for a picnic. (Sometimes you even match the tablecloth!)  It is lightweight enough to throw on at the beach.  Your plaid shirt is dressy enough for dinner somewhere nicer than Taco Bell, but is not formal or stuffy.  Its handy single front pocket is great for stashing a pen at the office or protecting whatever random piece of jewelry your daughter asks you to hold while she twirls/flips/barrel rolls across the playground.  Untucked, it hides (I hope) the flaws of my dad bod better than a clingy golf shirt.  Although, that is a lot to ask of a shirt.  There is only so much masking you can do when you are a man of larger carriage.  Plaid is, indeed, rad.

A closet full of Dad Plaid indicates you have settled into that sweet middle ground of somewhat giving a shit.  Your fraternity days are long passed.  You have places to be where you can't show up looking like a total slob.  Dance recitals, preschool graduations, homeowners association meetings.  But if you want to spend your day off binging on hot wings and ESPN 30 for 30 documentaries, well your plaid is quite the comfortable choice of garment.  Just pop an extra button and settle in.  Yes, a closet full of plaid shirts indicates I have landed where I want to be: a gentleman of leisure, a suburban stalwart, a DAD.

Indiana Votes and the End of the Republic!

Indiana Votes and the End of the Republic! No, unfortunately, this is not a Harrison Ford adventure movie; this truth is stranger than fiction.  Today's Indiana primary will likely lock up the Republican nomination for Donald Trump.  It doesn't have to be this way, America.  If we can prolong the contest until the convention, we can shake things up, getting your dream candidate. Ted Cruz? Heaven's no, he's more dangerous than Sarah Palin at a geography bee.  No, not Trump or Cruz.  It's me; I'm the man for the job.  I've previously told you why I am better than the current front runner.  Now allow me to explain why I am a better candidate than Mr. Cruz.  I suppose fireside chats are obsolete, so cozy up to your phone or laptop for the modern day equivalent.  Learn why I, Bryan Hailey, will move America #EverForward.

How do I differ from Senator Cruz?  Let me count the ways.  First, to my knowledge, I've never been referred to as "Lucifer in the flesh".  Fortunately for the world at large, most people, my self included, refrain from mentioning my flesh at all.  I don't even show off this doughy dad bod at the beach. You're welcome.  Secondly, I have yet to demonstrate enough hubris to select a running mate before being nominated.  Who does this guy think he is?  Maybe he has read The Secret one too many times.  Wishing hard that you are the nominee does not make you the nominee.  You have to be patient like me, attempting to steal the nomination at the convention.  Duh. (However, I will break a little news.  Currently on my VP short list: Peter Dinklage, Spud Webb, and Kevin Hart. Dad jokes!)  Thirdly, unless you are my seven-year-old, I have not lectured you in a pretentious, condescending, speaking-slow-so-you-can-keep-up manner.  Fourthly, have you ever seen Senator Cruz in red pants?  Look at the picture up there; they are magnificent!

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I am not a fear-mongering, hate-fomenting scare tactician trying to drum up votes on the backs of people already bullied enough.  This transgender bathroom nonsense has to stop.  People choosing to use the public restroom assigned to the gender they identify with pose no more harm (probably less) to our children than a non-transgender person.  I have given this matter much consideration.  I have debated it with smart people.  I don't know what these smart people can't see about the situation.  The people I have debated are not bigots. Perhaps they are scared of what they don't know or understand?  I simply don't get it. 

My favorite part of this argument and these proposed laws is that many of the proponents, sponsors, and supporters of these bills identify as small government champions.  It is hypocritical on their part to propose unnecessary laws.  Laws which will be enforced how?  Oh, oh, I know!  We can expand government further by creating a Potty Police Force to perform cup checks in every public restroom nationwide.  Give me a break.

