Does He Know This?

Trust me, we've told Isaac his cast is no longer there. And it's not that I think he doesn't believe us, or that maybe we're out of touch parents; maybe it's his first act of rebellion. Call it Adorable Anarchy then.

The Chewbacca Defense

It's called the Chewbacca Defense. It's not Socratic in any way. But then again how brilliant was Socrates: He drank the hemlock in the end. Anyway, it accurately sums up the inanity that is college football and the BCS:

Ladies and gentlemen in this supposed BCS controversy, the BCS would certainly like you to believe LSU deserves a BCS Championship appearance and Missouri, Oklahoma, USC, and Hawaii do not. And they make a good case. Heck, I almost felt pity myself! But, ladies and gentlemen of this supposed jury, I have one final thing I want you to consider. Ladies and gentlemen, look at Chewbacca. Chewbacca is a Wookiee from the planet Kashyyyk. But Chewbacca lives on the planet Endor. Now think about it; that does not make sense!

Why would a Wookiee, an eight-foot tall Wookiee, want to live on Endor, with a bunch of two-foot tall Ewoks? That does not make sense! But more important, you have to ask yourself: What does this have to do with the BCS? Nothing.

Ladies and gentlemen, it has nothing to do with the BCS! It does not make sense! Look at me. I'm trying to explain the BCS, and I'm talkin' about Chewbacca! Does that make sense? Ladies and gentlemen, I am not making any sense! None of this makes sense!

And so you have to remember, when you're in that BCS rankings post deliberatin' and conjugatin' the Emancipation Proclamation, does it make sense? No! Ladies and gentlemen of this supposed masses that want their team in the National Championship game, it does not make sense! If Chewbacca lives on Endor, you must allow Missouri, Oklahoma, Hawaii and USC a BCS Championship slot!

The defense rests.

Three Of A Kind

The expression is that it always happens in threes. That, especially, people die in threes. Over the past week, this has been the case in the sports realm with the Blue Jays pitcher Kennedy, Sean Taylor and the first black All-American Bill Wilts. Working in news, I much more prone to mark these stories and see the correlation -- though, I think it may be merely coincidence. Sure it doesn't always happen, but it does more than you think and probably doesn't more than you think too.

But what about people being born in threes. I've got this inkling that November 29th was a favored day in heaven. On this date, C.S. Lewis, Louisa May Alcott and Madeline L'Engle were birthed. That's a lot of genius to be giving out at once, even for God. And a lot of genius in the imagination of children's literature too. It's like it wasn't given out all at once. All of them, most known for the work as a children's author with the ability to transcend the genre to appeal across generations at once.

It was like literature won the lottery that day. Or that there was an overstock, one-day sale on genius. Maybe it's Christmas on November 29th in Heaven. Or would they have Christmas?

Either way, today's greatness happens in threes.

UPDATE:

NOVEMBER 30TH: BIRTHDAYS OF MARK TWAIN AND JONATHAN SWIFT (GULLIVER'S TRAVELS). SERIOUSLY... MAYBE I'M THE ONLY ONE FASCINATED BY THIS.

UPDATE:

PROBABLY.

The Paradox Of Winning

Much has been said about the current success of Boston sports teams over the past month. In fact, Sunday marked the last time a Boston sports team (not counting the woeful B's) had lost in the past month(Cleveland beat Boston on Oct. 16th). This time it was the Celtics. Who barely lost. In a game I watched on NBA TV because I have it. Yes. I'm that special. I actually prefer the Celtics over the Patriots. For that reason I missed the first two Pats scores against the Bills.

And what I did watch of the Patriots game was nothing short of masterful. It wasn't that the Bills looked bad. The Patriots looked so good to make a team they were playing not look bad and instead make themselves look even better. The Mrs keeps asking how I can watch the Pats game with the scores so out-of-hand. Because it's beautiful. I've never seen such precision and execution on the football field. It's like watching Beckett work in a playoff game. The opposing batters just don't have a shot because he is that good. The Patriots are just that good.

I likened it yesterday morning to an old SportsCenter commercial.


We are the Holyfield of the NFL.

But it's a long season. So let's not get ahead of ourselves.

As per the punditry that revolves around these landslide victories, it's nice to be the villian. To be the hated team. And it's nice to know and realize this is the case only because we are winning so easily. We are not overpaying players. The organization does things the right way. Forget SpyGate. We're 10 weeks removed from that. It's over. Move beyond it. The only reason we are hated as a team is because the Patriots win and win so very very well.

I love paradoxes.

This may or may not be one.

A Day For The Birds

So let's get today straight. The Homerun king gets indicted on perjury charges. Indicted. Not convicted. Indicted. And the media goes ape over this. Did I mention he's a baseball player? Well, he is. Meanwhile, a president gets convicted of perjury and it's supposed to be no big deal?

Then there's the whopping $270+ million contract the Yankees are paying someone to not help them win a World Series.
Then, the writers are on strike because the same companies that sue online outlets for $1 billion, i.e. YouTube, for posting and making money off of their online content tell the same writers that they have no way of knowing how much money online content is worth.

The governor of Ohio (and fellow Asbury alum and soon-to-be-Clinton-VP-running-mate) thinks we should do away with the electoral college system and just have a popular vote. In his defense, the electoral college system is no way to elect a prom king or queen. To think that history classes should have as much say as the cheerleaders, the nerve.

Then there's also this guy. Fascinating medical story. But some things you can't un-see.

To quote Tracy Morgan from tonight's 30 Rock that accurately sums up this day: "Stop eating old french fries pigeon. Have some self-respect. Don't you know you can fly?"

A Good Man Found On The Edge Of Town

I stumbled across a very interesting association between my favorite fiction writer and my favorite musician. It's a connection I never supposed or suspected, so you can expect my surprise when I discovered that Bruce Springsteen has been heavily influenced by Flannery O'Connor.

I did some more digging, finding that he was most influenced shortly before the Nebraska album. Which, if you know the album, figures. The final line of title track borrows right from O'Connor, "Sir, I guess there's just meanness in the world." He even penned a song for the epic Tracks album in 1998 called "A Good Man is Hard to Find" and captured the essence of the story fantastically.

Springsteen says it's her characters that intrigue them the most. How they are broken, shattered, imperfect and ultimately redemptive. Listening to that album, Tom Joad and Devils and Dust, you see the same dirty and dusty and grotesque characters searching for their "own piece of the cross."

That the connection was obvious was not what floored me. What got me was the roots of the connection itself. The Mrs, not much of a Springsteen fan aside from The Rising and a couple of live tracks, was also surprised to learn of the connection. And, as always, she summed it up adeptly: "You shouldn't be surprised. It just shows you're consistent in what you like." I love O'Connor's work for the exact same reasons I love Springsteen's work: Rich imagery compounded by the actual facts of the world and an attempt to redeem a little piece of it.

Suffice to say I've gone back through the albums I have and listened to them again. Unfortunately, I don't have the entire Nebraska or Joad albums, but the tracks I have make me feel like I'm in Andalusia, sitting next to O'Connor, with Springsteen spewing out throaty melodies on an old guitar. Give Springsteen credit, he's not just a political mouthed musician who plays in a cool band with a cool name and had a few hits. He's a brilliant writer. And that he was affected by O'Connor and not merely effected rises up in his body of work.

Meanwhile, reading O'Connor and listening to Springsteen at once is not possible. It's like being in the exact same place at the exact same time and trying to do something entirely different.

Because Of That One Dentist

It's been brought to my attention that they've stopped selling Mentadent at Giant Eagle. Seeing as how that's where the Mrs shops, seems I'm out of luck. I've used the brand for more than a decade. I despise other brands. It's one of the things I dread about traveling: having to use different toothpastes.

See I'm awfully sensitive about teeth in that I cringe and convulse in conversations about cavities, wisdom teeth, tooth pain. Most notably, I can't even listen to another person brush their teeth. Not my wife. Not my college roommates. Not on T.V. Not in the movies (remember the scene from Stranger Than Fiction? I almost had to leave the theater). Do not expect to have a conversation with my whilst brushing. In fact, expect me to leave and find a place where I can cover my ears and not have to hear you brushing your teeth.

So now I don't have the toothpaste I've used for the past 12 years? Crisis.

And let's just leave it at that.

