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.

Best Movie Of The Year. So Far...

Was one of the first to see the Simpsons Movie. It was pretty funny. Pretty hilarious. Pretty much worth the five dollars I spent on it. Actually I spent $8 on the movie because the first theater we went to, we got there late and would've missed the opening of the movie -- which you can't do -- so we had to go to another theater where we ended up waiting for 45 minutes. All that said, I spent three more dollars on pinball. I love pinball. Could play it all the time.

I also loved this movie. It dragged where everyone said it did. But was the perfect length -- unlike others I couldn't have done more. Did I mention it was hilarious? The off-beat jabs at pop-culture are my favorite. I'm not sure if I should be pleased about that. Because it just means I know enough about pop-culture to get the references and is that something that's really funny or really sad?

Also of note was the social commentary. Interesting what they chose to comment on. I could have done without it. Could have been satisfied with 87 minutes of musings on a Spider Pig. (Where does it come from? Is it really "just a pig"? What does a Spider Pig do? What comes first, the spider or the pig?) The commentary just seemed too simple for the Simpsons. Too easy an issue to target. That's not to say they didn't hit the bulls-eye, it's just to say it was a pretty large target. It's not like Matt Groening is Rick Ankiel.

I also did enjoy watching the movie with people the Simpsons generally makes fun of. The people who don't really get the jokes (noted by the lack of laughter at some of the funnier, more bitingly sarcastic moments). Who talk through the entire movie. Who provide a running commentary, like "Look at that, the bomb just exploded." Really? Must have missed that explosion myself on this 80-foot screen! Couple that irony with the overall good-natured ribald from The Simpsons Movie, and the humor during those 87-minutes was unmeasurable.

In the end, best movie of the year. So far. And stay through the credits if you choose to go.

When This Tree Falls

It will land somewhere. Come down into someones hands. Lie at rest for perhaps a moment. Float haphazardly for seconds in McCovey Cove. Then it will be the most sought after piece of memorabilia, arguably, in baseball history. But it will mean nothing. It is all straw. It will echo the sentiments of melodies like "Roll to Me" and "Jump Around" and "Breakfast at Tiffany's". A literal one-hit wonder.

Much has been written and said about Bonds' chase for 755. My opinions fluctuated like American culture until this morning. ESPN.com's headline featured the number 754. Then it hit me. Some records were not meant to be broken. Not meant to be surpassed. Not worthy of their holder.

Have your own opinions on Bonds. I have my own opinions of Hank Aaron. Growing up my dad told me about his pursuit of Ruth's record. The hatred. The animosity. The disdain for his efforts. Aaron was a model baseball player. Consistent. Hard-working. Blue-collar. Loaded with integrity and respect. A sense of perspective. Honorable. And perhaps the greatest player to ever play. Aaron's record leaps from the mere pages of history. Standing as not only a testament to the greatest record in the greatest game, but a testament to fortitude, courage, the triumph of the will and human spirit and to the equality of all men.

The video of Aaron's 715th homer is indelibly stamped in my generation X head. It sailing over the fence. Hammerin' Hank rounding the bases. Fans running up to shake his hand as he hits third. It's only when you realize that he could have been just as easily stabbed or shot or punched in that same moment that you can begin to garner the respect for Aaron's effort.

As Bonds rewrites history in the next few days. I may or may not be watching. I'm one for wanting to see history as it unfolds. And it's always with the respect for a new history. For saying, "I was here when this happened". Not this time.

755 has always been a number. For me, in the baseball sense, it's always represented that which nothing greater can be conceived. Meaning, it was a lot more than a number. Aaron's accomplishment, his struggle, his perseverance, his humility, his respect is worthy of much more than assigning a number to it. Worth more than being resigned to the highest number I can think of only to have you come along and think of one higher.

With numbers there's always one greater. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

My plea is for whomever that ball falls near, fans just separate themselves from it. Move away from it's landing. Don't claw after it. Don't scuffle for it. Let it rest. Let it fall silently. Let the cameras focus on it as the crowd recoils. Please. It is a one-hit wonder.

If a tree falls and no one hears it, does it make a noise? Let this make no sound.

On The Games We Play

I may have played this card before, at least a card of the same suit, but sports are very much a relative endeavor. And I use that term in its philosophical sense, not its West Virginia sense. Baseball, basketball... the arbitrariness with which they are governed is quite evident.

For example, in a baseball game, the strike zone is the most relative, un-objective ruling in sports. It depends on batter size, where the catcher sits, how the pitcher is pitching and any other atrocious calls made during the same game. It's relative within the game it's playing for sure, but it's still relative. Basketball: also relative in it's regulation. For example, a ref might be working for the mob and need to call a foul so he makes money. In Football, the decision to call holding? Pass interference?

Sports are very indicative of our post-modern culture. I know I made a rather broad jump there, from baseball to some rogue French philosophers, but I believe it was right. Oversimplified? Most definitely.

Then there's golf. A game, I believe, that co-mingles relativity and absolutes. A game much more at home in the post-modern view I tend to have (read: I don't believe it's all relative). Without getting Bagger Vance on you, hear me out. Golf has a set of rules laid forth. Standards. Absolutes, if you will. But it's up to the golfer to play by those rules. To govern himself on the course. Unplayable lie? That's your call. Hit a putt you considered a gimmie but missed it because you didn't go through the routine and decide that if you did go through the routine you would have hit it so you don't count the stroke? Your call again. Casual water? Mulligans? It's left up to you to govern yourself according to those absolutes. Sure, there are times where you are completely in the right to make a call in your favor, one that you wouldn't make "only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law."

