Coming Out

My brother called me on Saturday. His voice was tight, arrow sharp. Driven.

"What's dad's number?"

No hello, how are ya? "You sound angry."

"I want to talk to him before he dies."

"I don't understand."

"Just give me his damn number!"

"Hold on." I looked it up on my cell phone and repeated the numbers. He dismissed me with a half mumbled thanks.

Neither of us got the better deal in the high stakes parental lottery. We have different mothers, he and I, but our father is one and the same. His mother was my first (and long time ex) step-mother, the one who has inspired more than a few posts and a short story on the subject of abuse. She favored my brother John and beat me for the crime of being alive. My father, on the other hand, favors me and completely ignores my brother and my sister, but cries on holidays that nobody calls.

When my brother John was a boy, I'm guessing around middle school age, my aunt told me that when she asked John about his father, he simply started bawling. A little boy whose father totally abandoned him. No calls, no support. Gone.

I've asked Dad several times. What don't you call? Because, he said, he's got nothing good to report. Believe me, I've tried to reason with him, that the simple regard would be enough, an assurance that he was thinking of his son. Love doesn't have a price tag. It simply is, and only needs expression to be real.

Now his son is almost forty. And in most ways I still regard my brother as that little boy who never grew up.

Until now.

He called back an hour later. I can't reconstruct the conversation we had. My brother is a lot like his father. In some ways a carbon copy. He has a little girl that he adores and takes care of, but he has another little girl that he won't acknowledge. A little girl that will grow up resenting the father that abandoned her. The girl's mother was a one night stand. One night of mindless drunken fun with a lifetime of consequences.

Might he get an angry call years from now? Will the pieces come together in his head? Will he regret and make amends, or will he turn away unable to bear the weight of a lifetime of wasted opportunities?

My father is getting old. He's lived in the shadows, evading creditors, many of whom used to be his friends—and most importantly the government. He's volatile, turning on those closest to him with irrational anger and sometimes violence. He calls me regularly, and wants me to move my family near to him. I don't have the heart to tell him no. But I won't say yes. How could I sacrifice the house that love built on the altar of dysfunction and delusion? I love him, but not more than my children. I made a plan with my brother to go into business with him in Houston. My wife is on board, and we are just waiting for the real estate market to rebound enough to make it possible to sell our home and make the move.

But I haven't told my father. He has so little. It's his own damn fault, but guilt tears at me like a desperate drowning cat.

It turns out that I don't need to worry about it anymore.

It's taken care of.

My brother did it for me.

Father’s Day

I had big plans to write a long post about my special Father's Day, but I have a small problem: my memory ain't what it used to be. Although several New Years resolutions have been made, I still don't carry around that notebook to record those cute little moments, nor do I used the digital hand-held tape recorder my wife gave me two years ago that I swore I would always have at my side. So I have to rely on this rusty bucket called my head that retains memories like a strainer holds water.

The day was about the little things. No big presents or grand gestures of love. Nope. But lots of little ones.

The store bought card (pictured) from Jackson was perfect. At a glance it might seem that he picked a card off the shelf at random, but far from it. I like to sit on the diving board of our swimming pool, feet dangling in the deep end, while I play and sing to the kids while they splash around at the other end. When Jackson was a only three or four, I would play a little as he went to sleep. I've never considered him a fan, and I've never gotten a request, so this card is nothing short of perfection. Gee, you're great Pa! Now can I have some money? Look out world; he's one smart kid.

From my wife the card said simply: Sometimes I can't believe how lucky I am to be sharing my life with you. Sue me, but I got a little choked up. It's official. I'm getting old.

One of the highlights of my day, besides sleeping in and playing Call of Duty while the wife was doing yard work, was my little Emmett sneaking up behind me while I was sitting at my desk. Buck naked—as usual. He lifted his left arm and pointed at his arm pit with his right index finger. "See, daddy? I'm growing some fuzz." And for the record, not even close!

