Common Sense: Common Sense

I'm getting tired of this expression. Especially in the political realm. I'm not sure who's appealing to Common Sense in all things issue related: The Common Sense Medical Plan! But Common Sense tells me someone certainly is. It's the typical, oversimplified nonsense I expect from politicians.

I'm all for Common Sense. Indeed, we could all benefit more if people used Common Sense a little more generously than they/we do. But when it comes to politicians, to people who run governments, is Common Sense all we're missing and therefore all we need to right any sinking ship?

Common Sense tells me if my car won't start and the gas gauge is on empty: I need more gas! What Common Sense does not tell me, and here's the inherent issue with the expression and application, is that my car will then start. There could be a host of other problems that keep the car from starting. Bad gaskets (whatever those are), lose spark plugs (non-sparking spark plugs?), a bad hose (these are all things in cars right?) could all be reason. Heck, the car might not even have an engine. Common Sense allows you to diagnose, not treat.

So I see these adds that appeal to, in their nuanced, subtle ways, Common Sense tells us if we all could have cheap, affordable, government provided health care, everything would be better. for all of us. No. Common Sense tells us only that it would make sense, for everyone to have health care, not that it would be a panacea for the ironically ailing industry. Or, in the interest of unbias, that drilling in ANWAR will alleviate the gas crunch forever.

We need leaders who know cars. Who know that the car needing gas is just one approach to making sure it's up and running. Give me your platform of vague and nuance and Common Sense, of promises enough to fill a tank. But it's going to take more than a sense of the common to fix problems. It will need that, but you're going to have to know a lot more than how to fill up the tank if you want my vote.

Out To The Ballgame

Just came across this asinine survey on SI.com of the best ballparks in the country. I immediately figured to see either Fenway or Yankee Stadium up there as #1. "At least in the top 5" I consented before I clicked on the article -- knowing I'd get worked up with the results. And sure enough I'm worked up. Fenway was 21st; Yankee Stadium 20th. Several of the categories used to tabulate this result are just plain stupid. 

Food: What are we rating here? An evening out for dinner and a show? Did you order the blue cheese on the side of your hot wings and it was put on it? Was the hot dog too small for the bun? Seriously, when you go to McDonalds don't expect Spago. Or do and be disappointed. Just realize you're an idiot for doing so. And realize this is an idiotic way to rate a ballpark.

Team Quality: I can see the argument that this brings about. Who's going to go see a bad team play. But how does this affect the ballpark rating? See Hamlet performed by puppets at the Globe. Think it trite. But you're still at the Globe.

Hospitality: Huh? Like, "I really appreciated how other fans took time to flush the toilet before I entered the stall" hospitality? Seriously? I can use another metaphor here, but the bottom line is how does this affect the ballpark?

Promotions: Here's a metaphor: this is the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Well, second dumbest. The dumbest thing I've heard is "Here's a metaphor: this is the dumbest thing I've ever heard." Obviously, that's not a metaphor. 

Traffic: So does the team with poor team quality have higher traffic scores and vice versa? 

For the legitimate categories, Tradition and Fan I.Q., two things that make the simple and large event of attending a baseball game worth doing, Fenway, Yankee Stadium, Wrigley, all ranking high. And I'm not sure what atmosphere means and why the Sox were so low. Nothing beats Landsdowne street pre- and post-game. Also: completely inhospitable as well. 

The Indians at the top I don't deny. That's a great, great place to watch a game. But I deny it based on these stupid categories. Seattle? Really? It's top 10. I've been there. Pittsburgh? On Bobble Head day it was fun, maybe Top 20. My Dad hates the White Sox Stadium so I'm deferring to him there. Great American in Cincinnati is the WORST place to watch baseball. The old Riverfront was much better. 

Anyway, if you're going to rank ballparks, be intelligible and obvious. Use common sense. Don't try and unhinge the system. Fenway, Yankee Stadium (which they are despicably tearing down), Wrigley, Dodger Stadium, Pac Bell, Cleveland/Jacobs Field/Progressive.

Take your food and promotions and "please" and "thank you", I'm watching baseball.

On The Death Of Sports Journalism

There's been some uproar on the Internets today about bloggers and sports journalism. Most of it unfounded. Most of it true. How bloggers distort and dumb-down sports journalism with their ridiculous accusations and opinions and at-the-same-time-lack-of-access. But that point is not for here; I am unequipped at the argument.

What remains the demarcation point for this is the "education" of those bloggers. Have they even read W.C. Heinz? Admittedly, I had not. But, being the erudite Internets searcher I am, I quickly "Googled" him and just as quickly read "Death of a Race Horse"-- apparently his seminal work. And... It. Is. Good. Very. Very. Good. No one writes like that these days -- not daily sports "journalists" anyway. Not journalists for the most part.

One can argue if this is an unfortunate occurrence. A product of our growing curiosity for facts and not the "story". When the story is the facts and the facts are the story, is there much room for notions on the weather? On the murmurs of onlookers? Probably not. But truthfully, how many of these pieces could you read? Sometimes I just want the box score, the injury report, the statement on the game. Sometimes I just want bloviated nonsense to put sports in perspective. And sometimes I want "Death of a Race Horse" to put sports in perspective.