Kant would have been a terrible golfer. John Stuart Mill, more of a team sports kind of guy. Aristotle seems like he would have been good on one hole, and terrible on the next. Satre and Foucault, seven shots per hole would go down as a one on the scorecard. Jesus, well, I'm going with a par golfer. Remember, he would play the course perfectly. Avoid bunkers and other hazards. One putt every green. Playing a course perfectly doesn't mean aces on every hole (even though that's how the Jesus/Golf jokes go). I think we misunderstand perfection sometimes. It means, I think, doing exactly what you should do. Not doing something completely unattainable. For example, in baseball a perfect game is not a 27 pitch, 27 out task. Or 27 strikeouts on 81 pitches. It's doing exactly what you should do, not letting the other team get a hit or get on base.

Back to golf. I realize in golf, the professionals anyway, can get rulings. Appealing to someone else for a more "objective" and "absolute" decision on how to play the game. But for the most part, on municipal, private and public courses around the world, golf is played out with the individual as judge and jury.

Imagine, if in life, you could ask for "rulings"? You get more change back than you should have and you ask the official to determine whether or not you should give the money back? Or need to lie -- get a ruling. It might work in your favor or it might not, it might be an unplayable lie and you'll need to take the penalty.

Remember, there's always a penalty for truth. For playing by the rules.

This Is What I'm Saying

It occurs to me that I frequently take the names of others in vain. Not that I'm technically breaking a commandment or anything, or plan to stop, but it still feels odd. So I'm pondering this morning the origins of the following saying, playing my own game of balderdash -- rather, malarky with them:

1. "Great Scott". I can't think of any great Scotts. Other than Scotty. I'm thinking the phrase refers more to great Scots. There've been a few of them. The creator and progenitors of the game of golf, Dr. Livingstone and this guy. Though I wonder if the term was intended more tongue-in-cheek by those cheeky British chaps. The Scots being their version, perhaps, of the American South.

2. "Geez Louise". I've got nothing clever for this one. Maybe Louisa May Alcott?

3. "Starvin Marvin". My thoughts immediately go back to this fellow from my childhood. Please get him some food.

4. "Jumpin' Jehosaphat". I'm sure this has Biblical overtones. In fact, I'm quite sure it does. Yet, I find irony in the expression. Obviously, Joe was really fat, so the fact that he was jumping was quite impressive, quite extraordinary.

5. "Even Steven". First off, I'm not sure how to spell it. Seeing as how there's an internal rhyme I went with the 'v', but it could just as easily be 'ph'. And I've got little to offer in this area. My guess is it's origins have more to do with it's congenial sound than any historical significance. The only famous Steven I know was the one who got stoned and maybe Stephen Foster.

6. "Johnny Come Lately". Another odd one. From Johnny Tremain? That song that talks about Johnny coming home again? Hurrah, hurrah.

These sayings are interesting. Idioms; colloquialisms were not sure how they came to be. We use them. Throw them out at moments of frustration or surprise. Yet everyone knows what they mean, just not why they mean what they mean. Sometimes, I just happen to wonder why.

I'm trying to come up with something for my name. So that years from now when people stub their toe, run into a wall or display great valor, they will use an antiquated expression, not quite sure what it means, but certain that it references someone great. For lack of something creative this morning, I'm going with: Ava Aaron.

The Existentialist Golfer

I've been enjoying breakfast at The Open Championship this weekend. Every morning; with a cup of coffee. Easily it's the golf major I look forward to the most. The Masters is beautiful, a nice moment that occurs annually; The Open is past, present and future all at once. Where the history of a 500-year-old game and a future collide; old land juxtaposed with new technology. Where the past cannot be forgotten; echoes of those who've gone before heard on every hole. It's haunting in its setting. Along the coasts of England where the fog is dense. Where you expect to find wrecks of ships, abandoned mansions and ne'er a place to hide if you fear danger. I'm guessing, walking those holes is quite fearful when the magnitude of the game, it's history, is present in the form it is at The Open. And there's no where to run and hide.

If you've been watching you know it's at Carnoustie; where Jean Van de Velde had his infamous guffaw some 8 years ago. Up 3 on the final hole, triple bogeyed the 18th and lost in a playoff. They've brought it up a few times; aired an interview with the man. In it, he was asked why he didn't just hit something other than driver, why he didn't play the hole safe. He replied that he wouldn't hit something safe if he was playing to beat a friend at a municipal course, he wouldn't hit anything less to win a major. The interviewer replied that while that is admirable, one can't deny that the stakes were higher, that the meaning was, well, more meaningful.

"Meaning is relative," was his short, quick and lofted response. Uttered like he was a swinging a wedge into deep rough and catching the ball clean, spinning it close to the hole.

I enjoyed this response. The philosophical French golfer. Schooled in Foucault and Satre while swinging irons and drivers and wedges. Meaning may very well be relative. Especially if you lose. I'm sure if you win, it's absolute; no one can deny you've won. That's the thing about history, it's not relative.

Out on the Scottish links this weekend, history's certainly present and loud and ringing; there's no where to hide or run or cower. That's why I love The Open, where history is heard and the future is sought after if only so that it, too, can be remembered in the past. If that means anything.

On My Anniversary

Hard to believe five years ago today I was in a small church in Lewisburg, WV gazing upon the most beautiful sight my eyes had ever seen. My wife. Walking down the aisle. I craned my neck to the right, catching only glimpses of her as she made her way down the aisle. People were standing. I was standing. But I couldn't see.

Moments before I had been in the back room of the church playing blackjack with the minister. The night before I had been playing basketball in the old gym of the medical school with my friends. We then proceeded onto a digital game of monopoly that ended with my brother throwing his controller across the room after someone traded someone else for a monopoly and a player to be named later. A couple of weeks before I had seen my best friend cry as his father served him communion at his own wedding.

There I was, looking directly in front of me but being unable to see her. My entire life I had waited for that moment when my wife would first appear in her dress that had been hidden from me. And now, here I was, shuffling to the side and all but vocally imploring people to sit down so I could see her.

Then she turned the corner, coming around the final pew at the front of the chapel, there was my wife. Hair pulled back tightly. A veil covering her countenance. Flowers in her hand. I saw my wife for the first time. Radiant. Glorious. Beautiful.