It's That Time Of Year

It's November. The time when I historically come down with something. Last year it was pneumonia and a trip to the hospital. This year, a wonderful GI bug given to me by my loving son. That's right, Isaac has been sick for the past few days -- his first illness. And as he came out of the woods yesterday -- i.e. no fever and a cessation of the vomiting -- the Mrs and I decided to stroll through the woods ourselves -- i.e we got sick. Isaac, much to the chagrin of the Mrs, was given the nickname Poopy McPoopsalot. Yesterday, in the vein of too much information, he became Poopy McPoopsalot Jr. And by a lot, just to clarify, I mean a lot.

A friend recently emailed me wondering why I hadn't shared anything about the Pats and the Celtics run over the weekend. Truth is, because of what happened over the weekend and then this week, I've done gone completely sapped. Like a Vermont Maple Tree sapped.

Anyway, the energy is slowly returning. So expect more posts here in the coming days. Especially on the Celtics. Man, they look good. Unfortunately, as much a Celtics fan as I am, there's been no real desire to make an effort to watch them on T.V. over the past few years. The quality of basketball was just plain horrible. So I stuck to the box scores, blogs and articles on them. All this to justify my now writing more about them. I also had to use a more formal argument to explain to the Mrs. why basketball ranks above football on my list of favorite sports to watch. Evidence #1: My DVDs of the Basketball Jesus and The Celtics history complete with about 10 full games I own. NOTE: This are the only DVDs I even own.

So yes, I'm excited about the Celtics. Very. Very. Excited. And the Pats are good too. Their next four games will be on TV here in the capital city... so that's good.

The Misadventures Of Isaac

So I was prepared for this, one of the inevitabilities of having a boy. Only I wasn't ready for it to happen so early. But on Saturday, Isaac broke his leg. It happened while I was walking down the stairs. I tripped and fell, landing hard on the steps. I was holding Isaac and I didn't drop him, the only visible injury we could discern was a bump on the head from where we banged into the wall and the emotional injury of scaring the bejesus out of him: I yelled, the Mrs. came running in with a yelp of her own. He was consoled and slept for a couple of hours afterwards.

But later in the afternoon, I noticed, while he was pulling himself to stand, he was doing it awkwardly - favoring the left side and screaming like he was in pain. So we went to the Children's Hospital in town where they told us Isaac had a broken leg.

He's doing well, already adapting to the large blue cast on his left leg. He's figured out how to crawl as normal and has even taken to pulling himself back up to a standing position -- which isn't permissible given the injury. And all accounts point to him making a full recovery with no long term effects.

Kids are amazing. How they adapt, how they learn so very quickly.

The Red Sox Bear Us Away To Winter

It's over. 162 games. The Postseason. The World Series. It has ended gloriously for us Red Sox fans. Our second World Series in 4 years. An absolute and unequivocal drubbing of the Rockies to win the World Series. And two mornings removed, the smile not yet wiped away from my face, it still remains over.

I watched the game. Every pitch. Every hit. Every inane comment from McCarver and Buck. It wasn't riveting, it was affirming. I knew we had a good team, a great team. Young and talented in some corners, experienced and unrelenting in others. Scrappy and emotional in the field, quiet and graceful at the plate. Never have I been so impressed with my Red Sox. Sure 2004 was outstanding, a beyond-words-cornucopia of glory and emotion. But 2007 was stunning. A knock you to your knees awe-inspiring season. There were rough moments, but you expect those with anything that takes perseverance. There were few come-from-behind wins this year, more content to take the lead and never surrender it games. I can honestly say there were never any doubts. When you see a team this good, this powerful and dominating, they leave little room for doubts.

Since 2004, the ominous and foreboding feeling has gone. I read that 2004 was an exorcism, 2007 was an exercise in domination. I tend to agree. This was a very good baseball team. And almost as exciting, this will be a very good baseball team next year.

I watched us emerge victorious in Game 4 in the same manner and means I watched us win Game 7 of the ALCS. Isaac was awakened and seated in my lap, my legs crossed underneath me, his draped over them. His stiff little back holding his alert head upright braced against my chest. Faced forward, eyes open, both of us watching the Red Sox win. I told the Mrs. last night I swear he knew something was going on. Occasionally he would look up at me, bright blue eyes reflecting the green fields of my childhood imaginations of World Series victories. Those eyes would stare into mine, then turn to the T.V. for a moment, before meeting my eyes again. He may have been saying nothing, just taking note of the two animate things in the living room at midnight. But in my mind he understood. Not what was going on, only that something was going on. So we watched. Cheered. Called family. And we, together, father and son, won the World Series.

For the 2007 season I watched the games. Never sure what was happening in the larger sense, only that something was happening. This was a good baseball team and a lot of fun to watch. Now that we've won, I'm still not sure I can put winning the World Series into words. Twice in a lifetime!", that was the headline on ESPN yesterday featuring an animated, wide-eyed, wearied and enthralled Papelbon. That's about right. Twice in my lifetime the Red Sox have won the World Series. The Red Sox have won the World Series twice. Never gets old, always bears repeating.

For all the celebration, the quiet moments of joy with my son seated in my lap, I am sad this morning. Baseball, my pastime, my favorite sport, is over for the winter. It will be a short winter though. And a warm one, images of Papelbons and Pedrioas dancing in my head. Of Manny's and Papi's and Jacoby's bringing smiles to my face. But baseball is over for another year.

But it was a year in which the Red Sox have won the World Series. And that's only happened twice in my lifetime.

The Modern Prometheus

If you're familiar with the stuff of myth, the stuff of fantastic stories and tales, perhaps you'd be acquainted with the ancients conception of how fire was brought to man. Prometheus concealed the conflagration in his cloak, thieved from the heavens, and bestowed it to man. Interesting to note in this story that fire was the stuff of heaven. That it is not man's, not originally present on earth to the Greeks. I mean, there are no stories of a man named Chuck thieving water in the folds of his shirt, or Larry holding air in his wallet as he crept out of heaven. It's fire that's the stuff of heaven. God made the bush burn, not rain, when he chose to speak to Moses. Fire is the stuff of heaven.

So there are the 2007 Red Sox. A team that stands on the doorstep of Olympus today. The sights are beautiful. Fire burns from every building. Several people roam the streets consumed by it. Others toss it back and forth on the streets of Olympus. The Red Sox must now get in, steal it (free Tacos for all too!) and bring it to us fans. It is no small task. It has been no small feat for them to get to even the doorstep. Climbing the mountain this season, they have emerged a victor. A modern Prometheus. I'm sure there was a reason mankind elected Prometheus and not a man named Bobo to commit holy larceny. The Red Sox are Prometheus. The Rockies are clearly Bobo.

Yes, I'm aware of the parallels in this idea. That the Rockies play on a mountain. But mostly I am intent on expressing to you, that on this crisp October morning that the idea of a World Series win resembling the bringing of fire to man is most apt. It is. Seriously. Cold October. Warm fire. I'm not stretching anything here. I'm not...

Tonight, We Steal the Fire of the gods.

We Win The World Series.

I Despise The Rain King

Not the song. I actually like the song. I was hoping it would play in my head as background to the novel Henderson The Rain King by Saul Bellow. Instead, I've been unable to drown out the metaphorical noises of my banging my head against the wall. I'm doing it, however, to the tune of The Rain King, so that's something.

Ever been caught in a book you can't get out of? One you have to finish only because it's required by some person or class? This is where I'm at. I love reading. Love to open a book, sit down, shut-up and read. I dream about reading at work. Looking forward to going home, when everything is over for the day, and beginning a new book, finishing one I've started or re-reading that last chapter because something struck my fancy. But not this book. Not this horrible, horrible book.

It won the Nobel Prize for Literature at some point in the 60s or 70s (I don't even care about when it did; I don't care about being factually correct about this terrible book). I can see why, given context of the social and literary situations of that era. It's a book about discovery; about finding oneself. But the lead character is a misanthrope; an unlovable Falstaff. One who is subject to haughty prose about nothing really, no fluid thoughts or developments of ideas, just ramblings that occasionally make sense, but not so much sense that you remember it after you close the book.

It's taken me two weeks (of course, it's the playoffs and I rarely get much done anyway) to finally see the end. Of course, the end is more like a desert oasis because in no way am I finished with this book when I finish it. Then I must write a paper, and explore the deeper significances of this terrible, meaningless work. One that takes itself much to seriously, much to important. There's humor in it, meaning in it, but it's ultimately humorless and without meaning. And that sentence is indicative of every sentence in the book.