But what I want (aside from "dog and a beer"; obligatory reference there)... what I want is good writing. And that's the issue. Good. Writing. Death of a Race Horse is that. Most of what is sports journalism and/or blogging, is not that.

The thing of it is: Sports, however bad her commentators may be or however good they may be, sports is good writing.

On The Goings On Before My 28th Birthday

There have been a series of unfortunate events that procured themselves into my life before my 28th birthday. A series of events so horrible, I cannot see as how anything worse could have befallen another human soul.

-- There were 2200+ winners of the Roll Up The Rim promotion at the two Tim Horton's I frequent. I purchased 15 cups of coffee, did not win once. Meanwhile, the Mrs. has won 14 out of the last 15 times in the Mt. Dew promotion.

-- I broke my hand. True, it was my own stupid fault. But if a man cuts off his own foot is he not pityable?

-- I could not nor can I play sports for the next four weeks, and who knows beyond that. Ever try and play golf with a busted hand? And softball's out of the question 'cause it's my glove hand.

-- On my birthday I endured a fever pushing 102, severe exhaustion and a really sore sore throat. Over the course of 48 hrs, I slept for 30+.

-- Ripped three contact lenses. Ripped lenses in the previous 16 years: 2. And ripped my 4th this morning.

-- Rising costs of fuel.

-- The Red Sox dropped 4 straight.

To balance this out, there have been an equally meritorious series of events that may or may not have canceled the following out.

-- Isaac called me Dude.

-- The Mrs. took absolute care of me during my illness and broken arm.

-- This.

-- This was my birthday present (without the people). Yes, I'm old now.

-- The Celtics won 66 games and took the first two of the first round of the playoffs.

-- Got my cast off.

Not a day passed were I didn't realize the relentless grace bestowed upon me and shown to me in my wife and my child. Even when I wanted to be depressed about breaking my arm, there was Isaac not paying it any attention or consideration. When I wanted to be frustrated or angry about circumstances well beyond my control, there was the Mrs to offer, with her smile and touch, perspective on all that is good. And when I was down on never winning a single, solitary thing in that stupid promotion, there, again, was the Mrs flaunting her talents as a twist off winner (Seriously though, it's uncanny how many stupid bottle caps we have scattered throughout the cars and house).

I'm 28 now. Recovering from injuries sustained through stupidity, normal passage of germs, and wounded pride at being unable to win my family (read: me) anything. I have my sense of humor intact. I have my awe at the world around me fully intact. I have people who love me. I have people to love. I have a God that cares infinitely about me.

Being 28 is the next logical step, the next in a coordinated series of progressions that aim to make me smarter, more mature, more loving, more caring and more of a man.

It's up to me to make the most of all of everything.

Pedant Coffee Drinking

I fully recognize it's the #1 thing White People Like. If it becomes a stereotype, then, as I say, stereotypes tend to be stereotypes for a reason. And I am your stereotypical young white person who likes coffee. I am now saddened by the recent Starbucks coffee release. For the most part, I could care less when Starbucks releases a new coffee. But when doing so replaces their Breakfast and House Blends, then I am distraught and must form an opinion if it is truly to be the #1 thing I like (#2 for me is assists. I love assists. When I don't make an assist I get mad and break bones.)

It's apropos that they're calling it Pike's Place. For those have not been to Seattle, Pike's Place is the fish market where they throw fish. There's other stuff there too, but for the most part that's the draw. It's the place where tourists go. Cultivated to the masses for their entertainment. Popularized and hyped. This new brew is much of the same. Tastes much like a popular tourist attraction. It should after all since patrons created it. It's a noon cup of coffee. Something warm to drink - but not very good. Very disappointing but not surprising and not worth the $1.85 for a grande. And this is replacing their very good Breakfast Blend and very decent House blend?

NOTE: I would opt for the Komodo Dragon brew if, at 6am, I didn't think of this movie and this character and the fact that referring to this cup of coffee makes me seem a little too ostentatious.

My name is Aaron. I am a coffee pedant.

But hey, it's one of the best parts of waking up (the not best part is actually having Folgers in your cup. That's just terrible coffee).

Gone Since November

Every weekend since November, either the Mrs or me have been working or out of town or had friends or family visiting. Since November. So it has been well nicer than nice to have two consecutive days at home as a family. 

It has been well nicer than nice.

Bob Dylan: How Does It Feel To Win A Pulitzer?

So perhaps you've seen the news: Bob Dylan received a special nod from the Pulitzer Prize committee. It's the first time the award has been given to a rock musician. As I read online yesterday, this is interesting given the anti-establishment bend of the genre. It's supposed to be revolting against these high class honors and what they mean. But truthfully, there is no one in the industry more deserving of the literary merit. No one else who's body of work can be considered with the great writers. Dylan is a great writer. Despite what you may think of his voice (the Mrs can't stomach it). Despite what you may think of his music. Dylan is and was lyrically the best. On par with the prosody of the best.

Now there are other musicians who's body of work could be considered deserving of the award. Neil Young comes to mind. But most notably is Bruce Springsteen. The Nebraska album alone is a lyrical collection of short stories. Tom Joad is another astonishing musical panoply of short fiction. If Dylan, I say, then Springsteen.

Anyone else I'm missing?