It's been five years. Longer at times than others. Tougher at times than others. There have been mountains and valleys, plateaus and sunsets. Unemployment, tests, moments a whole future was riding on, laughter, frustration, more laughter, quiet solitude together, surprises and things you plan for but could never quite believe until it happens. Marriage is an adventure, a journey. T.S. Eliot writes about taking a journey, setting out for years at a time. But the entire point of that journey is to arrive where "you first started, and know it again for the first time."

It's five years later. We are still in that church in West Virginia. I am on the platform. In the audience, standing, is the past five years. Keeping me from seeing all but mere glimpses of you fluttering down the aisle. Then, you turn the corner. And I am seeing you for the first time. You look beautiful.

Happy Anniversary, My Love.

How To View My Bookshelf

It is one of my favorite things to do when we move: organize my bookshelf. For years I have compiled a small, but respectable amount of books (limited only by space. Until now). There are enough books to fill an entire bookshelf, one that stretches from floor to ceiling. The challenge is always arranging them.

I never have the same arrangement when I move. I don't take the books down in order so that I many put them back up the same way. Much of how my shelf is arranged depends on where the shelf sits in the room, it's overall size and access from other key areas. Also: climate changes are a factor. In the new house, it's located behind the desk, easily visible as you come down stairs and a shelf you walk by when going to the laundry room. You can't miss it.

There are several ways one can arrange a shelf.

1. In alphabetical order, either ascending or descending down the shelf. I detest this method. It shows no care, no love for the books. It proves nothing, other than you know your alphabet. Books should be arranged proving you read them; not arbitrarily by author. It's degrading to them and to your efforts in reading them.

2. By topic. This is a little more typical of many shelves I've come across (indeed it is the first thing I look for and take note of upon visiting a new home: where are their books and what are they). For me, topics include: philosophy, theology, classic literature, sci-fi, a couple of sports books, Calvin and Hobbes. This way shows a little more effort. Shows you put some care into the organization of the shelf. That you remembered what you read enough to place it accordingly. But it's not quite enough.

3. Syntopically. Borrowing from Adler's great work, this is how I elected, this time, to arrange my shelf. Not only are my books arranged by topic, they are arranged by transitioning from topic to topic through a synergy of similar ideas present in the books. In short, in order to 'read' my bookshelf, you've got to understand a little about the books on it.

For example, I've got a philosophy shelf. It goes from left to right from eras (Plato, Aristotle) to subject (several books on moral philosophy) and ends with the Problem of Evil (more than 5 books on the subject). Then, at the end of the shelf I've placed two books by Dostoevsky (Brothers and Crime and Punishment). Unless you've read or are familiar with the books, the transition from the Problem of Evil to The Brothers Karamazov will seem haphazard; trivial.

A couple of shelves above that, where one's eye is even with the shelf, I've included my favorite books, all the, what I believe, are the most enjoyable in my collection. This transitions down the line to three books, the best, not only in my collection, but the best books ever written: Summa Theologica, Orthodoxy, Mere Christianity. Of note, these books have been laid lengthwise, on their backs. An obvious eye catcher because they are laid differently. Like I am saying, look at these books.

On the highest of the shelves, I've include more literary works that are part of my collection, but not necessarily my favorite. In the center of this shelf is the lynch pin, the Rosetta Stone to my arrangement. Lying lengthwise: How To Read a Book. If you've read it you'll understand my madness. If you have not, you'll note the book's significance at the very least because it is laid differently.

Laying on top of this book is something equally important. It's a book a friend gave me at one of the most difficult times in my life. It's not a great work. Not something I recommend really (a very difficult read). But my friend wrote his own words on the inside cover. Those words mean quite a great deal to me. Their impact on me then and now is immense. It is his words belong on my shelf, just above the key to the entire arrangement. In plain view for me to see and be reminded of.

The book is all everyone sees. But I see those words and I remember the day I received it from him in the mail. How I was feeling before and how I felt after. How much strength, encouragement and hope he gave me during a difficult time. How he gave me a book.

That's how you arrange books. Prove you read them. Prove they had an impact on your life. Prove they are more than words or bindings or authors. Prove they are books.

On Bending It

So Beckham mania has landed in the U.S. Couldn't be more thrilled except that he's playing for the MLS. I was excited years ago when the MLS began. When the Revolution became New England's contribution to American soccer. Then I watched a game. Yup. The Revolution were certainly contributing to American soccer.

I've played soccer since I was five. And there are videos to prove it. Videos that show me slide-tackling the other team at 7 years old. As my sister point out, "You were playing dirty at 7!". And there's some suspect audio of me yelling at a ref. Proud moments on the pitch, let me tell you. The highlight coming when I slid at the ball, over-slid and locked my arm around the ball, rolling over with the ball, and continuing to bring the ball up-field. That's a handball. It's illegal in soccer.

I watched those videos upon my trip to Maine, having heard about their existence for a couple of years. It was thoroughly entertaining. That, along with the running commentary my brother and I provided, critiquing both of our pre-pubescent abilities on the pitch.

There's not much difference between the talent in those videos and the MLS. I represented the future of soccer in America at one point. Proudly, too. But 20 years later, the future of American soccer is still as murky and unclear and as woefully unsteady as my attempt to sell that handball. Beckham will steady the ship. Generate some buzz. And be thoroughly entertaining to watch. Even if he is washed up. Even if this stint with the Galaxy are not much more than Jordan's allegedly playing with the Wizards (I contend that never happened).

My hope is this will bend things for American soccer. Bending it around a wall of mediocrity. Extending the metaphor, this shot doesn't have to even be close to scoring, doesn't have to hit the post or go in, it just needs to bend around the wall.

The future of American soccer is on the other side.

NOTE: My attempt at joining the legions of EPL fans fell miserably short this year. My new cable system gives me La Liga games, primarily only those featuring Real Madrid. But expect more posts on soccer in the future.