Sorry for the rant. It's just that "When I think of heaven (Deliver me in a black-winged bird) I think of flying down into a sea of pens and feathers". None of which could ever be used to write this book.

On Standing

We stand for different reasons. To keep from sitting to long. The Pledge of Allegiance. A bride walking down the aisle. But for Isaac on Monday, he stood because he figured out he could. I could describe that moment, the first moment he stood for something. Albeit that something was merely because he realized he can.

It was an out-of-the-blue occurrence. Just days before he had started grabbing for things above him. Balancing on three of his four extremities. But on Monday, he made the bold move of, while doing the three-fourths balancing act, to lift his other hand onto the shelf of the entertainment center. I think at that moment, my son developed a dare-devil spirit. Not content with that accomplishment, he strove for something more. Strove to stand for something. It took a minute or so, one that involved him rocking back and forth, hands perched on the shelf, knees under him, during which time he laughed mischievously aloud. And this caught our attention. What was he planning?

Then I saw his leg scoop underneath him and the sole of his foot go flush with the floor. I turned and whispered to the Mrs. , pointing out the development. I mouthed, "Get the camera" and she ran into the other room. Thankfully, he didn't make any move until she got back. And before she could turn it on, he arose. Feet square with the ground, shoulder width apart.

It's the first of his firsts. Sure he was crolling (which has now become a crawl after Monday's events). Sure he ate his first meal, rolled over, slept through the night. But Monday was the first real moment the Mrs. and I realized our son was growing up. Almost too fast. Isaac was standing. Thinking about that moment, the achievement it was for him, one he did without our involvement, did solely on his own, speaks more to how fast he's growing up and how he's developing. In every other first we've been prominently involved. But here we were just bystanders (pardon the pun). Witness to his own will and desire and manifest destiny. And it's a moment and feeling I won't soon forget.

Our son, standing up.

And here's the video version.

Chaos Theory: Winning The Pennant

I have this talent of being able to put myself anywhere. To close my eyes and imagine I'm surrounded by a completely different type of environment. I use it most when I am writing and reading. Trying to get into the pre-WWII England. Going on a safari in the shadows of Mt. Kilimanjaro. In these times I feel certain things about where ever I've gone, smell others, hear still more. And last night, days, weeks and years from now I will remember. Remember exactly where I was and what I was doing.

You see the celebration. You see Coco make the gutsiest catch I've ever seen. You see the Little Man do the big thing. You see moments that stretch across this culture to another. You witness it all from the most historical boundaries in baseball. For some, being at Fenway last night -- or wanting to be at Fenway -- was the greatest of experiences. But not for me.

I sat uncomfortably in my ironic easy chair for much of the game. When the time called for it I sat frozen. Unwilling to upset some balance. Unwilling to be the butterfly that caused the typhoon. Ah, the chaos theory of postseason baseball. But when the moment arrived, I changed seats. Opting for the recliner. And I brought along a companion for the remaining three outs, the final stretch, the light coming around the bend.

With all the lights out, the game at a moderate level, I went and got my son up. Pulling him from his crib, blanket and all, he joined me in the recliner. Quickly he woke up. Quietly too. Like something was happening. Sometimes being awakened disrupts and disturbs him. But not in this case. He sat on my lap, eyes forward and tired, staring at the television. And we sat there, moving only to the floor seconds before the final out. Quietly we watched. Quietly I cheered. Silently I held him and we watched. I told him this doesn't happen much, if ever. I told him one day I'll be able to tell him he saw it happen, even if doesn't recall or remember. I told him, whispered into his ear, his eyes fixed on the television, sitting silently in my arms, I told him the Red Sox were going to the World Series.

And I'm sure it was said louder and crazier in some spots of New England. I'm sure in Boston it was bellowed from rooftops and alleys. I'm sure sitting there at Fenway you couldn't hear anything else. But it wasn't said any better. In our home in the capital of Ohio, in a neighborhood either asleep or stunned, it was said simply. And it was understood.

That's baseball. As simple as it is complex. Enjoyed in screaming masses and understood in the words of a father to a son on a quiet night.

The Red Sox are going to the World Series.

I Think I'll Go To Boston

It's easy to arise on mornings like this. One's where the rain has steadily been falling all night. Where it's moved out, given way to the sun and foretells a glorious weekend of sunshine.

Dane Cook says it best, There is only one October.

And this is an October morning.

On Art

So this is an interesting article. And reading it is almost as big a waste of time as the reason for the article. Finally, one of the world's great mysteries has been solved. But if not for a simple quote near the end of it, reading it would have been a complete waste of time.

"Art is never completed, it is only abandoned."

DaVinci said this. Fascinating idea. And I don't think we're solely talking about painting either. Any kind of art. Music, literature, it all goes un-completed. Ends up like the house on the end of the road with the overgrown shrubbery.

About 6 months ago I ordered a book, Art and Scholasticism. It was a profound influence on some writers I had stumbled across (Ironically it has gone abandoned on my shelf if only because I mistakenly ordered a flimsy bound, large print edition. I'm particular about few things, I like my books to feel a certain way). I think, perhaps soon, I shall pick it up. Possibly there lies an answer to the profundity of the aforementioned quote.

Until that time, I remain challenged by this quote. Can art ever be completed? I suppose in the sense that art is to be interpreted it can never be complete. There will always be a new perspective that can be offered as to the beauty of a particular work of art. But for the artist, must they simply abandon the task? Must they put down the pen, the chisel, the paintbrush and leave? It's been my experience that this is necessary more for the sanity of the artist who tend to go rather Type A on their "masterpieces". But lest we think less of them, consider this: artists (in the broader sense to include writers, musicians and the like) have stumbled into a vast ocean, an uncharted and unmapped region. Pulling from it colors, experiences, rhyme and the details of this magnificent place. Translating and transliterating it to us, the meager peons. And here's where I find this quote so apropos, the artist is just "stretching himself in this world". And it is a vast, nearly infinite world he has just sought to "get his head into". If such is the case, I suppose we cannot expect the artist to complete his work.

But to say it's abandoned. Or must be abandoned. That's a brilliant quote from a brilliant artist.

Residents of Mudville

So that's how I feel today. Like a resident of some imaginary town in a children's poem.

"Upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat"

But with Beckett going tomorrow night...

"A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast"

For when the dust lifts....

Getting You There From Here

For aesthetic reasons I've decided to do some "live" blogging at a new blog I've just created. You can get there from here. This way I don't clog up this site. But also, I really like the name of the new site: Crackerjacks and Peanuts. There are more reasons as well, but you'll have to head over there to read them.

Enjoy tonight's game, I'll begin blogging over there right around the time of the first pitch.

Crackerjacks and Peanuts

Not Peanuts And Crackerjacks

Now we have Midge Masks. Before there were Rally Monkeys, ThunderSticks and Rally Paddles. Now there's Midge Masks? I have respect for Indians fans. Good fans. Love the game. Are extremely passionate in that un-irritable sense. But Midge Masks? I now am no longer in fear of the Indians.

Why must sports franchises do this? Why must they bastardize a game I love? A game I know intimately and as profusely as the expression involving the back of one's hand. It's as bad as putting "Cheer Now" messages on the JumboTron. It was bad when the Red Sox introduced Wally The Wall Monster. Glorious when fans subsequently booed him. No JumboTron message needed then.

Give me peanuts and crackerjacks. Give me the home team in it's final at bat in a close game. Give me the chance to score a run or prevent a runner from scoring. Give me a great pitching performance, a base hit or a run-scoring grounder to short. I'm cheering. You don't need to tell me. Don't need to mask it with some prop. It is what it is. And it's great. If you can't get into that, well, then, baseball is not for you.

But alas it is. So we'll see fans with Midge Masks tonight. But I don't care if they ever come back. Give me a Red Sox win.

NOTE: I'm going to attempt to "live blog" during the game. I'm not sure why though. Seems like it could be fun. So tune in around game time.

EDIT: Semi-related to the post. It's pretty cool. A good Christmas present for Isaac grandparents!

On Being A Dad

So this past week has been especially trying. Thank you for all of the condolences on this blog. My family appreciated it. Much more could be said about my recent trip up to Maine following Grammie's passing. Like the first trip to Grammie's house. The conversations with Grandpa. There's a lot I've still got tied up inside, still knotted and unkempt. But those are tasks and memories and thoughts for myself alone.

What I will share with you involves Isaac. He made the trip with me. Just he and his Dad. Flying up early Wednesday and coming home yesterday. The Mrs. was also able to be there, coming later and leaving a day earlier. So, for a time, it was just Isaac and I.