Of course, the biggest outcry from supporters is,"What about the children?!?!"  Yes, the world is a scary place.  We venture out into this frightening place every day and face much bigger obstacles than what may trans-pire (See what I did there?) in a public restroom.  Here's a few things about the fear Cruz and his ilk try to drum up. My daughter uses public restrooms A LOT.  In fact, Grace has never met one she didn't "need" to use.  I am frightened of public restrooms because they are fetid bastions of germs and piss-covered toilet seats.  I also think about who could be lurking inside.  I send my daughter into the ladies' room knowing full well someone in there could be shooting up, could be a homeless person setting up camp, could be a lesbian "allowed" to be in there waiting to prey upon a girl or another woman, or could be a lady filling a stink bucket with a nose-wrinkling load.  And, you know what?  There could even be a dude hanging out in there waiting to pounce.  Because if a dude has already made the deal with his moral code that he is going to rape or molest, do we really think he will be deterred by a symbol on a bathroom door?  I ease my fears by teaching my daughter to be aware of her surroundings.  I tell her to scream her head off if something goes South.  You can believe I will kick in the door of a ladies' room if I heard Grace scream out.

My point is, Grace is in no more danger than normal because a woman born in a man's body shares a bathroom with her.  She has probably already been in restrooms with ladies who were born dudes.  I have probably shared restrooms with dudes who were born ladies.  Why do we care?  Think about how scary the world might be if you were transgender.  Think about how scary life might be if you truly felt you were born in the wrong body.  How scary it might be if at every turn you were ridiculed (or worse) because of it.  If using a certain bathroom gives these folks a slice of peace and comfort, then I am all for it.  It doesn't harm me (Or you, America!) in the least.  I'd venture to say transgender people know themselves a whole lot better than the rest of us.  Maybe we should invest in a little more introspection.  Or better yet, maybe introduce yourself (preferably not in the restroom) to somebody who is "different" than you.  White, black, gay, straight, mentally ill, in a wheel chair, nerd, Republican, Democrat, introvert, Kanye, transgender...we're all "different".  All with more in common than what divides us.  All deserving of dignity and respect.

Now, come on, Empathy, Introspection, Red Pants...are these not the things you seek in a candidate?

#Hailey2016  #EverForward

It Ain't Easy Being Red.

Hi, my name is Bryan and I am a Cap-oholic.  The internet has likely tired of my Washington Capitals jabber, but I can't help myself.  Asking me to stay silent during a playoff showdown with the Pens is akin to expecting an alcoholic to stay sober on Nickel Draft Night.  I'd like to think, despite my Cap-oholism, that I give coherent, objective analysis and opinion.  Read on if you care to find out.

After Game 3, I feel there are, once again, mystical powers at work.  Forces that we can not explain with rationality, common sense, or logic.  There will be no dictating circumstances; we all, players, fans, announcers alike, are just along for the cosmic joyride.  Two specific areas of this series are currently up in the air, beholden only to the whims of the Universe.  One, is how the Capitals respond to the seemingly annual tradition of failing to win a playoff game they dominate.  The second is the impossible task of trying to deduce how the NHL will deal with Kris Letang's dirty hit on Marcus Johansson.

Longtime readers likely assume that on Point One I am feeling as dreary as this morning's downpour.  A safe bet, to be sure, but one they would lose.  Yes, virtually everything that transpired during last night's game would suggest that these are the same old Caps: plucky buggers who simply will not overcome the Hockey Gods that perpetually conspire against them.  Yes, the Caps peppered the latest "hot goalie", Matt Murray, with forty-nine (49!) shots only to come away with a paltry two goals.  Yes, presumed Vezina winner Braden Holtby gave up goals on two of the first three shots he faced, including a tip-in and a deflection off a forward's back.  Yes, our boys in red finally played the full sixty minute game we have been begging them to bring.  Yes, the Caps did everything correct EXCEPT WIN THE GAME.  These are all evidence that this series is another in a string of playoff misfortune that routinely befalls this franchise.  All omens, talisman, or signs that "here we go again."  Fellow fans, I can't blame you if you feel that way.  It makes sense.  Well, nothing about Washington's postseasons ever make sense.  I simply mean I understand why you would feel that way. 

