Christmas in October

Ok, I’m going to make this quick. It’s not good form to dance on anyone’s grave and all, but I just can’t let the events of tonight pass without a comment or two. I mean, I could wait until the morning and the clarity that always comes after a good night’s sleep. But I can’t help myself. Something as thrilling as the Yankees getting swept out of the playoffs is just too good to wait until morning. To hell with perspective!!

The Dark Side of the Force has been vanquished. The pinstripes crashed and burned in fantastic futility to the Detroit Tigers. In four games, the mighty $200,000,000 dollar payroll managed to dent home plate a laughable 6 times. All that money, all the swagger and superstar egos combined for a .157 batting average with 36 strikeouts. If that wasn’t awesome enough, we got to see the complete and total humiliation of A-Roid, the $30 million a year self-confessed cheater who got pinch hit for and unceremoniously benched for the last two games of the series. The Evil Empire is in shambles, a hulking, slow-footed, ageing collection of overpaid choke-artists. Derek Jeter’s horrible ankle injury is the only thing about this series that has put the slightest bit of a damper on my raging schadenfreude.

But, fear not Yankee fans. Over the off season I’m sure Cashman and the Steinbrenner boys will go out a buy up all the best free agents. Next year old Josh Hamilton will be playing center field, maybe you guys can work out a swap of A-Roid and Pujols, and I’m sure you’ll land a couple of big time pitchers, which will make it even sweeter watching a $250,000,000 payroll implode.

For this baseball fan, Christmas just came early!

What a Sight!!

On the day after the second Presidential debate, you might expect me to offer my brilliant insights into who won and why. But the thing is, the debates have managed to suck all the brilliance out of me. The other thing is, I only watched it during the commercial breaks of the Yankees v. Tigers game so, there’s that. When I did tune in, it seemed to be all hand waving, platitudinous talking points and questions being asked by that most rare of electoral species...the undecided, disappointed, democratic voter from Long Island. Let’s call it a technical draw and let the media declare Obama the clear winner, and move on.

What I do want to talk about is the amazing thing I saw yesterday. I was driving on Dumbarton between Lakeside and Staples Mill when I was nearly blinded by the most hideous vision. At this point I must pose a question to the ladies in this audience….WHY??

What I saw walking down the side walk was a very large woman, what our parents used to call “big-boned”. I’m thinking this woman would weigh in somewhere between 275 and 300. Her girth was spread out over a not so nimble frame of 5 feet, 4 inches, so, if she were a running back, the announcers would refer to her “low center of gravity”. Anyway, this particular woman was wearing a pair of blaze orange spandex pants. Her ample backside looked like it consisted of two or three watermelons with a couple of cantaloupes thrown in for good measure. And, all of them somehow stuffed into those pants the color of brand new, never used traffic cones. To complete the ensemble, she chose a smart midriff cut sweatshirt that let all the world see a two inch sliver of flab protruding out all the way around. The color of this odd mini-top was some sort of electric, neon magenta. The combination of these two colors was enough to not only stop traffic, but make traffic do u-turns and speed away in the opposite direction.

In fairness and in the interest of full disclosure, the point should be made that I am not exactly a fashion plate myself. No one has ever mistaken me for a GQ model. I’m a Men’s Warehouse kind of guy. I buy clothes once every two years whether I need any or not. But, what the heck? Why do women allow themselves to be seen in public adorned in this way? Do people like this ever avail themselves of mirrors? Did anybody look at this poor woman before she stepped outside and say something like…” What...wait, Edna. You may want to rethink that look.”

As my car passed her, I tried not to stare. But after awhile, I glanced in the side mirror to check out the front view. Emblazoned across the magenta mini-top, swaying mightily were the words…”I’M HOTT”. Yes dear. Yes, you are.

Missing My Mother

It’s been three and a half months since my mother passed away. In the week or so afterwards I was so caught up in the enormity of the thing, I never really had time to, for lack of a less hackneyed word, grieve. There were arrangements to be made with funeral homes and cemeteries. There was a funeral to plan. There wasn’t much time to devote to contemplating big issues of life, death, and loss. Then after all of that sound and fury had passed, our minds were fully occupied with the care of my Dad. To a large degree, the pass couple of months have consisted of hammering out a workable plan for what my father’s life would be like without Mom. Just recently, Dad’s life has begun to settle in to something close to a routine. Finally, last week I had some time to reflect on the fact that my mother is, in fact, gone.