I'll end this with something Jackson did for me in his second grade class. The paper is titled, "Top 10 Reasons Why I Love My Dad." Each of the top ten was started for him with a blank underlined portion for him to fill out, similar to the concept of a Mad-Lib. Here is what he wrote:

10. I love my Dad because he reads me stories.

9. I love my Dad because he helps me do my homework.

8. I love my Dad when he makes me laugh by when he says jokes. And tickles me.

7. I love my Dad because he taught me how to read.

6. I love to hear my Dad sing everything.

5. I love my Dad because he finds time to play with me.

4. I know my Dad cares because he is my father.

3. I know my Dad is smart because he is my daddyo. ( I read this out loud originally as "he is my daddy, yo!)

2. I love my Dad because he works so hard at work.

1. I love my Dad because he's the BEST DAD EVER! (Ok, this line was preprinted as is, but I'll take it anyway)

A Picture Paints a Thousand Words

OK, I Won’t Keep You Hanging

Sorry about the brevity of my last post. Yes, it's more soccer drama, and at the time of posting, I just didn't have the energy to write the words. Now that the weekend has passed, I'm back on center.

I live in a small town. This has some well-documented disadvantages. You never know who you can trust. Before the soccer board meeting I had sent out an email to my friends to come and support my candidate for in-town soccer coordinator, a position of which whose occupant was in contention. The other candidate was part of the problem and frankly had to go, but he was also in all other ways a good guy. My wife and I were conflicted, felt bad even, that we would be standing up publicly against him. He left the soccer board meeting when I showed up, throwing in the towel as it were, which elated my wife and me.

Well, that person directed an email to me on a distribution list that includes a great many people in this town that was similar in nature to that of Coachzilla's earlier email to me, except this one was even more pointed. At this point however, after enduring the personal attacks to date, I found myself strangely calm, almost numb, objective even. I simply took it in and wrote back to the list. I will not respond to personal attacks, but will gladly take it offline. My only concern is for the kids of our in-town program, and how best to create balanced teams for the enjoyment of all. I refrained from saying more. Believe me, there were lines that were written and deleted, written and deleted, edited for neutrality.

For some perspective, this man was the coordinator of the under six soccer teams, Coachzilla of the under eights, and both are together as coach and assistant coach on a team (with their own kids as members) in each. Both teams have the best talent, and in each case, there are a string of complaints from parents and coaches about team stacking. I won't go into all the examples, but when I heard that the same pattern was being repeated by this duo in the under six league that they have been doing together in my son's league, I had to take action. The difference in the case of this guy and Coachzilla is that I actually think he is a decent guy who is either behaving badly or is being used. Either way, he had to go.

He got wind of what I was doing, so a good part of this town has labeled me as trouble with a capital T. I have become a divisive character that has come to represent the numerous folks that have had enough. Fine. When I really think about it, I prefer having the reputation as someone who will stand up for himself and his beliefs than someone who sits idly by, complaining about everything and doing nothing.

I saw him at the final soccer event on Saturday and walked right up to him and told him that I hoped someday we could still be friends, that if he walked away from the soccer board because of me it was a mistake, that he should come back. He told me that he heard I had a problem with him every time he went to the grocery store or the post office, and that he was sick of it. Then, I said, we should talk about it some time.

And that's where it is. I'm not sure if I got through to him or not, but I hardly think you should condemn someone based on what some gossip relates to you third-hand. Some of what he says is technically true, but I am perfectly willing to speak to him about my feelings. But I think he knows that. And I further think that he was just using me as an excuse. Because, as I said before, I've come to represent a group of people whose voice is growing in volume. He wasn't running from me. The man saw the writing on the wall and spared himself the indignity of being voted out.

One of my soccer mom's told me that Coachzilla confided in her that she (Coachzilla) felt bad about our recent falling out. My answer: "And you believed her?"

Strangely though, throughout this most recent development, Coachzilla has stayed out of it. There are three possible explanations. The first is that she really does feel bad and has come to realize the error of her ways. The second is that she lost her cool in the last meeting and got slapped around like a pinball, deciding now to let someone else carry the torch. The third, and most likely, is that she is biding her time, a lioness crouched and concealed in the waving grass by the watering hole, waiting for me to placidly dip my head for a drink.