So Very Close

It would've been the first time I'd ever managed to pick the NCAA National Champion. If Memphis would've won. The stakes were higher for them but for me that was all that mattered. That and seeing the Dribble Drive Motion Offense in its glory. But alas, not even the latter was evidenced fully last night; I still stand by its overall effectiveness and superiority to the classical style of basketball because, at its simplest, it makes the game fun to play again. Organized streetball it's called. That's too simple a term though.

It was a good game, not a great one. Billy Packer continues to spout irreversible nonsense and continues to call every Finals of my lifetime. And I have still not picked the National Champion.

Like Father, Like Son: On A Broken Hand

Just like my boy, I've broken a bone. No, he didn't drop me down the stairs. Instead, I succumbed to my own stupidity while playing basketball. I'll leave it at that. Needless to say a broken hand makes life difficult. Taping up my arm at 6am to shower is no easy task. Neither is changing a diaper.

Isaac hasn't noticed. He's paid about as much attention to my injury as he did to his own. He still expects to chase me around the house, wrestle with me and have me give him baths. And while I have been considerably and understandably slowed at tasks around the house and notably at work, his perspective has gone a long way to solidify my own. I am not as adaptable as he was when he broke his leg, that experience is fresh in my mind: the energy and adaptability of a child is truly amazing.

May I be like my son.

Boldly Going: A Confession And Apology

It's no secret that I have always loved science-fiction. From the Chronicles to Lord of the Rings to The Space Trilogy to Star Trek to Star Wars, I have always been intrigued by forays into a realm or world or universe like and un-like our own. However, I'm discerning in my taste for sci-fi fantasy. I'm particular. Snobbish even. I don't do campy. I don't do unrealistic, if that's even possible as a prerequisite for science fiction. It's as difficult for me to explain my taste in science fiction as it is my enjoyment of science fiction.

There is an element to good science fiction, to the Asimov's out there. It consists of the same stuff of a good western movie. It entails part imagination, part familiarity, part possibility, part impossibility, part morality. It should inspire or stir or intrigue a part of us so that we can sense a bond with a story or character even though our worlds have nothing in common. A sensibility about it that allows for the individual in us to see ourselves in this world making the same decisions and mistakes even though we can't begin to imagine ourselves in a world like theirs. Good science fiction should insist upon and instill a hope in humanity.

One reason for the difficulty in ascertaining my enjoyment of it is because I don't think it's taken as a serious genre; not recognized in literature or in film. It's often stereotyped by the "nerds" and with good reason. I am not deluded in this sense -- I don't go dressing up to conventions for example. Of course, the stereotypes associated with the genre belie any credence to it and keep the enthusiasts in the closet for fear of being grouped in with the groupies. Star Trek: TNG is philosophical? Yeah, whatever. But it is. From Mills, to Kant to Plato to Sartre it's there and obvious. Also obvious: pointy ears and phasers and funny shaped beings. And for that reason you probably don't believe me.

Another confession/apology is due. To Eric: I'm sorry I made fun of you back in college when we first met and you were reading that fantasy novel series. Though it was probably campy, I shouldn't have mocked you for reading it! However, it's not like you've read another one since, so...

All this said, I've recently stumbled across a book I feel I should read (to be explained in a later post): Dune. So I'm reading it. And we'll see. Next will be the series my Dad's said I should read for forever: Foundations.

Anyway, I'd like to be able to hash out my sentiment a little better for this genre so feel free interject some thoughts into this post.

Standing Still While Moving Through Texas (Again!)

It's no secret I heart Texas. No secret it is, outside of Massachusetts and Maine, my favorite state in the Union. While my devotion to this state I have now visited only twice is a je nais c'est qua of sentiment, one of those beliefs best felt rather than examined, indulge me for another moment to wax sentimental on my latest experience.

I hyberbolically (and jokingly!) surmised that when Americans fight in wars, they fight for places like Texas. That they do not fight for states like Iowa or Idaho or Ohio or even Delaware -- although it is the nation's first state -- not for the beaches of Malibu or the rain and clouds of Washington state. No. They fight for Texas.

She stretches out for miles like a grandfather reclined on a decaying porch in the sunset. She is old and dusty. Rough, scratchy and faded. Such scenes lead one to believe in experience, that Texas is then an experienced state free of mistakes. Yet she is not. Texas is not the veteran, not the wise sage whom we seek for solace and answers. Texas has the feel of never quite being able to get comfortable, remaining on edge. A place most human. Most imperfect. Most the compilation of all that goes into living every day for a lifetime. And the more she stretches to relax, the more she inclines to be reclined-- like the grandfather on the porch -- the more she creaks at the joints with a deep pain welded by a story or a decision or a mistake or joy from long ago.

It is here that I am most quiet. Most relaxed. Most uncluttered. Like a little boy listening at his grandfathers knees with one ear pressed to his story and the other pressed to the evidence in his knees. My mind stretches as far as the horizon. Through the plain and colorless oceans of fields. Over the hiccups of hills. The watering holes and windmills. Past the animals, who in their youth even seem older than time. There are fences but no one and no thing is fenced in. Natural beauty seems to be the one thing lacking, the one thing that keeps it from competing with the Maines, Wyomings and West Virginias, there is beauty here. Much, much beauty.

To each and everything thing in Texas there is ascribed some story. It is the song that reminds me of Texas: Not Dark Yet by Bob Dylan. I listened to it yesterday as the plane left Dallas. Dylan writes about how "...behind every beautiful thing/there's been some kind of pain." Not to vault Dylan higher than he ought, but we can posit from this that pain leads to beauty.

