On The Death Of My Dog

I was a teenager when we got him, soft and so very small when Mom and my sisters brought him home from the pound. That night, my brother and I had the sole duty of watching him. For more than an hour, the Nebraska springer-spitz chased a bottle around the living room, his hindquarters nearly flipping him over he was so bad at running.

Roni wasn't a dog who did tricks. He wasn't a dog that played fetch. He wasn't a dog that scared people away. Roni was a good soul. He was playful when he wanted to be, loved to be petted and didn't mind spending a whole day sleeping in his own, private area. But get him mad, as my dad could tell you, and he would poop in your "area of the house" when you weren't around -- always funny. With the exception of one occasion involving my nephew, Roni suffered from his bark being infinitely worse than his bite. He was loyal and loving to all of us, fiercely loyal above all else to Mom. He was a great dog.  

And I am saddened greatly today. 

As my dad said, his death has been "a terrible thing to think about". 

Fantasy Football vs. Presidential Elections

Let me say this, Fantasy Football and Presidential Election years are mostly similar. You have a draft, you're excited about your team/candidate. Then, the real season starts. Players get injured/candidates do stupid things. By the end of it you're yelling at every inconsequential 3rd and 12 where they don't hand it off to the running back who you need to get rushing yards. FFL turns you into a wreck of a human being. Everything starts sounding good and you go against your better judgement: Hey, I need Cutler and Selvin Young to have a big week against the Patriots so I can pull off a 35 point comeback and win my game knowing very well that those odds mean the Patriots must lose. Still, you're oddly compelled. And your scouring the waiver wire for match-ups. It's the FFL-syndrome.

Presidential elections are just like this. You get fired up over little things. You start yelling at stupid things candidates do, stories the media does and doesn't cover, wardrobe costs, erudite put-downs, negative campaigning complaints (what is this T-Ball?), talking points you've heard and heard and heard. You turn into a wreck of a human being. What you originally drafted your vote around has been twisted, injured and is on the practice squad. And the third party candidates are the waiver wire.

I face a dilemma next week. See, there's this thing called the Redskin's Rule in Presidential Election years. And I have Washington's Defense starting in my Fantasy Football League. I need to have a good week from my defense er go I can't have them giving up a lot of points. Essentially, Washington needs to win for me to have a good week in Fantasy Football.

Am I petty and burnt out enough by both seasons to root whole-heartedly for Washington's DEF even if it means four years of McCain, but a FFL win? Well, I know Washington fans who would take a win and live with the next four years. I lived near Pittsburgh; I know Steeler fans who want a win even if it means Obama-Biden for four years (Hilary 2012!).

Maybe Cutler will have a good week...

Another Morning Worth It

Yesterday was another one of those mornings when Isaac is up with the dawn -- in the hour before morning. And it was an amalgam of the pinching, biting, scratching, crying and hitting that convinced me to get up with him, to not try and convince him to go back to sleep.

By 6am I was in the shower, he was watching the Wiggles, sitting alert in the recliner, rocking it gently, tugging on his blanket and plugging away on his pacifier. Soon, above the din of the falling water I heard a scuffle and soft thud -- a light, fleeting drop. I listened for further noise and I didn't hear anything more. When I got out I walked into the living room. The chair was empty. I turned the corner into the kitchen. Sitting on the rug below the sink was Isaac. He had opened the Lazy Susan, removed a box of Shredded Frosted Mini-Wheats and placed it on his lap. His blanket covered his feet and his pacifier had been tossed aside. His hand was elbow deep into the box, his mouth chewing on a piece of wheat and frost.

He looked up at me, and with his eyes innocent, tired and fierce, seemed to say, "What? I'm hungry. Don't you judge me."

No Comment

No Comment.

Debating The Debates

I have grown weary of these debates. People can't sit through a three-hour baseball game that ends dramatically and magically with a play at the plate but they can listen to a debate for 1.5 hours? And you can't speed up it how long it takes to watch it by using the DVR. I understand the historical place of these debates. In my cursory approach to this opinion, I think the purpose of these things was to allow people to hear the candidates answer questions together in an official setting where many Americans could view them for the first time. I've seen John McCain more times this morning than the Mrs. in the past week.

I have several suggestions to liven up the "debate":

1. Have a Minority Report/CNN type of plasma board where the candidates can shuffle in and out evidence to back up their points and refute their opponents. Make it a full blown media presentation. You can't tell me watching McCain and Obama going Tom Cruise on a piece of technology wouldn't be exciting. Bottom line: It's the 21st Century. People just talking boringly doesn't work.

2. Allow for interruptions. Perhaps the most applicable and easily integrated of my "ideas". If McCain is going on about something Obama doesn't like, let Obama interrupt him. Step on his toes. Raise his hand like a kid in class. Enough with the "gentlemanly" approach. It needs to be a little more cutthroat during these things.

3. Lifelines. I know it's the running joke for the brilliance that is Tina Fey, but why not allow them to "Call the VP". How about Polling the audience: What do you think I should do? And make them give three possible answers and let the audience vote. It's immediate; it changes the flow of the stream of boredom these things have rapidly become. Even ask for a different question.

4. Allow the moderator to moderate. Let them call fouls on the debate if he/she is just wrong or doesn't answer the question. Maybe give them a whistle.