A Moment To Brag

By nature, I'm not a proud person. Not one prone fits of grandeur. Quite aware, under normal circumstances, of my limitations. No self-delusions. Not necessarily humble. But not proud either. So indulge me for a moment.

I've been going back to school for the better part of a year. Originally, it was to garner a Master's in Theology. That changed last fall. I've always felt called to be a writer, or to write in some fashion. Reason number one why I started this Internets adventure. So a degree in theology didn't feel or seem quite right. Seemed rather the safe thing to do. I've always liked theology and philosophy. Always done rather well in classes and discussions on the subject. But my approach to it was never worthy of the analysis true philosophers bring to the table. I argue and think apart from reason. My instincts are more imaginative. Realizing this, and after much prayer (much prayer for I never do anything, apart from swallowing, without praying about it first and can't help but wonder if one did pray before they swallowed would that prevent me from choking but I surmise my choking on my food has more to do with my inability to not talk while eating and less to do with the God of the universe wanting to use the Heimlich Maneuver to teach me a lesson but you never know. Jesus used to cast out demons, maybe he used the Heimlich to do it?) and much discussion with the Mrs., decided to go for a Master's in Creative Writing.

It was hard work, changing horses midstream as the saying goes. Finishing up a philosophy class on the Problem of Evil -- which I never did quite solve -- studying for the GRE and composing about 30 pages of original content (which I discussed long ago). Long story short, I got in to the University of Dayton moments after Isaac was born. On a conditional status -- which was fair seeing as how my only English class in college was on Shakespeare -- meaning I had to complete two undergradute English courses, passing both with a 3.0. Well, I'm well on my way.

Mired in the midst of both classes right now, I've gotten grades back on one class dealing with American Literature. First grade: A-; second grade: A. Both papers received praise from my professor for their insight. My last paper was on The Hamlet by Faulkner. One of the better books I've ever read. In the other class, on British Literature, I'm just setting out, having to read Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf. But I feel good about the material.

All of this to say it feels good. Not to be doing so well in the classes (though I am and that does feel rather outstanding), but to be doing something I love. And more so, to feel confirmed with every page I read, write and mull over, that this is what I am called to do. It's rather sublime. Rather mystical. Rather like waking up much earlier and on less sleep than you intended but feeling ever so refreshed. I may not every be good at it -- the boulder might knock me back down the hill quite soon. Not like these authors or their critics. But I enjoy it like they do. And I know that I am supposed to be doing it.

I am "stretching myself in this sea" having "gotten my head into the heavens".

On The Small Goodbyes

Now that we've officially moved to the other side of Columbus, I'm getting used to new people. The people who are infused in our lives but we don't give much thought to. Of the places I frequent, there is a new Blockbuster, Tim Horton's, Starbucks and Subway that I must familiarize myself with. I must find a new Sam, Norm and Cliff.

But in all the moving, I never officially had my last Frappe, Spicy Italian, Donut or rented my final movie from the places I spent the last two and a half years visiting. And I will miss those people. I will miss Karen, the Blockbuster owner who knew me by name. Who gave me a hard time because I never wanted to sign up for Blockbuster Online because I got movies for free via Discover Card. Who always had an opinion on the movie I was renting. Who got mad at me when I knocked over a shelf. I'll miss one of her managers, Todd who shared a similar taste in movies and who's opinion of movies I came to value.

Then there's the Subway guy. When we talked, he talked about high school basketball. I just listened. Mostly we shared bemused glances because there was always something or someone weird every time we were in there together.

I won't really miss the Tim Horton's people. Every time I got a Boston Creme Donut they took little care in giving it to me. Throwing it into the bag and that inevitably resulted in the chocolate, the best part, getting stuck to the inner linings of the bag. It was a sigh of relief when this morning, from my new TH, I received the same donut in a box. Resulting in an unspoilt layer of chocolate.

I'm not sure what it is or was about these people, but I've come to miss them. Miss that I never got to say goodbye. That I just stopped showing up. Stopped being able to enjoy a conversation with them. They were like characters in a novel I got to know. Then the book ended. There was no final episode. No highlight show. So grand send-off.

These are the small goodbyes. The trifle things that are no more and really weren't much when they were. But in the loss there is a loss of sorts. A loss of the way things were. And that's the toughest of goodbyes.

On The Little Wonders That Still Remain

They've, or, apparently, we've named the new 7 Wonders of the World. Congratulations. You have chosen wisely.

I disagree little with this list. In fact, I don't think I disagree with it at all. There's no denying the architectural masterpieces. Indelible contributions of the genius of man to the sustenance of the human race.

My nomination for this list is Machu Pichu. Though I also like Petra -- as referenced earlier -- but not the group.

But why is it limited to 7? Seems a rather arbitrary number. One for each day of the week? Why not 13? Or 22? Or even 1? If the latter is to be the case, the Pyramids win, hands down. Though the Great Wall has a 'dog in that fight'.

I have been intrigued by architecture since I read The Fountainhead. Awed by it's genius. Fascinated by it as an art form -- an idea I never considered before I read the book.

And while I think it rather sophomoric that we should in some way belittle the other masterpieces on this list because they are the geeks at this architectural prom they just had online, I do believe that voters got it right.

But honestly, how could you get it wrong? It's like being in a room of every flavor of ice cream and asked to pick the best. It's ice cream! There's no such thing as bad ice cream.

Things like this are subjective. I grant you that, beauty in the eye of the beholder and all. But, like Plato posited: beautiful things are beautiful things. And not just because we say they are. But is there a more beautiful sight than this? I say not.

On The Fog

Coming in this morning there was just about every shade of blue imaginable filling the sky. Including the color of my kitchen in the northwest part of the atmosphere. There was also a thick layer of fog settling down around houses, street lamps and baseball fields.

"Ah yah, it was as thick as a pea soup, it was, ah yah."