Texas, that old grandfather with the sore joints in the sunset, is a beautiful state. Texas is a state that has lived and endured a lifetime. And as you drive through, it may look like you're moving merely around difficult overpasses and off-ramps, but you are trekking across the aged plains of Texas, and you are only standing still.

And time is running away.

On The Trip To Miami

It was our first vacation in 6 years - since the honeymoon to Seattle (minus the overnight baby-moon to northern Ohio). By this I mean the first instance where the Mrs. and I got away. No visiting friends, no visiting family (though did enjoy a rather delightful evening with my sister-in-law), no objectives other than to get away. Well, for me anyway. The Mrs. had to go to work conferences for three days. Oh, and the airline lost our luggage, refused to reimburse us and gave us no timeline for when the luggage would arrive (we spent the first 5+ hrs of the trip looking for places to shop and shopping for clothes and essentials). Call it a vacation then.

But here's the thing about Miami, about the city on the ocean that keeps everything that embodies the ocean away. There are beaches and small streets and massive amounts of sun and breezes. Yet there is no distinctive ocean smell. No quiet serenity of the then ironic crashing of waves. No, Miami is a place wrapped up in itself, not in the place and location it inhabits. Concerned about being the location everyone gets away to then a place to get away to. Thus, a place, by the end, you're not unhappy to leave. We were not unhappy to leave. The time was delightful, relaxing and a welcome respite. But Miami left us restive.

Perhaps it is the type of people we are. People who prefer Seattle to Miami. People who prefer the smell of the ocean to the faint whispers of an ocean odor amongst the collusion of a city on the beach that keeps such things at bay. Yes, Miami, with it's beachfront estates, sunshine and ocean breezes colludes against those of us who only hope to enjoy such things as simple and peaceful as the smell of the ocean and the glow of the sun.

On A Year: March 12, 2007 - March 12, 2008

Remember this day. It was one year ago. Some 365 days ago. 52 weeks precisely. Countless hours. Untold-about minutes. Time has certainly elapsed. And there just is no way to simply put, to easily say, summarily describe how relentlessly blessed and wonderful life has become.

Scrolling through pictures and videos and memories has been a marvelous delight. Remember when he first smiled. Remember when he first laughed. Remember his first Opening Day. Remember when he rolled over onto his stomach. Remember when he rolled over onto his back. Remember when he started to croll. Remember when he started to crawl. Remember when he first said Momma and Dadda. Remember his first tantrum. Remember his first haircut, bath, outfit, giggle, chuckle. Remember when he broke his leg. Remember when he first danced. Remember his first steps. Remember how his eyes light up something magical and happy at just about every moment.

To measure this time, as we are doing today with baseball cupcakes and caterpillar cakes, with wagons and gloves, to measure it is an immense task; like nothing else. Comparable to no other thing. It's grandness, it's largeness, lies in not recalling when a first happened, or when he did a certain thing, like when he laughed insatiably because he was being tickled. It lies not in remembering the events of the past year. The true realization of the strength and power of today's celebration is remembering a time when this was not so. Isaac has so filled our lives with an indescribable essence that it has overflowed from moment to moment, seeped into the past and flows just as endlessly into the future.

This year has composed moments we can measure and capture and quantify. It has consisted of the one thing beyond measure: Our love that has grown larger than the days, larger than the weeks and months, larger than the mere year that has gone by.

Happy Birthday Isaac.

How I love you.

On Kmart Winters

For the most part, snow and winter and cold here in Columbus resembles Kmart more than anything. Dingy, dark, messy and unclean. Inconsistent. Sure, there's an occasional good buy or deal, like there is an occasional snowfall of four or five inches. But it's rare, and it's still only four or five inches. Winter in Columbus can never make up its mind. Never sure what it wants to be. So we meander through a couple inches of snow here, ice here and then 60+ temperatures there.

For a Bostonian, it's depressing. Gone are the epic snowstorms that dump 12-18 inches in one night. Gone are the true and complete blizzards that trap you in your home. Gone are the purest whites and sharpest colds of a Boston winter morning.

This weekend, the city endured its worst storm ever, which ranks like 15th all-time on my list. On Friday night, in the modicum of over-reaction, weathermen were calling it the Blizzard of '08 (complete with the snazzy graphics). There were seven inches on the ground. Now it snowed another seven over night and then three or four throughout the course of Saturday. Not exactly a blizzard (though according to the National Weather people, it fits the definition of a blizzard -- one that mysteriously doesn't take into account snow-fall rate. It's made of the same intelligence as people who put a stake in a baseball player's average while overlooking entirely OBP, SLG, OPS). Growing up we called this a lot of snow.

Sarcasm aside. It was a formidable storm. It dropped a lot of snow. And it was cold and windy and shoveling was not fun. But being out in it was the greatest of joys. Building a snow fort only to realize I forgot how to build them and then remembering how to build one. Letting Isaac crawl and sit and climb over the walls and around the fort and into the fresh snow. Jumping off the front porch into the powder and cold. Much can be said about the havoc these storms bring. How the cities and businesses shut down out of fear. Perhaps, when these moments are recalled and enjoyed, we can posit that cities and businesses shut down out of joy and fun because it is snowing. Because it has snowed. Perhaps.