Normally in these situations Isaac looks to his Mom as his protector and comforter in a strange place with unfamiliar faces. But with her not always there, I fell into this role for the first time. Hearing his cries for me. Having him curl up in my arms when he was tired. Me being the one whom he expected to make him laugh. It's marked a change in our relationship. Not that I'm not fully involved in Isaac's life, but, let's be honest, the Mrs., his Mom, is his lifeblood. The connection between the two of them is amazing to watch. And this week, a very difficult week, Isaac and I shared that connection as strongly as we ever had. I told the Mrs. I felt like a Dad this week for the first time.

This morning, laying in bed, the Mrs. brought Isaac in and placed him between us. He laid there for few moments, before rolling over and curling up next to me, cuddling in my arms. He had never done that before. And it makes life around you easier, in those moments.

On My Grandmother

After a long battle with cancer, my grandmother passed away Sunday. Surrounded by her family. In her home of some 50 years; the one that got bigger every time we visited because Grandpa was always adding on. It got bigger as her family got bigger.

I will remember her for her strawberry rhubarb pie. For how sweet and bitter and warm it always was. It was a good pie.

I will remember her for her eyes. I have Grammie's eyes. Bright and white. Clear and large. I have her eyes. And so does Isaac.

I remember the summers at their camp. A camp some of you have been too. Grammie and Grandpa's Camp, as it has always been called. Of Grandpa making his famous pancakes and Mom and Grammie shucking corn and peas for dinners. Playing cards and going fishing. Sitting by the campfire making smores.

I remember other moments. Lots of them. How they almost missed my wedding, is among the funnier ones. And over the next few days I will share and remember many more that I have forgotten about Grammie.

And then there was that final trip up to see her in June. The one where we took Isaac. There was the time she held him in her arms, sick with cancer, worn and wearied. And he, perfectly at home, perfectly at rest, fell asleep despite the unquietness around. It is an enduring picture in my mind. Her strong arms, her large heart, his little body, his little heart. Rocking silently in the chair by the window overlooking the yard before the house that she lived in.

I see that moment through her eyes sometimes. Because we share the same eyes. And we share the same skin. And I miss my grandmother especially then.

Why I Love October

Alright. I'm going to be the "blogger". I'm going to post immediately. Vowing to not let my thoughts settle.

What a great night of baseball -- thanks in large part to TBS HD finally settling with DISH Network. I'll admit, I had the Indians-Yankees game on over the start of the Red Sox game (though I did have the radio broadcast coming through the computer so as to not be totally in the dark). Give much credit amongst yourselves, readers, to the Indians. That's a good, good ball club. By the way, Yankees, OFF doesn't work on insects other than mosquitoes. And that was a fantastic game.

But Manny steals the show. Gets the game ball. Is the Your-Name-Here-Because-We-Paid-Advertising-Money-To-Have-It-Here Player of the Game. It was an atrocious pitch by K-Rod. Missed location badly. Missed everything, even the ballpark by the time that thing landed.

And that's baseball in October, all apologies to the 'great' Dane Cook here. Every mistake magnified. Every bug. Every pitch. It's all in play. It all means everything. You can't mess up. You can't let up. You can't make it up tomorrow. All you can do is win.

It's late. Pushing 1am. And. It. Is. October.

I Love My Red Sox

October Nights

So I like that idea. The one about Bible-black October nights. About the cold and bound silences of a now early evening darkness. Of the unseen and barely perceptible stirring of a leaf loosed from its moorings. Every noise and silence and motion is different. Nature is preparing for what's coming. For when, it is unsure, but the hatches are being battened down. And a chill sweeps over the land. We are mostly unaware, moved on by the perpetual kinetic energy in our own lives. But October is a cosmic catalyst for a new season. It is the thunderstorm of seasons. The hot summer nights colliding with the cool winter breezes. Some days and nights, the summer wins; it is the winter that emerges victorious. And in the Bible-black cover of night, we feel it most deeply, most religiously.

Now I realize it's a juxtaposition of ideas. A mixing, or, rather, a misuse of metaphor, but October is the perfect month for the baseball playoffs. Of silence and shouts; of loosed screams of joy and, if we're fortunate enough, a Felix Culpa. Every pitch means something different. Every cut fastball, called third strike, ground ball to third, double to right. It's all different. It's all for something that's coming. That's just around the next corner. Victory is sweet. I have tasted it. Felt it cool down my scream-torn throat. Basked in it's warmth, overcome by it's chilling reality: victory.

So listen for that imperceptible sign. That noise or silence that brings it all down in a rush. We will fight sleep and our kinetic lives to sit in quiet on cool couches in warm breezes on these cataclysmic nights. These Bible-black October nights.

May we not go silently into these good nights.

On Starbucks

Let's be clear: I'm not advocating or attempting to justify spending $3.95 for a cup of coffee. I'm really not. I think it's absurd, inane and just plain silly to spend that much. But then again I like doing stupid and silly and absurd things. So this morning, after a late but victorious night, I stopped off for a Venti Caffe Mocha.

Now I know I'm paying way more than I need to. Forget the fact that I've got coffee at home I could've made. Forget the fact that the gas station sells it real cheap or that it's free at work. Forget the fact Tim Horton's Cafe Mocha (only one F for Canandiens) is a buck and a half cheaper (though not as big and lacking a cool, motivating, mind-blowing quote). And I know, especially, above all else, that the coffee isn't really all that good. But I like Starbucks every now and then.

For starters, the service at our local area Starbucks is more than pleasant, more than timely, and tends to lead to conversation with employees. I once spent 10 minutes in the drive-thru at 5:15 in the morning talking about how it's not that bad to have to go into work that early. Secondly, today I got a free music download (Jokerman, Bob Dylan -- already own the CD). And to top it off I got a buy-one-get-one-free coupon too. And every now and then that's a nice thing.

I once read a expose on how Starbucks contributed to the benefits of post-modernism as far as communication goes. I can't quite remember the example and I'm not at home to look it up in the book and offer a summary (but here's the book. It's really quite good and worth the read). But it was a good analogy. Plus, there's the whole free trade issue. And I suppose that's a good thing to support.

But lest you think I'm justifying or disillusioning myself: I spent $3.95 for a cup of coffee that I could have made at home with my coffee maker and some Swiss Miss.

And Here We Go

Had I been a true blogger I would've posted the night the Red Sox clinched their first division title in 12 years. Don't think less of me. I was up, watching the Sox game that night. Then, I flipped over on MLB.tv to watch the end of the Yankee game. Even with 2 outs, the bases loaded and a former Red Sox at the plate, I was hopeful that the Orioles could erase a 3 run deficit. And when they did, I silently screamed so as not to wake the Mrs. or Isaac. With the bases loaded and 1 out and another ex-Sox at the plate in the 10th for the O's, I actually thought of getting Isaac up for this moment. I didn't. It was probably a good thing too, the way I reacted when Mora laid the bunt (BUNT!) down with two outs. That was a fantastic moment.

The Mrs. is out of town for the next couple of days with Isaac. She proffered that I should go golfing today. When I declined the invitation she was shocked. I said I had a paper to write and another book to finish. She replied that she'd be working the next several nights so I would have the evenings, after Isaac was asleep, to myself to get those things done. I still said no. She was shocked and tried to further convince me that I should go golfing this afternoon, that the work I had to get done could wait, saying, "Honestly, you'll have Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday night!" Finally I replied that I didn't have Wednesday night or Friday night.

"Why not?"

"The Red Sox are on."

She smiled and shook her head, not saying anything.

And what can you say? What can you write? How can you capture the anticipation? It's the like the long awaited release of the newest book by your favorite author or your favorite group releasing it's latest CD (Magic releases tomorrow, FYI). And you can't say how it'll turn out because, well, you just can't.

All you can do is curl up with it under a bible-black October night, or close your eyes and just listen.

Here we go.

Humor Me

What is it that makes us laugh? Is there a type of Stephen Hawking, "One principle to 'Rule Them All'" quality to humor? Now I've got quite a broad sense of humor. From the dry, deadpan sarcasm of the Brits, aka The Alan Parsons Project and Monty Python, to the physical comedy of Americans, aka the Three Stooges and Adam Sandler punching out Bob Barker. I like the refined wit and charm of Oscar Wilde while at the same time am all-to-eager to settle for fart and poop noises. Pretty much, the penultimate example of humor for me would be someone walking into a wall while asking: "What's the soup d'jour?"