That's the saying, anyway. Not quite sure how it came about. Pea soup, if you've ever had it, is not exactly a breakfast food, which is the time of day your most likely to come across thick fog. But I can see why other soups aren't used. Wedding Soup, Chicken Noodle Soup, even Broccoli and Cheddar, just don't quite describe the thickness of the fog, nor do they have the same ring to it. 'As thick as Lobster Bisque?' No. Maybe Campbell's could advertise the thickness of their Chunky's brand by trying to re-invent the expression.

We always describe things in terms of other things. Like fog and pea soup. Like the morning sky and my kitchen. But I'm not entirely sure how to describe things as they intrinsically exist.

Besides, my grandfather's expression wouldn't have resonated with me had he waxed on about the opacity and the paradox of the magnificent translucency of the morning fog, dense with vapors of a coming day, yearning to burn off and reveal the hours before us, hours that were hinted at by stray rays of sunlight here and there, sunlight already searing through an otherwise wall of whiteness. One that disappeared the moment you tried to touch it. The future comes to us, we must wait for it to reveal itself. Ah yah.

Pea soup says it much better.

A Self-Titled Day

Picked up a new CD yesterday. Not a common practice for me these days. Especially since I've discovered the Library -- where I can get all the music I want, for free, and rip it to the computer. I'm very particular about music -- as many of you know. But truth be told, my musical taste reflects my taste in clothes, most notably my penchant for wearing the same jeans over and over again. All this to say, I don't go for much more than what I already have.

But in the recent year I've grown fond of a group called Wilco. It's not music for everyone. Many times, it's hard to listen to. Uneasy on the ears. If it's ever playing when the Mrs. is home I am frequently asked to change the song. It's just not something that plays in the background. Yankee Hotel Foxtrot was a pretty darn good album. Slightly over-hyped, though. A Ghost is Born got little play from me. But their newest release, Sky Blue Sky, is something I can listen to at 5:20am on my way to work, with my father-in-law on the way to the Man Store and something the Mrs. will enjoy.

That's not to mistake the album presenting a sort of conforming quality to the tastes of others (i.e. how everyone can listen to Hootie or Chicago), but rather evidence to the musical pallete present on the album and how it pulls from the colors that everyone knows. Those primary colors, the reds, blues and yellows that influence every other color. It's music that's not made much anymore, but music that sounds like it's always existed. Lyrically it reminds me much of ee Cummings and how it dances in and out of a "stream of thought stringing of words". (Don't expect to find "I am an American aquarium drinker/ I assassin down the avenue"-type lyrics. For good or for bad).

Ever have a day that your not sure how to refer to it? Reminds me of how every now and then a band puts out a "Self-Titled" album. And when you try to tell others about it, you're like "Hey check out so-and-so's new album, ______"? Always a challenge. Especially when it's not the group's first album, or the group's latest album.

Anyway, that was yesterday. If I had to tell you about three years from now, I'm not sure how I'd refer to it. Or even if I could. We all have these Self-Titled days.

One thing I will remember about it, it was clear, cool and breezy. And over my head, ringing in my ears, there was this blue sky.

On Playing Catch

There's a lot that can be said about playing catch. From infancy we are prodded to catch things. If you're a boy, that develops from stuffed plush-toys to baseballs and softballs, footballs and basketballs, and, for some, fish. I've had my own version of catch my brother and I used to play. And it wasn't because regular catch was boring, sometimes a steak just needs a little A1 sauce.

There have been more than a few memorable scenes on television and on the silver screen that involved the playing of catch. Most notably, an entire movie was based around the singular concept of playing catch with Dad. So I don't think I can do much better in romanticizing the particulars on a whole.

But recently my Dad, brother and I played catch in the same street we'd played catch in for years. In front of my Nana's house. Aside from being older, and battling severe tendinitis in my throwing arm, this was not much different. My father, remember I'm 27, was still holding his glove in certain locations, begging me to hit it. Throughout childhood, this was how I learned to aim my throws. Dad wouldn't even move his glove if I was going to miss. And when I did, I had to shag the ball down. Proudly I tell you, this time, I hit the target every time. Thanks, Dad.

A slight addition to this game was the presence of old gloves. Not worn-out discarded remnants of our childhood. Remnants of generations passed. Gloves that looked more like gloves. Leather padding, a small pocket. Gloves that made you feel like playing baseball was like being in the fields, or working in yard, or in woodshop. Gloves that made you feel like you were working with your hands.

They were gloves from my grandfather's childhood. From the 1930s and 40s. And there's only a few ways to catch a ball with these gloves. Which, through trial and error that involved shagging passed balls, my brother and I quickly figured out. Even the "hot-dogging" that comes so easy with 21st century mitts, was nearly impossible. All you could do was use two hands and squeeze the ball when you felt contact. Sometimes it stung. Sometimes it smarted. But there's has yet to be a better way to catch a pop fly than running underneath it and feeling it fall into your leather-bound hand.

Much like an author prefers pen and paper to Microsoft Word, I, the baseball player, prefer to catch a ball this way, with this glove. Even the baseball was "old-world" quality. Not wound as tight. A little deadened. Worn out covering.

We played catch like, for generations, fathers and sons have played catch. And I think, even if we had used our oiled-up, rope bound and car-run-over broken in mitts, not much would have changed about that experience.

Still... There's a lot to be said for an original manuscript.

On Having A Home

The move is complete. At least, the part that involved the transfer of everything we owned into the largest thing we've ever owned. There's still much, much work left to be done. "So little to do, so much time." Wait. Strike that. Reverse it. All apologies to my readers, but the blog takes a backseat to that.

It's quite a surreal feeling, owning a home. We've been in and out of our place for the last month: fixing walls, carpeting, washing floors, painting, etc.. But sleeping in the house last night, waking up early this morning and locking the doors as a stepped out into the chilled morning air, I looked out on the neighborhood that had a slight fog settling over it. I was leaving home.