It is also a line of thought of which I have grown tired.  Maybe I'm delusional.  Maybe I'm drunk on Red Rocker Kool-Aid.  Today, I choose to see the good.  To see the sparks of hope from Game 3.  I must admit, it feels weird, like when you drive someone else's car.  You know how, it's just not what you are used to.  I know the Pens, the League, or the Caps themselves could snuff out those sparks of hope quickly tomorrow night.  However, if you look objectively, not through "The Sky Is Falling" lenses, the omens of the tide turning were present.  First, Alex Ovechkin was everywhere last night.  He scored his first goal of the series, which was also his first against the Penguins all season.  He looked like he could have scored a half dozen more. (That would have been nice, eh?)  He was destroying people with huge, clean hits.  He skated, competed like a champion, and LED this team.  Secondly, Justin Williams hopped off the side of a milk carton and into the series.  His first goal was a big one.  If he can continue land on the score sheet for something beyond a penalty, our guys might be okay.  Thirdly,we have a coach that exudes confidence.  For all I  know it is an act, but Barry Trotz looked comfortable in the postgame press conference.  He knows his guys are good.  He knows they face only a one game deficit.  He knows it is a BEST OF SEVEN.   I trust Barry Trotz.  (Though, I do have one small piece of advice for him.  Unlike fans, coaches don't usually believe in superstitions. However, I have noticed, largely through no fault of his own, that the team is now 0-4 in the playoffs with Taylor Chorney in the lineup.  Just sayin...)  Maybe he hasn't yet been swallowed by the Caps Curse, but I will take Trotz's mindset over Bruce Boudreau's red-faced uncertainty any day.  Finally, and this will sound ridiculous on the surface, by losing Game 3, it is now mathematically impossible for the Caps to blow a 3-1 series lead.  Silly, right?  Who wouldn't want to be up 2-1 or 3-1?  Maybe these guys.  This team plays better when desperate.  Playing from ahead, listening to the whispers of playoffs past rarely works for them.  If they can escape Pittsburgh with the series tied 2-2, the Caps will be looking good. 

Winning Game 4 may be a task made easier if Pens defenseman Kris Letang doesn't play.  Whether or not he is suspended is the second great mystery coming out of Game 3.  In the first period he caught Marcus Johansson with a high, late hit to the head.  The shot was as dirty, as unnecessary, as punishable as Brooks Orpik's hit in Game 2.  As of the time I write this, the NHL has not levied a punishment for the hit.  I thought Orpik deserved a one game suspension.  He received three.  Because I think the hits are equitable, I would lobby for Letang to also receive three games.  Unfortunately, several factors lead me to believe the NHL will not drop the hammer on Letang.  One, he is a star player for the Pens.  It shouldn't matter, but it does.  Secondly, even though he has one prior suspension, Letang does not have the same headhunting reputation that Orpik carries.  Finally, from what I have read from hockey writers since the hit, the league's Office of Player Safety factors the extent of the injuries sustained into the equation.  The thinking goes that since Olli Maata has missed time from the Orpik hit, Orpik's suspension may be longer than Letang's because Marcus Johansson was able to stay in the game last night.  Personally, I feel this SHOULD NOT factor into the decision.  If the league truly wants to eradicate these head shots it must punish the act, not  the intent of the checker or the extent of the injury.  We will see how the NHL acts later this afternoon.  My prediction is a one game suspension.   Let's just say I have more faith in my Caps, even with their record of failure, than I do in the often inconsistent Office of Player Safety. 

Maybe Kris Letang will be suspended, maybe he won't.  Maybe the Caps will be swept up in another doomed postseason, maybe they won't.  The signs are there to be read however you'd like to see them.  Today, I look to the positive.  Today, I Rock the Red.  Let's Go Caps!