Recently I was remarking with a co-worker on how surprisingly funny a new show on T.V. was. She responded with a quote from said show that I did not find even remotely funny. Not the first time they used it in the show. Not the second time. And, just as surprising, not even the third time they tried the schtick in the show. It proved to me we all have differing senses of humor.

Apparently, humor is not like beauty. It is much more subjective. Where beauty depends on the beholder at times, there's still un-objectable grandeur in the sunset that no one can really deny. But humor and comedy and making people laugh has not that same quality. What's funny for one is not always funny for another. And certainly there's not the "sunset" of humor.

But if you're in the mood for a laugh...

McSweeney's (particularly the list section)
Monty Python's The Dead Parrot Sketch
Dumb and Dumber Highlights

Because It's Oh So Close

For The Home Team

If you didn't grow up a sports fan, it's tough to understand the mindset, the obsession, the unparalleled devotion one can have towards a certain team. Questions on the efficacy of "rooting" for and espousing a collective "we" attitude towards a team seem inane. Obviously, you didn't hit the homerun or catch the pass or bury the jumper. But there's a misapprehension there. No one ever said we did those things. I don't believe I did those things, literally or figuratively. But my team did, our team did. And understanding the idea of a team is crucial towards this "sports fan" attitude.

I'm a Red Sox fan. We're a whole different psychological study. For 162 days and nights from April to September, I live and breathe the Red Sox. Follow the box scores. Question pitching changes, pitches themselves, the idea behind swinging with a 3-0 count and read countless articles filled with inane drivel about my team. I know a great deal about the Red Sox, and I don't even live in Boston. If I did, it would be much, much worse.

But back to this collective "we" in regards to rooting for the home team. The idea behind a team is a group of players pointed towards a goal of achieving some significant accomplishment within their respective sport. For the Royals, and let's be honest, it's not losing 100 games. For the Red Sox, it's winning the World Series. Where the "we" comes in is that we want the team to reach this goal. We share the same end. So we follow our team, extolling the decisions in the win and letting go vitriols in the loss. In this we become a part of the make-up of the team, in a very small sense, an honorary member. We may not be hitting or catching or scoring, but we're rooting for all of it. And that gives us a stake in it -- a dog in the fight. We devote a proportional amount of time and support -- sometimes too much-- and so we have every right to exclaim "we" won.

There's more to being a part of a team than being physically on the team. If you've ever lived in Boston, or spent a decent amount of time there, it's fascinating to watch how much the city -- for good or for bad-- hinges on the fate of the Sox. It hovers over every conversation, news of the team fills every sports page and radio broadcast. The city is the team and the team is the city. We do, unfortunately, a little more than "root, root, root" -- we obsess. But that's neither here nor there to this discussion.

A few weeks ago Ohio State opened their season against some awful team. I went out to grab a bite to eat near the stadium just around kickoff. There was a palpable excitement. Even in the people bringing groceries to their car, you could see it their eyes. It reminded me of Boston. A lot. Of course, CFB fans are stupid because achieving the ultimate goal never rests fully in their team's performance on the field. But I can at least sympathize and come alongside them in their passion -- however foolishly unfounded it is.

But I digress. Back to my point: Go Red Sox.

Engendering

So today our best friends find out the sex of their baby. As we know, their are only two choices: boy or girl. They wanted a girl, but after witnessing how awesome Isaac is they now want a boy.

It was funny how they told us they were pregnant to begin with. The Mrs. had an inkling. So strong in fact that I got a call at work during which time she explored this hypothesis that turned out to be correct. We found out officially when Eric was up in Columbus. He got his Mrs. on the phone and together they gave us souvenirs from their recent trip to Europe. Before we got through the first gift, his eager Mrs. blurted out: "The other gift we're bringing back from Europe won't come until February."At that point there was a lot of screaming, crying and laughing and I don't remember much else other than being very excited.

Well today marks another point on their journey into parenthood. And a not insignificant one either. They're not convinced of the baby's sex one way or the other, though I secretly think they think it's a boy though because they want a boy they don't want to jinx it so are saying they're not sure either way. But I also know they couldn't be more excited about the monumental stop on this road of parenthood. And neither could we.

One request: if it's a boy, go ahead and name it Aaron. But if it's a girl: do not.

UPDATE: THEY ARE HAVING A BOY. STILL NO WORD ON WHETHER THEY WILL NAME HIM AFTER ME OR NOT. BUT I'M LEANING TOWARDS YES.

10 Years Ago Yesterday

I was reminded of it this morning on a post on this site. Hard to believe. I remember hearing the news over the answering machine about a week after it happened. I was getting back from a weekend retreat and our youth pastor's voice cackled over the speaker, telling us Rich had been killed in a car accident. So much for going out like Elijah I recall thinking.

Some 10 years later, Rich Mullins music still influences me. I spent many nights in my youth sitting, looking out the window, listening to songs about praise rising over prairies. Many nights up at Grammie and Grandpa's camp trying not to sing along as "Creed" bellowed over the headphones. And it was "Hold Me Jesus" that was playing through my headphones as I sat praying outside of the gymnasium in 1998 at Asbury College on a cool February evening, making the decision to attend the school. These days, it's most often Songs that I listen to. Especially, lately, "Boy Like Me/Man Like You" -- for obvious reasons.

I've always liked his music. It's something I always come back to. For all my forays into Ray LaMontagne, Pearl Jam, Dave Matthews Band, Damien Rice, Wilco, it's Rich Mullins that I can't ever seem to turn off. Whether it's the underlying dulcimer, the haunting, poetic, transporting lyrics, or the simple voice echoing a simple faith of a simple man living a simple life who was transfixed by a simple fact: Jesus loved him -- Rich's music is new and fresh and ancient with each listen. Some new experience I attach to a lyric, song, melody, phrase, beat.

That's Rich. That's his music. As best as I can remember it.

What About My Friends?

So it would behoove me to have some better friends. Not that there's anything wrong with my friends. Nothing at all in fact. It's just that they could do a little more for me. So if you're reading this, and you're one of my friends and would like to stay as such, it would do you a world of good to try your hand at the following.

1. Airline Employee. That way I could get away. Free flights; peanuts; exit rows; first class; and all the carry-on's I can muster.

2. Sports Team Employee. Free tickets; inside info; meet and greets.

3. Movie Theater Employee. Free movies; popcorn; private screenings.

4. Gap Employee. 20-50% discounts.

Nope. I have no friends who can give me these things. Though I've got eternity covered; several friends are involved in pastoral offices. Then I'm married to a doctor so I've got my health discounts. But I need to work on having the material things accounted for. I need a little help from my friends.

It's interesting what my friends do. A nice cross-section of talent, gifts and life choices. But of no use to me materially. But then again, friends aren't for that.

Coffeespoons And God: An Allegorical Dialogue

Enter into modern looking coffee shop. Lights are dimmed low. The room, divided by couches and recliners, is scattered with magazines and tables. Obscure, but easy going music plays underneath.

Rick, the hero of the story, gets in the cue (queue) that has formed of well-dressed twenty-somethings.

Rick peruses the menu, spotting the item he wants. Quietly he taps his foot to the music. He glances at his watch, noting how much time has passed. He is a little impatient. Finally, it's his turn.

The clerk/coffee shop worker, in her mid-20s, attired in casual, but official looking garb, greets him. Her name is Susan.

Susan: We're glad you could join us. We're so glad and happy you've decided to come here.

Rick (taken aback, but warmed by the greeting) : Yes. Well. Yes. Good to be here too. Um. Well. I'd like to order...

Susan (interrupting): Before we can give you your coffee, allow me to explain how our drive-thru works.

Rick (quixotically): But I'm not using the drive-thru. I'm here now.

Susan: And we completely recognize this fact. That's why we're going to skip the directions on how to get here. Obviously you're here. But we would like to go over our drive-thru with you.

Rick (slowly): Okay.

Susan: Here's how our drive-thru works. First, you pull up to the section marked "Drive-Thru" in your car. Then you will see several headers regarding our different items on the large and very colorful menu full of cool fonts and pictures. From there, for example, there's the coffee section which, if you choose that, has our different flavors of coffee we're currently offering. Then, there is the tea section -- if you want tea-- we certainly have just as many flavors for tea lovers.

Rick: Look, I really would just like...