On tap for today is the living room -- setting up all the entertainment related stuff, sofa, chairs and what not. Then it's off to the Man Store to by a grill so we can cook tonight. I'd already planned to get a nice grill sometime this week, but a faux pas on my part resulted in us not having any gas in the house, i.e. no hot water. So in order to avoid eating out for the 15th straight day, it's off to buy a grill. Then tonight, I imagine, we'll grill out, sit on the lawn and enjoy what should be a very nice evening.

Of course, for all that to happen, I have this little thing I must do that will set it all in motion. This simple, but slightly profound exertion on my part. This soon-to-be taken for granted practice. After I leave work: Go Home.

Some Flightly Observations

Sitting in an overcrowded airport shuttle this past weekend with a child and car seat and luggage, you can't help but notice other people.

First off, it's pretty clear from body language that people don't like the thought that you and your kid may be on their flight. I'm not sure what kid traveling gave other kids a bad name, but that's pretty much par for the course.

This country is quite coddled. Pulling up to the Columbus International Airport -- one not much larger than Portland, Maine's airport -- no one moved on our overcrowded shuttle. Instead, they yelled out their airlines. The shuttle had stopped at the first airline in the terminal -- the only terminal at the airport. A couple people filed out. We were at the back and unable to move. Many remained seated or stood in the aisles. Then a couple more people made the effort to get out, forcing others to disembark the shuttle. We seized the opportunity and also got off. Electing to walk the less than hundred yards to where our airline was located. More than a few people got back on and decided that that hundred yard walk to the end of the road where their airline was, was too inconvenient. It would be more beneficial to get back on board the shuttle, wait for traffic to clear so the shuttle could pull out and then park less than a hundred yards further down the road and then they could still walk across the road to their airline.

This is our country.

Paying for food on an airplane isn't that bad a deal -- especially if it means you're going to get something other than peanuts. Ironically, doesn't cost peanuts though.

If you check something at the foot of the plane, it's a reasonable assumption to think someone's going to notice and check-in a large, un-aeroplane object sitting in front of the plane. That's reasonable. Until it almost doesn't happen and you get apologized to.

Walking on to the tarmac feels, sometimes, like staying up past your bedtime. Not everyone gets to do it. Of course, when that means walking up a ramp into the plane that's shaking, well, that's like staying up past your bedtime to watch C-SPAN.

One couple on the return flight casually remarked aloud they didn't want to sit "near the children". There were a few of us with kids in one area so they moved to the rear of the plane where there was only one child. That kid screamed the entire flight.

Also, don't pay for privileges to board an airplane first. Have a kid.

And I remain convinced that Bob Dylan is the perfect music for an airline flight. Like Annie Lennox and Natalie Merchant are to elevators, Dylan is to that moment the plane rises above the weather to see the oranges, reds and purples fading into a field of clouds. It's not dark yet... but it's getting there.

On Comings and Goings

For years I've made trips back home. Back to my grandparents' homes in the ever-growing beachfront that is Old Orchard Beach, ME. Back to see the most important thing in my life: my family. And OOB has been a rendezvous point for my immediate family. For my brother and sisters and parents. A point where we can sit in the shade of pine trees and traces of sea breezes and reminisce and remember and remember what we've forgotten.

For Isaac, it was his first trip back to this idyllic location. His first conversations about torque wrenches and the sharpening of lawn mower blades. His first, covert attempt to ruin the cranberry sauce. His first discussions over national league pitchers. His first taste of rhubarb. His first looks upon my nana, my grandpa, my grammie and my grandpa.

Isaac handled it well. Laughing at his second cousin. Falling asleep in his great-grandmothers arms. Staying an evening with his nana and grandpa while the Mrs. and I ate pizza and fried dough and held each other on the darkened beach around the pier. Responding to coos and ahhs and "Mr. Isaac's" that seemed to fill his every waking moment. And fighting sleep whenever he could because he didn't want to miss an instant of this experience.

But I'm not sure he realized he's gone. That that experience, his first, is over. But it was not lost on me, on the Mrs., on the family who clamoured over and around him. His coming was marked with joy. A happiness I've never seen in the eyes of those most dear to my heart. And it echoed louder as we left. Isaac is a blessed child. Blessed with the love of so many.

The hardest part of coming is going. But more so, the hardest part is staying away. Staying away from instant coffee (well, maybe not instant coffee). From the raw rhubarb growing out back. Staying away from the tangible and unrelenting love of my grandparents.

That's the thing about coming and about going. It's about not staying away.

On A Trip To Maine

Taking my son on a trip to Maine...

We're excited. He's grown so much in the past week. Already he's starting to crawl. Well, really he just raises his backside in the air and pushes with his feet, trying to crawl. He ends up pivoting around in a circle because he hasn't figured out how to reach out with his left hand. It's pretty funny and at the same time truly amazing.

I find myself unfamiliar with the position of my family this weekend. With the exception of my parents, no one has met him yet. And even my folks only met him in his first few hours of life. Now he is filled with so much life. Not knowing Isaac is something I can't comprehend. Isaac's infused with so much vivacity that I'm sure after this weekend, we all have something in common.

It's also one of the first opportunities I'll have with Isaac to share a part of me with him. Not that he'll remember it, but I will. I'll show him the ocean. The Pier. His family. Nana and Grammie's house I spent summers in. He'll hear Grandpy's stories and probably get directions to somewhere too. While he may not get any Strawberry Rhubarb pie this weekend, he'll hear about why it's so good. He'll meet someone who looks just like his dad and someone who speaks another language entirely.

Oh, Mom and Dad, Nana and Grandpa, Grammie and Grandpa, know this: I'm not changing diapers this weekend. Not a one.

On Accents

She answered the phone and, for a moment, I thought I was talking to my grandmother. Her voice was disjunct, cacophonic and rythmic. She spoke with a striking Maine accent. Imagine my surprise, living in Columbus, in the parts of the country where everyone sounds alike -- where there is nothing distinct in their voices. Nothing that hints of experiences or of places and times other than the present. And as she told me I'd have to "Come down here to the store", I grabbed Isaac and headed over to the Man Store (read: Lowe's or Home Depot) to finish ordering my carpet for the new house, but mainly to meet this woman.