Just before I traveled to Chicago, Pam was checking the messages on our old, seldom used land line. There she found a message from my mother. I listened to her words with a tightness in my throat. It was an uneventful message. She was calling to see of Pam could take her to a doctor’s appointment that she had forgotten about. It was not a good day for her. We could tell because she had that sadness in her voice that we had come to notice when she wasn’t feeling well. As I listened, I desperately wanted Pam to erase the message, but I said nothing. I preferred not to remember her this way.

When I was in Chicago, I had long portions of the day with very little to do. In my mind, I kept hearing her voice on that message, one I wished so much that I had never heard. During the Presidential debate I was texting back and forth with my son about the debate, but mostly we were enjoying talking with each other and catching up. When it was over, for an instant, I thought that I should call Mom and let her know how Patrick was doing. I always liked doing that with her. I’d call and tell her what the latest news was with Kaitlin or Patrick, and no matter how she was feeling or sounding when she took the call, within a few minutes she was on top of the world, so proud was she of her grandchildren. I wanted to talk with her about my kids. I wanted to ask her what she thought about things. I wanted to get her riled up about something since she always did her best talking when she was in a bit of an uproar. But the line was dead. She wouldn’t answer. She couldn’t answer. The full weight of the fact of her loss hit me on a treadmill in the workout room of the Michigan Avenue Marriott.

When I got back in town, I visited her grave for the first time since her funeral. Nothing. I felt nothing. She’s not there, for one thing. It brought back memories of caskets and funeral homes, and the slippery merchants of death that I had to deal with for 48 hours so that she could be placed in that spot. Instead of comforting memories of a wonderful, warm human being, I was thinking about people trying to sell me state of the art burial products and writing checks that would have appalled my mother. I could almost hear her voice saying…”That money should have been given to Lottie Moon, and I should have been buried in a pine box in the backyard!!”

Perhaps I’m a bad son for not spending the last three and a half months racked with sadness and longing. Or maybe I grieve differently than most people. I’ve never lost someone this important to me before so I have no prior experience on which to draw. All I know is…I miss my mother.

The Collapse of the Nationals

The dream season of the Washington Nationals came to a nightmarish end last night. The youngest team in baseball…looked it. After exploding out of the gate with 6 runs in the first 3 innings, it was going to take a monumental collapse and an epic comeback to end the Nationals’ season. Unfortunately, the long suffering Washington fans got both.

There are a multitude of ways to lose a game, and no one player or one play is ever solely to blame. But it is possible, in hindsight, to find the reason. Here it is. One stat tells the tale. The St. Louis Cardinal pitching staff issued one walk the entire game. The Washington Nationals pitchers issued a maddening 8 free passes. While bases on balls are never a good thing, they are especially toxic when you have a 6 run lead. If you’re going to be the victim of a heroic comeback, at least make them put the ball in play. Gio Gonzales wasn’t up for the challenge of October baseball. The 21 game winner pitched 10 innings in this series and issued 11 walks. The poor guy couldn’t throw a strike when it mattered to save his life. Do the Nationals make the playoffs without him? No way. Did he perform like their ace when they needed him? No way. But the bull pen wasn’t much better under the pressure of an elimination game. Both Edwin Jackson and Drew Storen walked two of the batters they faced and each of them scored.

None of this is meant to diminish the incredibly clutch performance of the Cardinals. They deserve everything they got. Any rational baseball fan has to admire the amazing fortitude and grit with which they compete. I just wish they had been forced to hit their way to glory. But, that’s baseball, and sometimes baseball can be a little bit like hell.

So, thanks Nationals, for entertaining me for the past 6 months. You have been fun to watch, and even though last night was agony, there’s always…next year.


PS...My wife stayed up to watch this game with me. Pam hates sports, and especially hates watching sports on television. That she would stay with me until after 12:30 in the morning tells you all you need to know about her awesomeness. On the other hand, maybe she was just worried that I might have a heart attack and didn't want to leave me alone!! Either way, thanks sweetie!

VP Debate In Pictures!!