For whatever this storm was, in perspective historically for the city and in my own experience, it was a true snowstorm. It was beyond the Kmart I had grown accustomed too and took me back into the familiar street corner stores of my youth (you know, like the one at the beginning of School Ties that was actually shot at the store down the street from my church). One defined not by snowfall totals or wind speeds or levels of emergency, but by snowballs and snow angels and snow forts and snow. Fresh, white and powdery.

And you can't put a price on that.

A Larger World: Isaac's Foray Into The Backyard

He was used to small places. Accustomed and familiar with the intimate settings of his world. For his part, he was only required to explore the outer reaches of the first floors of the homes he visited. Behind the couches and rocking chairs and cautious looks into the shadows of the underneaths of dressers and beds. It would be a grand occasion when he could climb a flight of stairs or kick and scream happily in shallow waters of white porcelain or blue cement, or gaze quietly into the passing trees through a moving window. But even those occasions were small in stature, never far from an outstretched hand of someone whom he infinitely trusts.

When his world did get larger, he did not get smaller. He did not shrink and cower into the familiar. Instead, he basked in its immenseness, swam in the seemingly infinite depths that were swirling around him in cool yellows of a setting sun and gray and white columns of clouds passing over his head. He would not move forward, out into the sea. But he would not retreat. Call that holding one's ground or a lack of bravery. Call it what you will. And call his name, see if he'll set forth on his feet and hands and chase out into the wide tenets of air and light and grass and mud and towards voices of those whom he infinitely trusts.

The world becoming larger is not an easy event to comprehend. To categorize and classify and assess for any of us. That's not even accounting for the equally daunting task of realizing one's place in this world. And for a child, for one who possess innocence and a sweet laughter, even he saw the need to examine, to not have it go unexamined. A truly admirable and envious and difficult task. One that takes no account for innocence or laughter, but requires them properly. There was no one greater to the task in that moment.

Sitting there in the yard, the grass and light around him, he made some judgements, comprehended some of the matters swirling about: That the world just got infinitely bigger. And that, even though he wasn't ready to leap out and crawl and walk and frolic, he could appreciate those of us who try, like me, his dad. With his open and bright blue eyes, heaven-ward, and a simple smile and hair gently tossed by the breeze, he admired those of us who try to make the world not seem so big and not seem so unfamiliar. He humored my attempts to encourage him and inspire him forward by showing him all the things I thought he could do in this larger place. But he had his own take, emitted surprisingly as he looked about and around: laughter at random, unprovoked intervals.

I think he thought this big world awesome.

Name Dropping: A Visit That Just Happened

As Ohio is the center of the universe today, you can understand why all of the Networks are in town. Seeing as how I work for the CBS one, we've been inundated over the past few days with network people. Moments ago, I shook Katie Couric's hand. Exchanged names -- as if I didn't know who she was. And a simple little banter with the Evening News host. She's quite pleasant in person. Very nice. Did I mention before that, seeing her walk down the hall while looking over my computer, we made eye contact and exchanged smiles and a wave as she walked by -- inches from my computer. Did I mention that? Because it just happened.

Though I did play a subtle joke on her. Realizing she was coming today, it struck me that underneath my sweater, I was wearing a Boston Red Sox shirt. She used to date the owner of the Sox. So I proudly displayed it and a picture of Isaac in Red Sox garb on the computer behind me during our meet-cute.

Light On The Dark Materials

So I've just finished the "His Dark Materials" Trilogy. You know, the one that caused all the uproar during Christmas when the first of the books, The Golden Compass, was released as a movie. Inspired by the "christian" controversy I picked up the books to see for myself. And they are very much heretical if you ascribe to the Christian faith. Mind you, far less heretical than Friends, CSI and any other mainstream visual nonsense we escape with. But that is neither here nor there.

The books, themselves, are not very good. Better than the previous "christian" controversy and book, The Da Vinci Code, from a literature standpoint, be assured. But not that great. The first one, honestly, I thought was brilliant. Imaginative. Large. Challenging. It was good children's literature in the vein of Potter, Dahl, L'Engle, Tolkein in scope alone. But it's ending meandered in order to set the tone for the second book and the riverbed of creativity dried up after that as the books became more about an agenda than children's novels.

I was reminded, as I finished the final book today, of my father's take on a sci-fi movie a few years back, Trip to Mars or something like that (with Lt. Dan!). At the end of the movie they were all holding hands in a circle. He fully expected, in that moment, the characters to start singing Kum Ba Yah. I felt the same way finishing the novel. It held an awfully high opinion of itself as it concluded. And the characters were metaphorically standing around the campfire of their world-view, holding hands, and singing Kum Ba Yah.

A brief example: All the characters marvel at the inter-connectedness of worlds and beings and Dust and particles and life. How slight variations on one world go the opposite in another. They are astounded by the connectedness of life still. In the same breath they admonish the view that it could have all originated from a creator being. We are all connected by luck and chance! Let's sing and hold hands and bask in this view, for it is glorious!

But my curiosity is assuaged. Though, I suspect, the controversy will not be when the second movie debuts next year. But whatever, it'll make for an entertaining movie to escape with. I consistently remain amused by how "christian" controversy is stirred up over books that are not that good.