Supersonic Seven

My daughter, Grace, has always reminded me of the line from A Midsummer Night's Dream, "Though she be but little, she is fierce!" (I see those quizzical looks out there. No, I don't read a lot of Shakespeare.  I probably saw the quote on a t-shirt or bumper sticker.  Just go with it.)  Lately, I have been forced to recognize that, though she is still fierce, Grace is not so little anymore.  I had a sappy dad moment last night at the supermarket, a tiny reminder that Grace is growing up.  I was shopping alone in Giant.  (Well, not alone.  There were approximately a billion people with me in Giant last night, only two of which were cashiers.  I thought I was going to have to recreate the end scene of Crocodile Dundee,  walking on people's shoulders to get to the frozen food aisle.  I had a similar embrace with the Hot Pockets when I finally reached them.) Anyway, I was shopping alone in Giant when I passed a guy pushing a small girl in one of those carts where the child sits in a plastic car mounted to the front of the cart so she can pretend to drive.  I was taken off guard by the tiny wave of sorrow that struck me when I realized Grace has grown too big to pretend drive one of those carts.  (Not that she wouldn't try to squeeze in one.)  As much as I enjoy watching Grace grow, I sometimes miss my little baby girl.

At age seven, Grace has reached the point where she is caught in between stages.  No longer a loony, id-driven toddler, yet not a pre-teen.  As she walks that line, she bobbles back and forth between each side.  She is still genuinely excited to see me and often jumps in my arms when I get home from work, but is embarrassed if I use my thumb to wipe her face before she walks into school.  She likes to sometimes sing silly songs together, yet rolls her eyes if I start jamming to one when she doesn't feel like it.  She often could use a nap, yet rarely takes one.  (Sigh.  Remember naps?  Those glorious times where you could get things done on a weekend, like watching something with colorful language on Netflix.  "Quiet time" isn't quite the same.)  Grace can easily tie her own shoes, but must be asked a thousand times to find them and put them on.  She is perfectly capable of fixing her own lunch, yet whines there is not a "single thing to eat" in the fully-stocked cabinets or refrigerator.  Helping Grace navigate the between stages line is quite a ride.  A ride I assume only gets bumpier as we hit the teen years.  My father-in-law takes great joy in telling me I ain't seen nothin' yet.

I acknowledge growing up is tough for the kids, too.  Just a few years ago they were drawing cheers as mundane acts like walking, talking, and not crapping their pants were seen as major milestones.  As you age, the bar is raised.  I am a tougher audience today.  "Oh, you finished reading Green Eggs and Ham all by yourself?  That's nice.  If you really want to impress me, Sam-I-Am, go grab some Dostoyevsky off the shelf and give that a whirl."

Of course, there is also great upside to Grace growing up.  We haven't watched Frozen in months.  We have hilarious conversations.  I love her curiosity.  We are beginning to share sports fandoms.  It is heart warming to watch her be a good neighbor to her younger friends.  And every once in a while, amidst bedtime arguments and soliloquies about why she should be allowed to wear high heels to the playground, Grace will give Amanda and me a sign that we are doing things right.  Two small, but cool things recently made me proud.  For Christmas, Grace had the idea, completely on her own, to use her leftover birthday money and gift cards to buy gifts for some family friends.  A generous and unselfish act.  Then, earlier this month, Grace was honored at school for raising the most donation money in her school for Jump Rope for Heart.  As she handed Grace her prize in front of the entire school, the vice principal put a live microphone  in Grace's face.  In that split second, I wondered how Grace would react.  Would she turn and walk away?  With the gross, gassy kick she has been on, would she belch the alphabet?  No, she responded with a simple, polite "Thank you."  It was a small thing, but it made me realize that our conversations about manners seem to be sinking in.  

So, even though I sort of long for the seven and a half years that have passed with supersonic speed, I can't help but look forward to the fun ahead.        

On to Round Two

We don't yet know when the series will begin, but that won't stop me from starting the Caps v Pens chatter.  It's never too early, Caps fans.

Fact: I hate the Pittsburgh Penguins.
Opinion: They are Grade A, USDA-certified, notarized, card-carrying douchenozzles.