5. Ask a stupid question. Just to see how they respond. And don't make it the same on to both otherwise the other has a chance to gauge and think about the opinion. For instance: "Why did God make the platypus?" or "How many licks does it take you to get to the center of a tootsie pop?" or "What is your favorite book?" or "What's the capital of Montana?" or "Given the economic downturn, can we make stock market be more like the stock market in the game of Life?"

6. Get a comedian to moderate. Seriously. These things are comedy gold. Gold, Jerry. Gold.

The thing of it is I know debates are immensely important. That the job of president is immensely important. That I should watch these things. But the truth is debates are no longer what they were because the winners are determined by "amount of eye contact" and not arbitrary barometers like "substance", "coherence", "affluence". These debates are pomped up, dumbed down, recycled mumbo-jumbo we hear everyday on CNN, FOX News, The View.

So I read the transcript. It's the old, anti-deluvian DVR.

A Morning Worth It

It was a rough morning. Isaac was awake at 4am. He wanted to sleep in our bed. At 4 in the morning, I'm inclined to let him. Of course, then he starts hitting my face because he doesn't want to sleep, he wants to play and talk. He crawls all over me staring at the LCD of the alarm clock. "Wow!","Ooooh!", "Dada!", "Uh-oh!" he says for two hours mixed with sleep, crying and talking. Finally, at 6:30, having almost lost it, I get him to be quiet and fall asleep. At 7am I get up and get ready.

Come 7:30 I'm in the kitchen making his lunch and mine and his breakfasts. I turn the corner into the hallway to get his bag. There's Isaac. I didn't hear him get up. I didn't hear him make a sound. But he's crawled out of our bed. He's turned on the radio on the alarm clock and there's music playing lightly. There's Isaac, in the dark hallway with his green blanket in one hand and pacifier in the other. He's wearing his green and white striped pajama bottoms with his Red Sox T-Shirt (!). And he's dancing.

Bark vs. Bite

I'm more inclined to think the economy is in the tanks when stuff like this doesn't happen. When it does, then, I think, "Hey, it's not so bad, movies about little talking dogs are still funny!" The world is OK. Economic foundations will crumble, people will buy that $300,000 home on $27,000 a year, the minimum payment on credit card bills will be all you ever really need to pay. Where was the government intervention on this one? Sure, bail out Wall Street in policies that effectually force socialism on us, but allow America to see this movie that has has anorexisized Benji without so much as calling in the National Guard? $29 Million? Seriously? For a movie about talking dogs? Really? This movie is to Lumiere what the Atomic Bomb was to Oppenheimer.

Hopefully you paid for the popcorn, soda and candy with your credit card.

The Misadventures Of Isaac, Pt. 2

Yesterday I spent a fun-filled day with Isaac. A day off from work. A day off from daycare. A day in the emergency room. Isaac had a run in with a table at daycare -- not, as is the rumor circulating, that he was defending particular comments made about a certain Yellow Wiggle who drives the Big Red Car. And there it was, red, bloody, oozing a little blood by the time I arrived. He was pacified, calm -- coloring at the table. I took him. After a quick diagnosis from Dr. Mom who met us at home, it was off to the hospital.

He was the star of the ER. Waving at everybody, summoning nurses and doctors to glance his way with his soft, cackling, "Hi!". Isaac sat still while the nurse checked his heart with the stethoscope. He looked at me and smiled, amused. Mom did the same thing at home. When they took his blood pressure and the Velcro patch squeezed at his arm, he looked at me, the patch, the nurse and me and smiled. It was cool to him. It was fun. It was an adventure.

When they took as back to the room, he waved at everyone as I carried him. He said "Hi!" to everyone. Waved at them by twirling his wrist and curling his fingers inward. They commented on his eyes, on the scrap of oozing blood above his left eyebrow that he himself didn't notice. When they put the numbing medicine on it, he screamed and peeled the bandage off several times. I restrained him, quieted him, his eyes fiery and furious and fuming, tears and frustration bellowing out of them. This was an adventure and I was holding him back where no cut could. He wanted earnestly to run into the hallway, to run down the halls to look in the rooms and talked to whomever he could.

When he calmed and numbed we held him down flat against the linen of the raised bed. The surgical tech assured him that he'd be fine, that it wouldn't hurt. I still expected him to rise out of his skin when the first poke went in. But he sat there, through four stitches, knots, pokes, restrained by foreign hands around his head, my body weighing down against his keeping him still. His arms and legs and stomach all relaxed and at ease.

I've told you about his sad, brave eyes when I've left him at daycare. Yesterday I just saw bravery. He didn't move, didn't flinch, didn't cry out, didn't make a sound the entire time. His eyes were encouraged, curious, fascinated by the procedure. They welcomed it, accepted it, allowed it. If he blinked, I missed it. Four stitches and not a sound. When they finished, he sat up and waved at them, with his soft, cackling voice said "Bye!", curling his fingers, twirling his wrist.

I can say I was proud of him, but it was more of amazement than pride. Not that I doubt his toughness -- he is extremely tough, though this morning he cried and latched on to me because his foot fell asleep -- but I think I doubt his courage, his sense of the adventure. Stitches, the adventure of having a little boy.

Isaac is fine this morning. Happy, bouncing around, none the worse for wear. Ready to defend more Wiggles, Play-Doh, toy trucks and bugs. Ready to take on more tumbles, more blood, more dirt, more bangs and bruises. And with those sad, brave eyes below the four stitches, I left him at daycare this morning. I do not have his courage.