My I Hate Politics Manifesto

This is a far from a rational opinion. I have not sat down and thoroughly thought any of this through. Think less of me from shooting from the hip, but these are my thoughts. Some of them are tardy -- they would've been funny and relevant a month ago. Alas.

First of all, since when can political parties tell voters that your votes for whom you want to run for President don't count because your state decided to have their primary early? Do political parties wield more power than a state? More power than a voter? And yet people still voted? Equally unfathomable. (I'm planning, also, to have an equally meaningless vote: Band-Aids or Caramel Sauce. You pick. You decide. Those are your two options. 50 points to the winner. The loser must count to 1,000 and run a mile.)

Seriously, how did they get away with this? Why didn't the news media take them to task on it? Maybe they did. In the interest of full disclosure, I don't watch the news.

Secondly, why do I have to vote for one of two people in the end? GW thought little of a two-party system. So do I. I'm sure there's an argument to prove me wrong. To show me that the two-party system is glorious. Just know I will disagree. And probably not respectfully.

Tertiary: nuanced political promises. I tire of them. I am physically weary and cynical of them. I get angry and mean when I hear them. I offend people -- not with what I say, I'm not crass -- but towards whom I say it against, i.e. that I'm tipping some sort my figurative political hat by railing on what exactly "Change" means. I'm not. I despise all nuanced statements equally, almost. Ha!

Will I vote? Yes. For whom? Who knows. I don't care much for anyone in this candidate pool. Make your arguments. Rail against me for abusing a freedom, whatever. Just know I hold my vote very dearly. Not in whom I will cast it for, but that I can cast it. Just don't be upset when I cast it for a) a fictional character; b) a Democrat; c) a Republican; d) Ralph Nader; e) Isaac; f) myself; g) The Mrs.; h) The Red Sox.

Again, shooting from the proverbial hip here. And I did cut my head open last night, so take everything accordingly. Except that I very much do not like politics and that I do, actually, very much like government.

And You Didn't Care If It Came Back

I'm going to reopen Crackerjacks and Peanuts. Not that I closed it. But, whatever. I'm going to express some baseball thoughts as the season goes along over there. Probably about as often as I do over here.

On A Snow: Finally

We have lived here for three years now. This is the first time I have seen a true snow fall. A light and large and wet snow. One that comes down softly and quietly. One that when the wind blows streaks your vision to nothing more than a white wall, with it's impenetrable thickness that recedes only when the wind dies and there is nothing more than a soft snow falling.

It falls light and large. It has covered the ground and left me longing for days gone by. When school would be cancelled and I would jump off of roofs into drifts deeper than my imagination. Today it was a quick shovel and off to work, stuck in the amalgam of inept drivers and white precipitation turned a muddy brown. Black roads and salted cars. And a white wall moving alongside me in a mocking blur.

Isaac played in the snow today. Crawled around the swingset in the backyard. Scoffed at the snow that fell in and around his mouth. His imagination is still young and light. Though I have no doubt it is large. That beyond his sight, his imagination was able to penetrate the white wall of swirling and tumbling whiteness. That, perhaps, he saw into an ancient past that, when laid out before him, showed him the eras of children and adults playing much like he was. Scoffing and cold, laughing and crawling. But perhaps, in his youth, he merely understood that before him was something very special, and something very much for him to enjoy. Something very simple.

We have lived here for three years now. This is the first time I have seen a true snow fall. A light and large and wet snow. One that comes down softly and quietly. One that when the wind blows streaks your vision to nothing more than a white wall, with it's impenetrable thickness that may never recede for me.

But out there, in my large and amalgamated world, I know where there is a simple, soft snow falling.

A New Perspective on Eden

Having just completed Steinbeck's East of Eden late last evening, there hangs over me still the rush. One thing about finishing a book that is forever exciting is the prospect that finishing it is just around the corner, especially when said book pushes 600-pages. During such times, in the waning moments of the book, a new fury takes over and I read at a ridiculuous rate. It is a fault at times because I read almost impatiently, pining more to "complete" than for the story to complete itself on its own terms -- not on my own. Still, it's a furious urge to resist. For this particular novel, the exercise caught up with me and has left me unutterably winded this morning.

It seems that this particular novel is not considered his greatest. I can grant that argument. It is more refined, more particular and inevitably less a commentary than an actual story. Where Grapes of Wrath was an effort to summarize a movement, a situation, a profound hope in the human spirit -- this novel is about the human spirit itself. What it is and what makes it. How it is formed and molded and changed and yet somehow immutable since the days of Adam and Eve. It contains characters as old as time, as human as all of us; as close and familiar as a look in the mirror. Laughter and love is at its core. The sing-song of the Irish Samuel Hamilton. The cold and menace of Cathy Trask. The wisdom and strength of Lee. The naked and cold and ever human Cal Trask. And the undeniable choice before all of them.

This novel is about characters. It is about a story. It is an old story. One we are all familiar with. Yet one that seems strangely new and fresh and ancient all at once. Like a warm rain in December.

It will now sit on my bookshelf. I will walk by it often and remember it.

I will read it again. Thou mayest, at the very least.