Fact: The Washington Capitals were the best     team in hockey for the first half of the season.
Opinion: They are no longer the best team in hockey.

Fact: The Pittsburgh Penguins were the best team in hockey during the second half of the season.
Opinion: They still are.

Fact: I am worried about this series.
Opinion: You should be too.

Fact: My friend Eddie has always been, and remains, the sunniest Caps fan I know, always finding hope among springtime doom and gloom.
Opinion: We should applaud his optimism and follow his lead.

Fact: The Penguins will be called for some penalties this series.
Opinion: The Capitals will be called for many more.

Fact: My playoff beard continues to grow.
Opinion: It still resembles a defective Chia Pet.

Fact: My friend Roberto thinks Barry Trotz looks like George "The Animal" Steele's little brother.
Opinion: It would be awesome if, during Game 1, Trotz took a huge bite of the turnbuckle-like  pad at the end of the bench.

Fact: This series will garner much national coverage.
Opinion: I hope on the national broadcasts we get more Kenny Albert and less of the more celebrated Doc Emrick.

Fact: We fans will cheer like crazy and adhere to all our nutty superstitions despite the fact neither will have any bearing on the outcome of the games.
Opinion: We must never stop Rocking the Red.

Fact: In five games against the Penguins this season, Alex Ovechkin had zero points.
Opinion: In this series, The Great 8 will elevate his game in an epic battle with Sidney Crosby.

Fact: I was convinced that today I would be writing about fretting over a Game 7.
Opinion: In about two weeks, I will be writing about fretting over a Game 7.

Fact: There will be much teeth-gnashing, nail-biting, curse-pondering, hockey gods-begging watching the games through our fingers over the next couple weeks.
Opinion: We would not have it any other way.

Fact: The Caps CAN beat the Pens and win the series.
Opinion: The Caps WILL beat the Pens and win the series.

Fact: I've been wrong before...

Puck You, Flyers.

Well, I suppose it is time to climb up on my high horse.  I wasn't going to weigh in on the ugliness in Philadelphia Monday night, but the comments of Flyers General Manager Ron Hextall have called me to action.  Before I get to his comments, a little history lesson is in order.  I was raised on the battles of the old Patrick Division.  The first NHL game I attended in person was Caps vs Pens, but my true Patrick Division baptism occurred soon after when the Flyers came calling to the Capital Centre.  That afternoon was educational.  Barely in the arena, walking down to our seats, I heard a fan profanely informing Flyer goalie Ron Hextall about the sexual abilities of Mr Hextall's sister.  The game itself was a penalty filled bloodbath.   Dirty hits were leveled, blood shed, teeth dislodged.  The main event, a twelve player brawl, included one goalie beating another, required blood be scraped from the ice before play could resume.  The box score read like a career criminal's rap sheet.  That game served as a portal to my hockey fandom and to a not-yet-relinquished hatred of the Philadelphia Flyers.  Plenty of other Caps/Flyers moments that stoked the hatred followed: a game with more fights in the stands than on the ice,  Hextall wielding his goalie stick in a menacing, dangerous way,  handmade "Flyers Suck" t-shirts, Eric Lindros, Overtime Elimination in 2008, watching a car full of Flyers fans nearly intentionally hit a female Caps fan with their car.  So I have seen, and participated in, the ugliness of the rivalry, including moments I am not proud of personally.  I know of what I speak.

Fast forward to this current series.  Most Caps fans expected the Flyers, if they were being outclassed on the ice, to resort to the time honored tradition of "If you can't beat 'em, beat 'em."  After two close losses, it appeared the Flyers were desperate in Game 3.  Ryan White, chief complainer about no-calls, wrecked Brooks Orpik on a questionable hit.  Once the game was out of hand on the scoreboard, the Flyers did what they do best: devolve the game into a scene from Slapshot. 