 

Moderator:  Vice-President Biden, Currently in this country there are over 14 million Americans unemployed. When you count the number of people who have simply given up looking for work, the total unemployment rate is over 11%. Your administration, when argueing for the 850 BILLION dollar stimulus bill three years ago, promised us that if passed the unemployment rate would be cut down to 7% almost immediately because of all of the shovel-ready jobs that were out there. What happened?

 

Vice-President Biden:    "Hhahahahahahah!!!!"

Moderator: Mr. Vice President, the United Nations Atomic Energy Commission along with many of our own intelligence services have estimated that Iran is within months of obtaining a nuclear weapon. Considering the hostile rhetoric coming out of Iran over the past 40 years about wanting to wipe Israel off the map, are you at all concerned about what this developement might mean for the region?

Vice-President Biden:

                                                                              

                                    BRUHAHHAAAA!! Martha, you're killing me here!! HAHAHAHAHA!!

Moderator: Mr. Vice-President, our nation has added almost 5 trillion dollars to the national debt  just in the 3 and a half yours of your administration, all the while, your administration hasn't even passed a budget in over one thousand days. What plan have you submitted to Congress that proposes to fix these disturbing trends?

Vice-President Biden:

                                      Stop it!! STOP IT!!! Hahahahahahaha!!!!

Moderator: Mr. Vice-President, what is your reaction to the news today that Medscape Inc., the largest hair replacement firm in the United States has filed for chapter 11 bankrupsy protection?

Vice-President Biden:

                                                                               


                                                                             






                                                                                                               

 

 

 

 

A Baseball Complaint

Regular readers of this space know just how far in the tank I am for the game of baseball. Many of you don’t get it because you’re football people and that’s fine. Some of you are charmed by my love of baseball, considering it part of my eccentricity that I would be so fond of a game that has fallen from being the national pass time 50 years ago to an October annoyance today. That’s fair. But even I, especially someone like me, has earned the right to air a complaint about the game I love. Watching night after night of playoff baseball has brought this issue to the table and it’s time for a public airing.

Ok, one of the charms of this game is the fact that there is no time clock. Some games that are well-pitched can be over in less than 2 hours. Others, with errors and lots of runs can last much longer. Plus, in baseball there’s always the possibility of extra innings since we never play for ties. I love this about baseball. You go to a game and for the first time all week time is finally on your side, no deadlines, no glancing at the clock on the wall. You can actually have a conversation at a baseball game. The pace of the game isn’t break neck like the rest of the world. If I want manic I’ll go to work. Two minute drill? I’m sorry, that sounds like something the dentist does to you when he is really pissed off. However, having said all of this, a relatively modern baseball invention is testing my patience…the batting glove.

95% of players today wear not one, but TWO batting gloves. These leather and nylon menaces have done more to slow down the pace of play than anything since the introduction of the commercial break. It goes something like this. Hitter approaches the batters box. Before entering the box he tugs on the wrist band of each glove and stretches it tight until the Velcro patch locks it at the desired level of security. Then and only then does he step into the box, ready to hit. The pitcher peers in for the sign, gets the one he wants and fires a first pitch fastball that misses the outside corner. The umpire calls out “ball one”. Then, inexplicably the batter steps out of the box. For what reason, you might ask? Well, he must now refasten both of his batting gloves. But, why?? How could they possibly have become any looser from the violent torque involved in TAKING A PITCH!!!! This maddening habit of modern players is starting to get under my skin. First of all, how could Willie Mays, Mickey Mantle, Hank Aaron, and Ted Williams have hit all of those home runs without batting gloves? Do guys like Mark Raynolds, Adam Dunn and Danny Espinosa need batting gloves so that can strike out over 200 times in a single season? I guess I should be thankful that Nomar Garciaparra has retired. Old Nomar raised batting glove adjustment to an art form with the Tourette Syndrome-esk nervous tick of a train wreck that he ran out there after every pitch. Before leaving Boston he corrupted an otherwise fine player, Dustin Pedroia, with the same affliction. Sadly, it has spread like wild fire to almost every player in the game. Now it’s…step in box, take pitch, adjust batting glove, repeat. ARRGGHHH!!!