Susan: Sir. This is important. After you have perused our different headers on our main menu. You will be able to speak with an attendant who will greet you with their name. They're one of our many workers who are employed here at the coffee shop.

Rick (amusingly): If they don't say hello do I get a free coffee.

Susan (unamused): After they greet you. Then you can place your order by speaking into our state of the art two way intercom system that works much like the speaker phone on your home phone.

Susan: After you have done this you can pull forward in the drive-thru, collect your drink, and pay. It's all quite easy. We've made it as user-friendly as we can. Do you have any questions?

Rick: Can I order my coffee now?

Susan: In a moment. First, do you have any questions about our drive-thru?

Rick: Uh. No. Think I'm okay on that. But I'll be sure to remember these entirely useful and instructive directions as soon as I use the drive-thru again.

Susan: That's wonderful sir. I'm so glad, again, that you're here and I'd be glad to take your order now.

Rick: Large Coffee. Black.

This is an allegory (is it an actual allegory if you have to say it's an allegory?) after a church experience the Mrs, me and a friend had yesterday. Trying a church closer to the house, we attended on good recommendations. In the middle of the atmospheric service, and that's all I'll say about that, we sat through a ten-minute tutorial on how to use their website. In the middle of the service. Ten minutes.

Postgate

Look. I'm just as upset. Just as furious. Extremely embarrassed. Taking it from all sides too, seeing as how I work with a decent number of Bengals and Browns fans. Though the Browns fans are, themselves, too depressed to be as clever as Bengals fans. But then again Bengals fan are too much of Bengals fans to be clever. Anyway, this whole cheating thing as caught me with my proverbial pants down.

But, it's not like I've lost some sort of virginal quality here. We've known for a long time that baseball players cheat. Albeit from steroids or from stealing signs (the Sox have been accused of this numerous times in the past few years), teams will do whatever it takes to get an edge. Doesn't make it right. But sports isn't the Republic or Nicomachean Ethics. It's not a philosophical treaty on morality. Sure. It would be nice if everyone played within the rules. Like, if, say, all-too-talkative Charger players wouldn't take steroids, the world would be a slightly better place. This whole thing is what it is. Players and teams and coaches will cheat. But they'll get caught. At least there's some moral in that. As for asterikin' the titles, c'mon. They're not the first. They won't be the last. And at least they're not taking steroids. Well. At least not all of them.

One question. Why is it that every "scandal" has to have the suffix -gate buttressed on to it. Patriotgate. Spygate. Videogate. Illegal-taping-of-defensive-coaches-hand-signals-from-the-sidelines-even-though-it's-ok-to-do-the-same-thing-from-the-coaches-box-gate. I understand the origins. I'm familiar with Watergate. But really. Some 30+ years removed and we still think we're being clever? It's more annoying than the accusations themselves.

Almostgate.

Ruins And Love

Now with these hands,

With these hands,

With these hands,

I pray Lord

With these hands,

With these hands,

I pray for the strength, Lord

With these hands,

With these hands,

I pray for the faith, Lord

We pray for your love, Lord

We pray for the lost, Lord

We pray for this world, Lord

We pray for the strength, Lord

We pray for the strength, Lord

Come on, rise up

"My City's In Ruins", Bruce Springsteen

Six years later, we still search for words. For strength. For prayer. For God. May we have the strength to never forget. To always remember. To approach comprehension of the sacrifice and unwavering courage of man. To Love. Above all else, may we be searching for strength to love.

You Keep Using That Word

I'm not sure where I came across it, but the word desultory has popped into my head like a bad jingle. I fell asleep last night wondering whether I was being desultory or not. Whether dinner was desultory. Whether the Patriots convincing win was desultory. Whether I did a desultory job de-grouting the bathroom tile.

I jest with you not. I have wanted use this word in just about every sentence I've concocted over the past 20 hours. I have not, for fear that I will keep using the word and it will not mean what I think it means.

Where and when I stumbled across the word, I'm still not sure. Nor am I certain how it has snowballed into wanting to tell everyone how desultory they are being this Monday morning. But for all of that and all of this, I take solace and delight in the irony that I have the perfect word to describe the situation.

I'm Ready! Are You?

The Loneliest Number

So it occurs to me while listening to Three Dog Night's expose on the loneliest of numbers, that one might not, in fact, be the loneliest of numbers. Of course it all determines how one would define loneliness. Is the amount of something directly proportional to the perceived loneliness a person would feel? I'd argue that where there are more people, there is a greater tendency to feel lonely. For instance, in a throng of people that are unknown to an individual -- say on a first day at a new school, or waiting in line at the DMV -- it's easier and more likely to feel loneliness.

And if we go along these lines, in the same way that there is always a number greater than the one you can think of, there is also one number lonelier than the number you can think of. Say 345. Well, 344 is a lonelier number. Of course, the loneliest number in this argument ends up being one so it actually proves the lyrics of the song: One is the loneliest number, worse than two.

All this to say that I don't think quantity determines how alone a person is or may feel, as prefaced by the former of my arguments. Just remember, regardless of quantity -- if you're by yourself or with a lot of others, if you're in the middle of a large crowd and you notice how "alone" and small you are in comparison to all that is around you:

"Man was always small compared to the nearest tree."

G.K. Chesterton

Also remember that Jeremiah was a bullfrog. I'm just not sure what he is now.

September And The Denouement

I've many times alluded to how baseball plays itself out like a good novel. And if you know my love and passion for the Red Sox, you'll note I consider them to play out like a Tolstoy novel. The season runs its course every year, winding through spring showers (sometimes filled with snow) to muggy nights of ball in May and June, to sweltering dog days of July and August. But it always runs its course to September -- the mouth of the entire season (sorry for mixing metaphors).

And here we are. The ninth month named for something in French that means seven has arrived. To continue a literature analogy, this would be the denouement. Only, there's no falling action in baseball. The entire season's been building like musicians tuning their instruments. Now, the symphony begins. The characters and plots and sub-plots and settings will converge and collide. Here is the action. Here is the cusp, the apex, the pinnacle, the paramount for the paramours of baseball.

We sit 7 games up in the East. But we are not at rest. Not idle. Not in our denouement. September is here. But it is not time for fall. It is time for the authors of this fantastic season to write the ending. And we, the viewers, listeners, readers, canoers (going back to the river analogy) are here. Perched on the edges of our seats, at the end of each day, waiting for the action to play out. For Pedroia and Buck, for Schill and Coco, for Beckett and Papi and Paps and Manny all to take us out and up and away from the chilling month. To take us out to a ball game. A September ball game.

Phew. I feel like James Earl Jones.

Bound For Santa Fe

We've gotten a new car. Circumstances as they were on the 12-year old Blazer, (no AC, CD player not working, wipers malfunctioning, an embarrassing, squeaking, cacophony every time the car accelerated, check engine light, broken gas meter, et al) necessity predicated the new vehicle. We shopped around, test drove a few cars, and settled on the 2003 Hyundai Santa Fe. And we got a good deal on it. Low miles. Roomy. Cheap. Good on gas (better than the 17 mpg Blazer anyway).

But in doing this we had to dispense with the Blazer. The car that has served us with dignity these past 5 years, and the Mrs. herself for 5 years beyond that. There were a lot of memories tied up in this vehicle. It was our first car. The one they covered in Styrofoam peanuts as we left for our honeymoon. The car the Mrs. and I first talked about marriage in. Where I first told her I loved her.

I tend to not get attached to things. I'm more of a place person. I remember and still miss all our homes. Long to go back. But tangible objects? Never really gets me. Until last night as we drove away from the dealer, passing the Blazer for the last time. We reminisced on all our experiences in the car. Some good. Some bad. We were both a little moved. That car, we surmised, had been the one constant through our entire marriage. The most reliable thing we owned. No matter where we had lived or worked, all those transient occurrences over the past five years, that car was the constant.

At least this new car has a theme song. One that's rather appropriate for our new family. And seeing how it's the Mrs.' car, appropriate given her crush on Christian Bale.

Ready For Fantasy Football

Had my draft last night. Easily, one of my favorite things to do. I could do a fantasy football draft every day... well maybe that's hyperbole. But I like it a lot. Time to think on your feet; to stick to a game plan; to feel out the other competitors; to trash talk.

Really, there wasn't a lot of the latter last night. If I may speak humbly, I had the best line of the night after Drew Brees was selected very early in the second round: "Look I know it's the anniversary of Katrina, but that pick's ridiculous."