I spotted her immediately. Staring at a computer screen in the flooring section. A little old lady surrounded by laminate floorings and carpet samples. Looking a little worn out by the years. Slightly hunched at the shoulders. Once blonde hair graying in just about every area. But a smile that reminds me of my childhood and a voice that, as she began to speak, became the narrator of my past.

Dispensing with the carpet business, I struck up a conversation with her. Asking her where in Maine she was from. She smiled, pondering aloud how I knew she was from Maine. I replied with a smile. I'm from Maine. That was all she needed to know before she launched into her story. And it was a wonderful story. Featuring details of her looming retirement sprinkled with her history living in the Portland area some 25 years ago. Living there long before the Maine Mall was a glint in anyone's eye. When Congress Street was filled with little shops. When time was much different than it is now.

It had been awhile since she had lived in Maine. I complimented her on her lovely accent. How reminiscent it was for me. How it brought me back to trips to Nana's house and to Grammie's house in the summers at Old Orchard Beach. And how it warmed my heart to know in just a few days I would hear the voices, that, just like hers, were near and dear to my heart.

To the untrained ear it sounds English. In fact, she even told me that many people in this area assume she's from England. Maine isn't even an option to them. But the people from Maine, she said, know she's from Maine. From there. Not from here. The ingredients in the elixir were there.

That's the Maine voice. A voice filled with experiences. Filled with summer afternoons and cold winter nights. With days spent looking at an ocean, and hours grieving over the tragedies of the ever-rescinding tide of life that pulls those things away. Of catching and cooking lobsters. Of the silences of listening to baseball games. Of spending Saturdays at yard sales. Of Sunday's at church and those afternoons at picnics in the churchyards. Of bitter cold mornings shoveling snow. Of the rustle of fall leaves cascading through a yard. It's a hardened voice. Filled with rich layers. A voice you can't nail down or imitate. An accent that is only picked up by experience. It's the voice of life.

As she told me how she hoped to get home for the fall this year to visit with her daughter and take a trip to the White Mountains, in the colloquialisms of that glorious accent she had me hanging on each word, each a needle poke, repairing a worn and too oft-forgotten tapestry of my past.

Towering over us were carpets, area rugs and just about everything a person can use to make a home their home. But a home is about the accents.

A home is in the voices.

As I told her what a pleasure it had been to talk with her she said she hoped we'd run into each other.

"Hopefully we will," I said.

"And maybe we can share some pier fries."

"With vinegar. From Bill's."

She smiled and said nothing more.

On Father's Day

It's my first Father's Day. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to today and, actually, to this post. I've immensely enjoyed fatherhood. Loved being a dad. My entire life I've always wanted to be like my father. To model myself, my approach to life, my marriage and everything else I do on the example my father has and continues to provide for me. Something of which, Dad, I am forever grateful for. And this Father's Day, I am again, like my dad. I'm a dad.

There are moments to come that I will treasure. First words, first steps, first hit, first day of school, etc. But there has been one moment that has stood above it all for me and represented my favorite part of being a dad and also, the toughest and most imposing aspect of fatherhood.

A few weeks ago I returned home from work in the early afternoon. The Mrs. was upstairs with Isaac and had locked the screen door so I couldn't get in. Coming down the steps she had Isaac on her hip, saying to him, "Daddy's home, Daddy's home!" As she came up on the screen door she stopped and put Isaac up to the screen and I bent in and said, "Isaac, I'm home." All of a sudden his eyes got wide and blue. His lips curled out and he cackled, almost hiss-like, as he broke into the biggest and brightest smile. Either slightly embarrassed or extremely excited, he then buried his head right into Mom's shoulder, then put his hand on his face, looked back up at Mom and then looked right back at me. Still smiling. Still cackling. He knew I was home. He knew his Dad was home.

There are many examples of fatherhood. None greater than my Heavenly Father. There are many aspects to being a dad. But in that moment, what it meant to be a dad finally hit me. It was about recognition, for him and for me. In that moment, separated by a screen, he knew me as his Dad. As his father. And there is nothing greater, or bigger, or larger or better than being recognized as a Dad.

My role in his life was presented to me in all it's immensity and all it's glory, all it's challenges and all it's joy. I was Isaac's Dad. Charged to be a father to him, to bring to him everything I can. To teach him to throw a baseball. Teach him to respect his mother and women. To take care of everybody and everyone he can. Teach him to stand up and assert himself. To teach him to admit when he is wrong and make amends. To teach him to be a man.

In that moment, with his eyes bright and wide and blue, with his voice cackling, Isaac showed me my role in his life. Instantly overwhelming and yet exciting.

Fatherhood.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.

I Blame Myself

I have everything to do with this funk the Red Sox are in. It's all my fault. For the first time all season I have failed to watch a game in the past two weeks. And in the past two weeks they have faltered. It is utterly my fault.

But in my defense, I've been busy with life. With moving, working and school -- but mainly moving. So I've not been able to catch any games. I apologize and must admit I don't see my ways amending anytime soon so I hope they can pull themselves out of this funk, lest I have to pull a Tiger Town. Seems like last night was a good start.

And on the subject of sports, something near and dear to me, did anyone catch the NBA Finals? I watch it only out of obligation to those who no longer play. For Larry, Magic, MJ. And the Spurs looked great. They're a good basketball team. The Cavs looked terrible. Is there a more inept coach than Mike Brown? I think he's still confused over why running a high pick for LeBron didn't work when the man picking was defended by Tim Duncan. Really, I think he's just confused. Clearly he didn't know how to coach a basketball team. What a miserable Finals. I think I might watch an old Celtics game on DVD to inspire my love for the game again.

Also, it's the weekend of the U.S. Open. One of my favorite golf tournaments. Immaculate courses that are ridiculously difficult. Nothing better than a round over par. At least I can relate to the the golfers in this tournament.