While I’m at it. Modern pitchers need to get a hold of some game tape of guys like Jim Kaat and Mel Stottlemyer, or any pitcher who hung up his cleats before the incorporation of ESPN. Those guys would get the ball from the catcher, maybe rub it up for two seconds, then fire it back. Their view was, they preferred to rush the hitter, to set the tempo, THEIR tempo. Now, pitchers are like human rain delays with all of their walking around the mound, grounds keeping duties, and irritating multiple shake-offs of sign after sign. The other night when Ryan Voglesong was pitching for the Giants, I swear, I thought I would throw something at my flat screen. PITCH THE BALL ALREADY FOR GOD”S SAKE!!!! I mean, the calm, rational, pastoral nature of the game is wonderful and all but when it’s 11:30 at night and a 1-1 ballgame is only in the bottom of the fourth inning?

You know what would be fun? How about doing a little time travel back to the early sixties. I introduce Mickey Mantle to the modern batting glove and convince him that the wrist straps MUST be adjusted after every pitch, whether he swings the bat or not. Then I watch him step into the box against Bob Gibson. What would be the chances of Mickey getting beaned if he stepped out to readjust his batting glove after taking a pitch? I’d say 100%.

It's Pam's World. I'm Just Living In It.

Like so many members of the human race, I am a creature of habit. In particular, my morning routine has taken on epic levels of monotony. I rise at 6:30. I walk down the stairs and let Molly out the back door. While she performs her own morning ritual, I begin a pot of coffee. After loading the machine, I reach into the middle jar on the counter and remove one dog biscuit. I open the back door where Molly is patiently, knowingly, waiting, slip the biscuit into her mouth as she comes back into the house. Then I sit on the love seat browsing the internet on my iPhone waiting for the coffee to brew. It’s the sort of rhythm that I have built into my life and it is oddly comforting.

I say all of this to demonstrate for you how dependable and reliable these routines are to me, and also so that you will then understand how remarkably pliable an attitude I have adopted when my wife chooses randomly to throw me a curveball.

Roughly 6 weeks ago I awoke one day and was effortlessly trudging through my morning rituals. I stepped into the shower and began shampooing my hair, then moved on, dreamlike, to shaving, then to rinsing off. I stepped out of the shower, grabbed my towel from the hook on the back of the door where it always hangs, as inflexible as the laws of physics. Then I reached for the blow dryer where it hangs from the suction cup hook on the large mirror. My hand grabbed air. Startled, I stepped back and noticed that the blow dryer along with the hook was gone. I must have stood there, mouth agape staring at the mirror for a minute or more. What could possibly have happened to it? I was at a total loss as to what to do next. Pam was still asleep and doesn’t do well when abruptly awakened. I searched the cabinets under both sinks. No blow dryer. We hadn’t just returned from a trip so she couldn’t have left it in a suitcase. It was just gone.

Then I remembered that two days ago, after Kaitlin had returned back to graduate school, I had found Pam in one of her scorched earth style cleaning jags. She had taken everything out of the kids bathroom down the hall and scrubbed the place within an inch of it’s life. The idea occurred to me that maybe she had taken the blow dryer into the kids bathroom and left it by mistake. I walked down the hall and around the corner and discovered that Pam hadn’t merely left the blow dryer there, she had found it a new home. There it was in all of it’s 2000 watt beauty, hanging smartly from my missing hook in it’s new spot on the mirror over Patrick’s sink.

That was 6 weeks ago. It’s still in there. Pam hasn’t said a word about it and even worse, I haven’t either. So each and every morning after toweling off, I walk naked down the upstairs hall past our giant palladium window hoping there’s nobody standing on the front porch with their hands cupped around their eyes peering inside to see if anyone’s at home. I should say at this point that I’m not a robe type of guy. I mean I’ve tried them but they’re not for me. So every morning I pause at my bedroom door, peer around the corner to make sure the coast is clear, then I walk down the hall to use the blow dryer.

How did this happen? How did I sit passively by and allow my wife to alter the physical reality of my daily routine without even a whisper of protest? Well, here’s the thing, this house belongs to Pam. Yes, I know, I had it built, and I’m the one basically paying for it, but this place is her domain. After 28 years of marriage I have learned a few things. First of all, if she decides to move the location of the blow dryer, then…well, there must be an awfully good reason for doing so. Asking her to explain her reasoning would be like asking your mother why the sky is blue, or why it is that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and not the other way around. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter!

So, now I have a new routine. Honestly, I’ve already gotten used to it. If after a few months I wake up one day and she’s moved it to the mirror in the downstairs bathroom, then I’ll know that she’s just messing with me. For now, we’re good. It’s all good.