A Few Small Steps

So the day, hour, moment has arrived. Isaac has taken his first steps. As you can see by the video, he's clearly proud. Mom and Dad are proud as well. Quitely and confidently and exstatically proud. Crawling and rolling over were significant moments; standing up was also a special moment. But walking, venturing out from point A to point B, has been our favorite. Of course we realize that the adventuresome spirit Isaac has will manifest itself ten-fold with this new talent he possesses. That more things will be reached for. More things will be knocked over. More tears and more crying from falls and slips and collisions. But there will also be inevitable moments of accomplishment. Of adventure. Of opportunity for laughter. Of "look-what-I-can-do Mom"s and "Try-and-catch-me Dad"s.

So in the few small steps he took last night, there lies giant footprints of happiness.

On Your Condolences

This has happened before. Only it was much, much worse; though this is still pretty bad. That's the brighter side to my current melancholy; rather, the excuse. It's not abject depression like in 2003 with the Red Sox. It's a more like a numbness. We've suddenly been forced to look up and see how large the universe actually is. That the immortality of perfection and a win tonight was never as close as we thought it was, no matter what we tell ourselves -- or how Russell Crowe makes us feel. We have always been small after all. And in that lies the numbness and melancholy of a reality we thought we could transcend for a moment, for a game.

So if you feel like feeling this feeling I have, if you care to offer to me a "Sorry, man. That hurts!" Well, you can "Stuff your sorry's in a sack." Because here's the deal with losing: it also makes no sense. And don't tell me it's just a game. Because it most conveniently, and undoubtedly is. There is no debate there. Yet losing is always also losing.  

The universe is a large, large place. I have just now had my head lifted. 

Unlocking the Magic

Enjoy Isaac's First Oreo.

He did.

Exiled and Imperfect: Thoughts on Beauty

So I've been reading several books of late, among them: Jacques Maritain's essay Art and Scholasticism -- which you can read online here (the one benefit being the hyperlinked footnotes; and endlessly better than the large print book I mistakenly ordered and now possess). It's a rich and influential essay, empowering the likes of O'Connor, Percy and several more Catholic writers in the middle of last century. I recommend it with the caveat that it is not an easy read, not simple and thoroughly challenging.

One of the more salient discourses I came across is the the fifth chapter on Art and Beauty. Maritain has taken great pains to put into words the aesthetic and unquantifiable weight of Beauty -- what it is and what it represents, to the artist first, and to the perceiver of art. I was most struck by the notion that Baudelaire presents:

"it is this immortal instinct for the beautiful which makes us consider the earth and its various spectacles as a sketch of, as a correspondence with, Heaven."

I like this notion. That beauty, and what is beautiful, is a sort of window into Heaven. I remember a great speaker, Dennis Kinlaw, in chapel during college who talked about this idea. He said that if there were to be a Heaven, and all it's classical notions of being greater than this world, we should, at the very least, expect it to leak into this world. Expect to see evidences of it here and there and around us. Little windows into the great, wide expanse of a greatness we cannot very well handle in our present world (cf. Chesterton's take on the levity of angels).

But more than the windows we can look through it is our desire, the artists desire to search and seek and pine for these glimpses. Baudelaire goes on to say the following:

"We have still a thirst unquenchable. thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at once a consequence and an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth for the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us, but a wild effort to reach the Beauty above.... And thus when by Poetry, or when by Music, the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find ourselves melted into tears, we weep then, not... through excess of pleasure, but through a certain petulant, impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at once and forever, those divine and rapturous joys of which, through the poem, or through the music, we attain to but brief and indeterminate glimpses."

The moth for the star. Not just a flicker of a flame on a candle, a burning, roaring fire, a conflagration of a forest, a STAR. The moth for a burning, firing, flaming, bundle of gas and beauty and danger. The moth for a star. So may we seek after beauty in and around.

My People And Your People: Scheduling

Schedules are funny thing; you hardly ever think about them, take the time to realize your on a schedule. But we are. We operate, not in the banal and mundane effects of adhering to a schedule, out of a routine of which we are mainly unawares. Meals, bathroom breaks, snacks, T.V., commutes, events: they all go according to set times and dates; and so go our own lives. I suppose I always, somewhere, recognized this truism; but it never affected me until this month.

Out of the graciousness of my heart I agreed to shift my work schedule three days a week. Don't see me as too altruistic however when I tell you that the shift allows me to train on directing higher profile things that inevitably give me a greater and newer skill set. Still, I'm working nights for three days. In doing this, I miss my most coveted time with my family.

I suppose I never realized it. How much dinners and baths and story time and the house silences at bedtime really means to me. How special and crucial it is to my makeup. How apart of my daily schedule it is. But for three days a week I miss out on that.

However, I do get the ever-fantastic mornings with Isaac: where he is arguably at his best and funniest and most energetic. Where the car-rides, shopping trips, babysitters, other people, phone calls and meals have not gotten in the way. When he has awoken from whatever fantastic dream danced through his head with laughter and excitement: "It's a new day, Daddy! Good Morning!" That's what it feels like he says to me while he is shaking his crib as I enter the room while the sleep shakes from his eyes. And then he sits down and laughs as I go to pull him from his bed. Just laughs, giggles and smiles. Looks up at me with excitement. This is how we begin the day.

And when I go to work, I look forward to the mornings. But I miss the evenings too. The incessant water-splashing that soaks us; the running around from one activity to another to stave off sleep; the talking and telling us about his day in a language that is so clear to him.