It's as if every Flyer squad is playing the ghost of their ancestors, the Broad Street Bullies.  Those Flyer championship teams of the 1970's were skilled and barbaric. They also played a style that has long since gone out of favor. The current Flyers make a cowardly, clumsy attempt to honor this timeworn tradition.  After Pierre-Edouard Bellemare's plainly dirty hit pasted Dmitry Orlov, two other Flyer players started beating on Capitals without provocation.  As I said earlier, I loved the brawls of the early '90s as long as there were willing, evenly matched combatants. It was the cowardice of the hit on Orlov that got me going.

What kept me going, pushing me to write, were the comments Wednesday from Ron Hextall.  You can find the full comments here. Hextall said after watching the hit fifty times, he believes the blame lies with Orlov for not protecting himself.  I am glad better hockey observers than I, like former players including Jeremy Roenick , have blasted Bellemare for the cheap shot.  I know Hextall is protecting his guy, lobbying for a reduced sentence, but to defend Bellemare at such length is disturbing.  Bellemare may not have intended to hurt Orlov. His reckless action, though, could have been catastrophic.  Players need to respect each other. If you see a guy's numbers, you can not ram him into the boards.  Hextall's garbage defense of the play proves he is the thug we always called him during his playing days.  And the one game suspension levied on Bellemare by the NHL?  A total joke.  If Tom Wilson were guilty of the same infraction the NHL would have ordered him tied to a car bumper and dragged down the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Finally, the fact that the Flyers goons were out at that stage of the game further cements that they had far more intention of being disruptive than making a comeback.

With Ron Hextall sanctioning thuggish behavior on the ice, is it any wonder that Flyer fans take license to act like assholes in the seats?  As I said earlier, I have done and said regrettable things in the hockey bleachers.  Except for a hat trick-celebrating hat toss, I have never thrown anything on the ice.  Monday night, bracelets designed to celebrate the life of Flyers founder Ed Snider were tossed on the ice by the dozens.  At least one Caps player was hit and the game was halted for cleanup.  Nevermind that someone, fan or player, could have been hurt, this is just childish stupidity of the highest order.  Boo like crazy, but keep your hands (and your bracelets) to yourselves.   If this were an episode of Law & Order, you would hear a bunch of fancy talk from Flyers fans, lawyerly  misdirection about the Caps getting too many power plays and benefit of the doubt. Since this isn't Law & Order, what you hear is Flyers fans using their usual grunts and booger flicks to communicate how poorly their players have been treated. (To be fair, I know several Flyers fans who happen to be classy, erudite citizens of the world; I'm surprised they have not been asked to turn in their orange replica sweaters.)   Philly fans, notorius for booing Santa, throwing battery filled snow balls, and cheering Michael Irvin as he laid motionless on the Veteran's Stadium turf with a possible broken neck, have long been a scourge on the sports world. Forever classy.   I am all about making an arena a "hostile" environment, but it should not be literal.

Where does that leave us for Game 4? Likely more Broad Street shenanigans.  Hopefully, the Caps remain poised.  As much as I would like to believe otherwise, this series isn't over yet.  Philly won a series after being down 0-3 just six years ago.  I have witnessed the Caps choke away more commanding leads than I care to remember.  The Caps would be wise to keep their heads, stay focused and finish this thing tonight.  Then maybe they can quote Grand Moff Tarkin by saying, " The last remnants of the Old Republic  Broad Street Bullies have been swept away."

Good Cap, Bad Cap:A Brief Hockey Noir

Setting: A small, dank interrogation room illuminated only by a single bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling.  Below the bulb sets a stark metal table covered  with neat piles of papers, maybe financial reports, and assorted memorabilia: bobbleheads,  t-shirts, a silver trophy marked President's something or another.  On one side of the table sits Washington Capitals owner Teddy L wearing a Winter  Classic sweater and a satisfied grin.  I, Detective A. Capsfan, sit across the table from Big Ted, cloaked in skepticism and a lack of sentimentality that I wear comfortably, like a favorite pair of shoes.  To my left is my partner, Detective Red Rocker.  I'd rather be out investigating a dame with great gams, but we all gotta play the hand we're dealt.