Otherwise it's a been an incredibly trying week. Very little sleep. And you know you're tired when you find yourself switching from Bob Dylan's "Stuck In The Middle With You" to Fergie's "Big Girls Don't Cry" and singing seamlessly between the two.

I think I'll go to Boston...

Won't You Be...

We now live in a neighborhood. Filled with the sounds of cars stopping at stop signs, kids riding their bikes, lawns being cut, wind blowing through tree tops and the distant hum of life moving at that speed that is just too fast sometimes.

We are out of that current now. Settling into our new little home. Tearing out carpet, removing hideous wallpaper, cutting the grass and scrubbing parkay floors in the kitchen (I'm trying to think of a name for the kitchen that pays homage to The Garden, but in a way other than calling it The Garden because I'm pretty sure we'll have an actual garden). There's a lot of work behind us and good deal more in front of us in the coming weeks. More trips to Home Depot -- the most manly thing I've done in some time because changing diapers doesn't elicit that Tim Allen grunt a guy needs every now and then. More yard-work, more housework and more realizing there's a whole lot more work to do.

Then there are the neighbors. Folks. Good people. I wasn't sure what to expect -- perhaps a "Hey diddily ho!" or a "Howdy, neighbor!". I've lived in an apartment complex for 2+ years and didn't know a soul other than the exchange student two doors down who frequently left his door open as he watched the EPL. But so far I've borrowed a couple of trash cans from a man who goes by Coop and have a request in for a ladder from another neighbor who's name I remembered because it was a vacation spot on Star Trek: The Next Generation.

Conversations between strangers are strange in that they are pacifying. They placate the fears of safety. And at the same time they open up obligations that are frightening. Requirements to make future conversations, to offer to help, to take moments to listen to the wind-blown tree-tops and ignore that distant hum.

Superstitions

Those of you who know me, know that I can be a superstitious person. Especially when it comes to my beloved Red Sox -- or really any New England team that's making a run. For the Patriots, I have only one t-shirt. And that t-shirt gets buried at the bottom of my drawer each season. I don't even so much as touch it or even entertain the thought that it is there.

I went into full superstition mode yesterday during Curt Shilling's no-hit bid. Catching only the latter half of the game, I was shocked when the end-of-the-inning scoreboard came up 0 0 1. I turned to the Mrs. sitting with Isaac.

"You know that I'm superstitious about baseball, right?"

Only a look of sarcasm.

"Well, there are some instances during a particular game where it behooves a person to not say anything regarding a certain something during that game."

I didn't use the word "behoove". Though, in a conversation yesterday, I did work in the word diffidence.

"Yes," she replied.

"So if you should see something on the scoreboard and that should elicit a question or two, please don't ask them until later."

Again, didn't use the word elicit.

She consented and we managed to talk around the actual no-hit bid while both eagerly hoping to see one.

I have never seen a no-hitter start to finish. Neither had she. Though her first EVER baseball game she watched, a September match-up between the Red Sox and Yankees in '01, featured Mike Mussina within one-hit of a PERFECT GAME. I had never seen that either. And only with two-strikes on Carl Everett did I begin to root for the feat. Everett broke it up. The only good thing he did with the Sox.

It didn't happen for Schill yesterday. And I was crushed when Stewart broke it up. But I appreciated how the announcers for the Sox acknowledged the 'mentioning-the-no-hitter-jinx' which many announcers find dubious. Though, usually when they begin to discuss their highfalutin view of the dubiousness, the no-hitter proceeds to get broken up. I can count at least two-dozen times I've seen this happen. Anyway, props to Remy and Orsillo for talking around it.

There are some things you just don't talk about during a baseball game. Some things you just don't mention. Some things that are just too glorious that you feel too selfish to even hope for: a five-run rally in the ninth, a perfect game or no-hitter, 4 Home Runs in a game, a game-winning hit. These are things every time you turn on a baseball game you just hope for with everything you got. You pull a Tiger Town.

And sometimes talking about the hope lessens the hope. Puts it in the context of the present reality and makes it seem foolish. Hope is a foolish, foolish thing.

But without it....

Closing Time

A week after the original closing day, closing day has come and gone. The house is now our house. It is our home.

And as for me and my house, we begin tomorrow the re-tooling, refinishing, redecorating portion of owning a home.

As for me and my house, today it became our house.

You Look Nice

In my job, there's not an impetus on looking nice. Very few non-managers wear ties. Walk through the building and you're more likely to see an employee in jeans than a pressed shirt. For me, it's always jeans and a polo shirt -- sometimes even a nice t-shirt.

Today I decided to dress up a little. To tuck my shirt in. To match my belt with nice shoes. To wear a shirt that spends most of it's time on a hanger and not in my drawer. To shave. To not wear a hat. To wear khaki's. I'm not saying I'm dressed to the nines, but I'm considerably dressed up from my usual dressed down look. I even drank tea instead of coffee. Drank it Jean-Luc Picard style.

And I feel better today. I feel more alert. I feel on top of my surroundings, instead of just blending into them in a pair sneakers. My roommate in college stumbled across this phenomenon and for about a month dressed up to go to classes. Even at 8 in the morning. Of course, he could've gotten A's in sweatpants, but he claims he did much better during that time. What stopped it for him? Well, I think it was the week we decided to wear an odd article of clothing around just because (one day it was headphones with the plug hanging loosely at our side; another day it was butt-cut day).

I know there are studies that say dressing up increases productivity. But I've long been of the opinion that comfort takes precedence. I don't think LeBron's doing what he did last Thursday (a top-5 all-time playoff moment behind The Flu Game and Magic's 40+ in '80) in a suit. Of course, I've used this as an excuse to get lazy in my appearance.

For the work-a-day world that's moved from suit and tie to business casual to "as long as you're not naked", I'm beginning to alter my theory on how I should present myself. That I should look my best to be at my best. I realize that's some pretty heavy stuff for a Monday.

See what happens when you tuck in a shirt.