Why, you may ask? Our league is weighted almost against QBs: 50 yds = 1 pt; TD = 3 pts; INT = -1 pt. Meanwhile our league allows one the option of starting a third WR or just a TE. Outside of Gates, there's no TE worth his weight to start over a wideout. Yet, people were still taking TE over WR. RBs and WRs are the most coveted position in this league. Or should've been.

I drew the 2nd pick in the draft in this 12-team league. My strategery was simple: draft 2 RBs, 3 WR in the first 5 rounds; see if there was a good QB left for the 6th; then take a DEF or backup WR and RBs in the 7-10; under no circumstances fall in with the masses and take a K or DEF or QB too early; make sure I get good backups. Well, here's what I got and I'm quite proud, if (there's always an if) Portis stays healthy:

1. Stephen Jackson
2. Clinton Portis (if he's healthy... remember he went Top 5 in most drafts last year)
3. Chad Johnson
4. Andre Johnson
5. Hines Ward
6. Eli Manning (I hate this pick but there were no QBs left; I was eyeing Rivers)
7. Philadelphia
8. DeShaun Foster
9. Donte Stallworth
10. Kevin Jones (great pick if his leg holds up)
11. Rex Grossman
12. Matt Stover
13. Dominic Rhodes
14. Mike Furrey (I know Detriot's got Calvin now, but he was a 1,000+ yd receiver)
15. Leon Washington
16. Brady Quinn (for reasons I will make clear momentarily)

Not a bad draft. It's not like I've got sleepers. I've got a good mix of stars and backups. Foster and Jones could be steals. With Furrey, you just don't know. Stallworth could also be a good pickup. As for Eli -- let's just say I'd never name my kid Eli (though Jen likes the name) because I detest the Mannings so much. But he was the best QB left on the board.

As for Brady Quinn. Well, I do live in Ohio... But more than that, my team name is TomBradyManCrush and I thought I should have a Brady on my team. Plus, he could easily supplant Grossman or Manning before the season is over.

Winner of this league gets a free T-shirt. It's so worth it.

For The US America

By now, you all must have seen this video, such as:

Then there's this edited version of it that's even funnier -- if you recognize the movie:


But now, there's the MapsForUs.org. Dedicated to bringing, such as, maps to US Americans and not to the Iraqs, such as. South Africa.

It's a humorous website. Fascinating maps.

And I think it is going to make this country we live in a better place.

Apocalypto

Finally watched the film last night, after I rented it Saturday night. Excellent film. Not nearly the graphic violence I had thought. Not like Braveheart or The Passion.

Important to understanding this film is the opening quote from Will Durant:

"A great civilization is not conquered from without until it has destroyed itself from within"

When I see this statement, I think of Rome. I think how much the empire had decayed before the Visigoths conquered it. Apocalypto bears much the same commentary. Say what you will about Gibson -- and there is much to be said. He knows how to develop themes and ideas in his movies.

It's difficult to rate the acting and writing because of the language and unfamiliarity I have with the subject matter. It's hard to rate the cinematography because it's what you should expect: good and not getting in the way of the movie. After all, the entire film is shot in the jungle. That leaves the directing and a director's job whose point it is to make the movie clear. And there is a clear theme, a clear direction this movie takes.

And I make no analogy when I say this movie raced through the jungle, chased by its theme, by the above quote, finally coming to the clearing. And kneeling in the sand on a foggy beach we watch the theme come sweeping in towards the shore and we are moved. It is tragic.

Excellent movie. Highly recommended.

On The Changes

As you can see I've made some changes. New colors. New organization. Same format though. Same title. Same explanation. Same web address.

Don't expect me to stray too much, or really at all, from the status quo on my posts. Though I do hope to improve the quality and frequency of them.

In the meantime, riddle me this.

Character's Welcome

I just finished E.M. Forster's "Howard's End" this week. Cover to cover in about two days. Easily a great work of literature. From the themes, plot, prose, issues and characters, it's a thrilling read. And having finished that book and the class that accompanied it, I picked up a 'fun' read at Borders yesterday -- along with a new pair of jeans! (Those I didn't get at Borders, however).

The new book is called "Genius" by Harold Bloom. It's about whom he thinks are the geniuses of literature. By no means a comprehensive list, but an intriguing list nonetheless. I've only gotten through the pater familias of authors: Shakespeare. If, for no other reason, we can consider him the greatest literary genius because of the characters he gave us. From Falstaff to Lear, Rosalind to Juliet, Iago to Claudius, Hamlet to Edmund -- Shakespeare "invented" the human character in literary form. No other before did quite what he did. And we all stand on his shoulders now. Also, of note, another intriguing entry into the creative superpower of his mind, was his ability to churn out comedies and tragedies. And not Jim Carrey level either. Hamlet. As You Like It. Twelfth Night. King Lear. Henry IV. Love's Labour's Lost. Absolutely startling how great he was.

Anyway, these memorable characters got me thinking about Leonard Bast, the cast-off character in Howard's End. I felt it then and feel it these days later. His character was tragic in the most tragic sense. Profound in the most profound. And to think, Forster only turned out one of these greats. Shakespeare had how many?

Characters are fascinating foci of novels. Great novels move along through them, the bad, populist one's disregard them. Same with movies. Same with music. Same with life. It's the characters we cling hard and fast to. It's not the plots, the twists, the tragedies, it's the characters. And I don't suppose I truly ever thought about it like that before.

By the way, among all of Shakespeare's characters, Falstaff is my favorite. In fact, when I took a class on The Bard in college, our professor challenged us to pick themes from the plays we'd read (Love's Labour's Lost, King Lear, Henry IV) and create a presentation. Our group chose Time as our theme. Don't worry, we used that record of Hootie and the Blowfish. But I had the great honor of portraying Falstaff's view of Time in a famous monologue. And to be true to Falstaff, I did the monologue on the toilet a la Ian McKellen and the urinal in Richard III. We got an "A". My professor, admitting my interpretation was correct on Falstaff when pushed, had trouble seeing his most beloved character portrayed as such. What can I say, I'm a character alright.

Dark Nights

Read an interesting article this morning on a forthcoming book about Mother Teresa. The author and point of the book seems to be surprised that such a woman struggled with her faith so deeply. It recounts years of darkness in her spiritual walk. They even get, in the article, a psychologist to explain such a struggle.

That's the thing about faith, and I think the precis of this book gets at it. It's not easy. It's not a one-way ticket to spiritual bliss. "I have faith and all is well!" That's not faith. Not the faith I know. Not the faith I have. It constantly comes under suspicions. Is constantly examined and tried and found wanting. Recedes into dark corners of wariness. Undergoes this "dark night of the soul."

This "revelation" doesn't revolutionize my opinion of her. Doesn't occur a polar shift. I don't go around thinking now that "Wow she really struggled with her faith." Christ struggled with his faith. We are all Jacob's wrestling with God in this world, in our own Peniels. In this time of prosperity gospels and "faith is easy" mentalities, this will be a refreshing examination of proper notions of what it means to have faith.

Many will see it but a commentary on wacko religious belief. Evidence of opiates for masses.

Then I'll have what she's having.

Read: Close Call

The latest book I've gone through: Howard's End. I'm still digesting it. Fantastic novel. But I was disturbed. Because I've had to read it at a furious clip (read: less than two days) to get my paper in reasonably late. In order to accomplish that, I've had to read whenever and wherever I could. As it's not always fashionable or appropriate to pull out a book and start reading, I discovered another option I swore I'd never institute: reading on the computer.

There's a lot to be said for the intangible tangible quality of reading a book. Of holding the words in your hand. Connecting to them physically as you attach yourself to them mentally. There's certainly a transitive property conveyed by the words through holding them in your hands. But as I soon discovered, I was reading more efficiently on the computer. I was distraught.

Until last night. With some 80+ pages to plow through (mind you this is not fun reading per say, this is active reading, having to memorize sections, make notes, leave myself opportunity to effectively write a 30pg paper. In other words, I'm not reading Harry Potter) I was worried. Would I have to use the computer to be assure that I'd get it finished? That I wouldn't fall asleep?

A cup of coffee in hand, I got through it in less than 3 hrs. Not only did I get through it, but I felt like I actually finished it. That I physically and mentally conquered it. I was awake and alive and energized. So much so that I began writing the paper immediately. Reading on a computer screen doesn't give you that important sense of physical accomplishment. I spend a good deal of time on the computer, reading and writing.

But with books, it's different. I can't do to them what I've done to my music.