"Thanks for coming downtown, Mr. L" says Red. "Can I get ya anything, maybe some Kool-aid to drink?"

There goes Red, always trying to make nice.

"No, I'm fine, thanks.  I just want to answer your questions," says Ted.

"Really, it's just one question, Ted" says Red, "how would characterize this season for your hockey club?"

"Oh man, where to begin?   So many great things happened this year.  Let's see, we sold out every game; we've got the best fans in the league.  Braden Holtby has a real shot at winning the Vezina Trophy.  TJ Oshie scored a career high in goals."

I detect the slightest taunting nod from the Oshie bobblehead setting on the table.

Ted continues, "Ovi scored his 500th goal, Kuzy made a ton of sick backhand passes from behind the goal.  The list goes on and on."

I wonder if he believes the shit he's shoveling.  I unbutton my cuffs and roll my shirtsleeves to the elbow.  It's getting a little warm in here.

"We, uh, set a franchise record for wins in a season," says Ted.

Listen to this guy, telling us what he thinks we want to hear.  I feel the familiar eye twitch, an old friend I first met after the Easter Epic back in '87.

Red says, "Ted, I think I'm gonna step out and get you that Kool-aid."

Ted's nervous eyes follow Red out the door then lock on me.

"You were saying, Ted?"

"Yeah, I was just going to say that, you know, Coach Trotz has a strong chance to be Coach of the Year.  We earned this here President's Trophy.  All in all, I think the 2015-2016 season has been a wonderful success."

That's it, I've heard enough.  I am out of my seat in a flash, sweeping the table clean with an angry swipe.  The contents of the table fly across the room, little TJ tumbling to the floor, head bobbling all the way.  " Wrong answer," I hear myself roar.

"You just don't get it do you, Ted?  None of you losers over at Kettler do.  All that stuff you just listed is window dressing.  It's all sizzle. I'm ready for big bite of Lord Stanley steak, dammit.  All that great stuff, the records, the awards, they don't mean a thing if you ain't got that ring, Ted.  Don't you see? The people want to love you.  This town is starved for a winner.  If you guys brought a Cup home, you would be kings.  The parade would make an Inauguration look like a little church picnic.  (I know that is an exaggeration, but I 'm on a roll.) Instead, since you guys can't get your crap together in April and May, Bryce Harper is getting a key to the city for swatting a few home runs."

Ted looks like he wants to say something.  Before he can open his mouth, I press on.

"Every damn year I sit here watching you blow sunshine up Red's ass, getting his hopes up.  Sweet talk about Hart Trophies and high seeds.  Drivel about multimedia empires and Winter Classics victories.  Yet every spring ends the same: me choking down the anger as you guys choke away another series lead.  You always run into a hot goalie.  Or lack veteran leadership.  A hundred other reasons for falling short.  Now, you are out of excuses, Ted.  You tell me you were the best team all season. You tell me you have the best goalie.  You added Mr. Game Seven, Justin Williams.  This is this team's best chance to win, but I'll believe it when I see it.  The previous 82 games don't mean squat.  I've been down this road too many times.  All I care about is 16 more wins.  Show me, Ted.  Prove me wrong.  Show me."

I realize I am pacing, fists clenched, sweat dripping from my red face.  Why the hell do I even care so much?

After a few quiet moments, Ted speaks in a low, defiant voice, "Do you think you might secretly want us to fail so you can keep on being miserable?"

That stings.  If only because there might be the tiniest kernel of fact buried in there.  It's not that I want the Caps to lose when it counts, it's just that I know no other way.  It's been so long, the misery feels right.  The truth is I don't know how I would feel if the Caps hoisted the Cup, but I would sure like to find out.

The door swings open.  Red walks in, completely unsurprised by the scene before him in the tiny room.  He places the cup of Kool-aid on the table for Ted.  A Kool-aid that I am desperately thirsty to drink.  But I know better.  I adjust my tie, straighten my sleeves, and button my cuffs as I head for the door.

"Show me, Ted. Show me."