So this schedule goes for a month. And then I will miss the mornings again.

But life, no matter the schedule, is never routine. This I have loved most of all. Despite how routine we need to make things for Isaac and our benefits; how things need to be set in schedules with times and places and calculations. It is in this, this management of life, that the most delightful freedom occurs. Call it a paradox, but it remains. The trick, talent, necessity, I suppose, is to see not the time, but the Time.

And it will make all the difference.

Confession: A Lack of Books

Seems every January I discover the joy of reading anew; before it is sullied and sodded over by the perennial progressions of life. The thirst for flipping pages comes almost as fast as one can digest the previous page. It's onset is voracious and at once satiable provided the author, the work and the coffee is good. And here we are again, January 2008.

A great difficulty -- and perhaps apropos -- is the lack of a bookstore in Grove City. Our previous home proffered at least three within 2 minutes. Now it takes 20+ to the nearest one, a Barnes and Noble just past the boundaries of work. Herein lies the rub: I ventured past my normal exit for the oasis in the desert of my thirst only to leave defeated and deflated. I'm looking for Augustine's Confessions which I have not yet read (City of God, yes; Confessions, no). There was one noticeable copy in the Christianity section, a small print, small bound, fancy smancy covered booklette that could slide into my back pocket. It looked more appropriate for a coffee table or coaster than as the great work of art it is. There were no other copies. Not even the assistance of the clerk could help. Even after I explained to here my snobbishness in wanting a copy bigger than my hand, one I could curl up with and perhaps into if it were big enough, not one that required me to peer at. She understood; I think. But our search on computers and by hand in other sections like Philosophy and Literature found nothing other than that. Then I checked the biography section on a whim -- and there it was: a hardcover, Burgundy coated immaculate copy. I was elated. Until I found out it cost $30.

Now hear my hypocritical stance: I demand bookstores carry books like these and not biographies of Lorraine Bracco or 101 Cups of Spirituality that go great with a side of Chicken soup and fluff (fluff being the stuff on most of the shelves in the Christianity section). But I also demand they be inexpensive and refuse to buy them if they are not, thus decreasing the revenue they account for thus resulting in their not being ordered and stocked.

$30 though? I can get it better somewhere else. Just not in Grove City.

So for now, in the stark coldness of my desert, under this ironic January sun, I am without a book. That is my confession: I feel a little incomplete and starved, wrong even, but unwilling to see past my own palette and wallet to satiate this desire.

On The Holiness of Time

Time is not my friend; Time is not on my side. For the last two months, I have longed for the stretches of time where it just goes by -- where the clock peacefully passes. Instead, our lives have been one thing after another -- some magnificent, others magnified and difficult. But now the proverbial clearing lies under our feet. And time is the view before us.

My mind, previously filled with tasks-at-hands is unwinding, slowly. There are still chores and tasks and requirements, but not enough to fill each and every minute of the day. Turning the pages of a book and sipping hot coffee are not guilt-laden exercises for either of us -- they are pleasures.

There is the laughter I can enjoy on his time with a growing admiration and pride-- a laughter that has changed my life. There are the simple, quiet and tangible moments that are back. The evenings of music and books and conversation. Breakfasts and dinners that thrive. There is a sacredness now in the moments again.

Whether this creates in me further food for thought in this space, I do not promise. I make no resolutions. I give you no hope. I propose no direction other than the one already taken. And while there is much to write about along those lines, I am finding I have little to say for it.

Instead I am finding a time again I had had to forsake for life. Had to put it up and away like the decorations of the seasons. Walking past it in the mornings and evenings and occasionally taking it off the shelf long enough to catch a breath. But now she has come down from being admired and sought to being experienced and felt. Like bagels; like coffee; like meat and potatoes; like worn pages of typeset; like a soft voice echoing into the night; like the laughter and smile of the most innocent among us.

Does He Know This?

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

The Chewbacca Defense

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

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

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

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

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

The defense rests.

Three Of A Kind

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

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

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

Either way, today's greatness happens in threes.

UPDATE:

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

UPDATE:

PROBABLY.

The Paradox Of Winning

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

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

I likened it yesterday morning to an old SportsCenter commercial.


We are the Holyfield of the NFL.

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

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

I love paradoxes.

This may or may not be one.

A Day For The Birds

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

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

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

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

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

A Good Man Found On The Edge Of Town

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because Of That One Dentist

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

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

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

And let's just leave it at that.

It's That Time Of Year

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

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

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

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

The Misadventures Of Isaac

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

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

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

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

The Red Sox Bear Us Away To Winter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Modern Prometheus

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

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

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

Tonight, We Steal the Fire of the gods.

We Win The World Series.

I Despise The Rain King

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

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

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

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

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

On Standing

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

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

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

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

Our son, standing up.

And here's the video version.

Chaos Theory: Winning The Pennant

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Red Sox are going to the World Series.

I Think I'll Go To Boston

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

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

And this is an October morning.

On Art

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

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

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

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

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

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

Residents of Mudville

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

"Upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat"

But with Beckett going tomorrow night...

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

For when the dust lifts....

Getting You There From Here

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

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

Crackerjacks and Peanuts

Not Peanuts And Crackerjacks

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

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

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

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

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

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

On Being A Dad

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

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

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

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

On My Grandmother

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why I Love October

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

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

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

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

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