And for now, I don't have to. Until I procrastinate another paper. Another book.

Ouch Cream

My sister and I have this tradition, one that was broken this weekend. Every time she comes to visit, we go to Graeter's. A local ice cream shoppe that puts chunks of chocolate in their ice cream. Not only that, but they serve the greatest flavor of all-time: Black Raspberry. Many ice cream shoppes don't offer this flavor. While it's not chocolate or strawberry or even Bubble Gum, why it's not on every menu befuddles me. Black Raspberry is that oft-forgotten, yet truly loved, flavor. You remind someone of it and they're inevitably like, "Yeah. Black Raspberry. That IS a good flavor." They are like this, unless, of course, they have no soul.

Black Raspberry is that one-hit wonder. That movie that constantly replays on TV. It's the Shawshank and "(I'm The One) To Be With You" of ice cream. You don't change the channel. You don't change the station. You think, "That IS good." And you have to get it.

But Sarah and I could not get our Black Raspberry. Could not indulge in the sensory delight that is Graeter's Ice Cream. The one shoppe around here was closed. For re-modeling. In the middle of the summer. Seems if I'm going to remodel my ice cream parlor, I'm not doing it at the time when I typically make the most money. That's just asinine. But if she comes for Christmas, we should be good.

No worries though. We had ColdStone. Also quite good. Only they make up for the lack of quality of their ice cream by the fandango way the make it. And there's no Shawshank. No Mr. Big. Just 'Hey Mickey'.

But you know what, that WAS fine.

It Was A Dark

There's this surreal quality about storms. And by storms I mean the teeth-rattling kind. The kind that wake you up in the night. The kind that you can see even with your eyes closed. Last night, Central Ohio was walloped. Isaac slept through it. But the Mrs. and I took a seat on the couch and opened the blinds.

Ever since I was a kid I have been fascinated by storms. By the lightning; the thunder; the danger. My dad and I used to watch them from our porch; in fact my father still gets up and sits either outside or in front of a window to watch them. I am like my father.

The lightning flashed and the thunder roared voraciously. Unrelenting activity. The rain pounded the west end of the house. I enjoyed this expose on evening rain. But I much more enjoyed experiencing it this morning. Blinking in fear when the lightning flashed. Clenched and on-alert for the thunder to follow. Following the rolling thunder across the ceiling. Feeling it when it finally dropped. It was a dark and stormy night.

And there is this surreal quality for those of us who enjoy a good thunderstorm. A raw and passionate glimpse of nature. Electric and loud; wet and windy; bright and clear. A glimpse at her soul. A look at her most dangerous moments. At her rage. At her temper. At her passion. When nature has a character; a personality; an identity. At her suffering in the hope of glory:

For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated...

More On The Little Way

"Surely, this is happiness."

I was reading Remains of The Day. Sitting in the chair. In the background, the Red Sox were playing. Tim Wakefield was pitching. Throwing a gem -- no hitting the Devil Rays -- but throwing a gem. In the recliner, the Mrs. sat holding Isaac. A long day of work put well behind her. Isaac was still awake. Dancing about like that knuckleball. Doing everything to keep from sleeping. To keep from losing time with his mom.

There he was. Bouncing his head around from shoulder to shoulder in silence but with eyes wide open. Reaching often to feel his mothers face. Occasionally cocking his head in my direction. His blue eyes bright enough to pull me from my pages. There remained little in this day. The hours pushing into morning. But there was this moment.

Still dancing silently in her arms, she caved. Sat him on her lap. His eyes glowing. His eyes looking at me. Behind the two of us was our day. Lots of laughter and fun and giggling on the floor. I even read him his own book, "Who Loves Baby?". He wanted a little more. He wanted to laugh. The Mrs. bent over in front of him. But he shifted his head around hers, looking for me. Smiling.

I smiled. Cackled. Made noises. He laughed and laughed and laughed. Wiggling around like a knuckleball in his mothers lap. She watched him. Watched us. Her eyes were tired. But her countenance glowed. She felt the laughter. Felt the smiles. It went on like this for minutes and minutes. Me making him laugh. He eagerly awaiting the chance to laugh, to smile and letting me give him the opportunity.

She held him tight. Rocked him to sleep. Held on to him so tightly. Like she had caught a knuckleball.

"Surely, this is happiness."

We Had A Deal

I fully recognize the man's contribution to American Television. Jeopardy. Wheel of Fortune. But Merv Griffin was the man who gave Seinfield this gem.

Foreign Pick-Up Lines

I'm getting my hair(s) cut today when I hear this rather peculiar accent. It was the woman not cutting my hair. She was working on another gentleman's coif -- a middle-aged man who ran nursing homes out of Washington, D.C. for a living. She spoke eloquently. With a tinge of England and Ireland in her voice, but without the accent's natural rhythm. It was more guttural. More earthy. But not Scottish.

I assumed, in the end she was a stylist from England -- odd enough to find in the Grandview section of Columbus -- at a Great Clips no less. Quickly, I tried to place it. It didn't feel like an English brogue. Having worked with quite a few Brits, Celts, Scots and Kiwi's I tried to place her words on nursing homes into the mouths of those I had worked with. No luck.

Then the gentleman asked her where she was from. The answer to my inaudible inquiry at last! South Africa. Of course! I knew it was familiar. I knew it could be placed. South Africa!

In 2000 I spent 10+ weeks there on a mission trip with church. It was remarkable and amazing and trying and an unforgettable experience (except, obviously, for the accents). I remember little of the language however. Though I'm sure this woman before me spoke Afrikaans. That much I could place. Turns out the only language I remember from South Africa is Afrikaans.

Before I left in double aught, a friend who had been there before gave me some words to remember -- not telling me what they meant. One particular saying has stuck with me because of it's meaning. I won't phonetically write it out, nor try to spell it, only know that it was a pick up line, going something like this:

I am beautiful. Give me a kiss.

Of course, not knowing the meaning I decided to use it anyway. On the ladies. Let's just say it was a hit. With the Home League. And nursing homes.

The Loneliest Number

With one swing a lifetime of work is undone. Shattered. Splintered. There is now a new fence to swing for. A new record. The flight of the ball cut through the heart of the field last night. Soared into the stands. Out of reach. For now. So much for silence. For controlled and perpetrated apathy by baseball fans. Money always wins.

Chills run down my back still as I watch it. But there is no joy. No happiness. Mudville fans were more delighted in their misfortune than I am at baseball's misfortune. To have the mightiest record in sports fall in such a way. To have the sacred spit upon like a Perry pitch. To round the bases like a vulture circling a helpless, dying soul. And then you stood at home.

No. 756 brings me no joy. Brings me no happiness. But I applaud your achievement. Your life's work. Measured only in numbers.

This one, number 756, the loneliest of all.

On Metaphors

There has been so little to do and so much time over the past week... Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. The folks were in for a week, helping us with Isaac and the new house. My dad and I set to work on several projects: repairing sections of the fence, rebuilding the side of the shed, re-grouting the bathroom. We didn't get it all completed, but got a rather large portion of it all done.

Over this past weekend, we accomplished the bulk of our tasks. None of which originally included a geyser of blood, a pulled back muscle, a fear of little bugs or a tetanus shot. But as is expected when you have things to do and little time to do it, the unforeseen happens. Of note, three out of the four unforeseen events happened to me. I stabbed myself in the knee with a cro-bar. I punctured my hand with a rusty nail. I really can't deal with small bugs that flitter and flatter and creep up over your foot or your hand when you pick up a piece of wood. It was my father who hurt his back this week... golfing.

But I built something. With my own two...er... hand and a half. When we went to repair a small section of the shed apart, we found the problem went much, much deeper. One that led to a new floor and completely re-enforcing the foundation. But we rebuilt it; even added some new doors.

The poet Stanley Kunitz once told prospective poets this:

"Do something else, develop any other skill ... turn to any other branch of knowledge. Learn how to use your hands. Try woodworking, birdwatching, gardening, sailing, weaving, pottery, archaeology, oceanography, spelunking, animal husbandry — take your pick. Whatever activity you engage in, as a trade or hobby or field study, will tone up your body and clear your head. At the very least it will help you with your metaphors."

I've certainly got some new metaphors. But I'm not trying to be a poet. At least I don't think so. Who knows with school coming up. Maybe I'm an old shed that needs a new foundation. Maybe grad school is the repair job that will rip away and rebuild.

Maybe I still need to work on my metaphors.