The Drama’s Not Over Yet

Let's just say that I've made some enemies here in my small town.

Stay tuned…

A Bit Geeked

It's getting to be that time of year again. Can you smell it in the air? Football season is almost upon us. Well, maybe not for most people, but for pigskin-heads like me there isn't any other sport. So while the NBA finals have the rest of the country glued to their sets, I am combing my favorite Dallas Cowboys websites for any information about voluntary workouts, waiting with baited breath for training camp to begin.

I won't bore you with it; I promise!

What is interesting though is a new blog by Dallas middle linebacker Kevin Burnett, who gives the inside scoop of the off season, and fields questions from his readers. And what he is discovering is that his fans are very well informed. It's amazing how much football knowledge is out there. I don't even bother to comment. Burnett has been stunned by the responses, and even comments at one point that some of the fans should coach. I thought he might have been facetious.

So saddle up. If you have a favorite team that is not from a certain Texas town that doesn't start with big D, then my condolences. Our major weakness, our only weakness, i.e. our secondary, was plugged in the off season in a most unimaginable way, with a first round draft pick and the free agent signing of the equivalent (legal troubles aside, see Tank Johnson for historical precedent), not to mention a seventh round pick that many experts say might be the steal of the draft. All our skill players at every other position are back and signed long term. So mark it down. The Cowboys will DOMINATE. I'm biased of course, and I think I might have said this last year, but this is not drug induced.

Toke. Strained voice. Cowboys. Superbowl. Champions. 2009. Nobody even comes close.

Exhale.

And cough.

Now back to work.

Ramping Up

My writing instructor and friend, David Daniel, has just published his latest novel, Reunion, which is available at bookstores and online. I encourage you to pick up a copy and give him a read. He is a brilliant writer, with such a knack for turning a phrase. As a young man he published somewhere in the magnitude of eighty short stories, though that number could be much greater. It's funny, but as a wannabe writer it would make sense if I were a better observer, so that factoids like the one I just "quoted" could be a bit more reliable. Let's just say for argument's sake that Dave has written a shitload of short stories. The man is a machine. His prose at times has a poetic lilt. He's given me permission to take an expression of his and mold it into my own, but to me it just feels so, well, not right. He insists that as long as you don't copy another's works, if you pull it with your own strings, it transforms into something uniquely you. "Call it inspiration," he said with a paternal smile. "Art imitates art, and we are all inspired by others. Nobody writes in a vacuum, and all authors were and are all readers first."


At his Reunion launch party, I met some of his closest friends, guys he met in the service back in the days of Viet Nam. By the way, David is a conscientious objector, and did not suffer the horrors of that blight of a war. In fact, the theme of his latest novel is about the loss of innocence, in those far away high school days before the world would change forever. But as I was saying, many of his friends are poets and writers at various levels of success. Most have books you can pick up at the local Barnes and Noble. One in particular is a columnist, whose columns my wife has read in our local town paper.


The question was always posed to me that night: "Are you writing?" No, I would reply, I'm taking a break. "Why?" I lost my confidence and my way. I told them how my self-doubt had stopped me cold, how what others thought of my writing became more important to me than my own opinion. One man in particular really let me have it. "What the fuck are you doing writing for the sake of other people? Huh?" His face was in mine now, his anger genuine. "Why do you write stories? What made you want to put something down on paper?" Because, I said, I have something to say. I might not know what it is, but when I'm writing it, and I'm in that zone, there is no better feeling in the world. Like free-falling. "Then sit your ass down and write, and don't give a shit who's going to read it. Do it for yourself." He accented his last syllable with a thumping finger poke to my chest.

I bought him a beer, which tamed the savage beast.

It helps to be surrounded by people with like interests, because they just understand.

And they know just what to say to get you through.

Oh, and if you do pick up a copy of Renunion, take a look at the acknowledgements section. You might see a name you recognize.

Let There Be Justice

I'll be damned if there isn't justice in this world after all.

I really don't have a lot of time, so here it is in a nutshell. Last night only four more parents showed at the Soccer Board meeting (besides us), so our numbers weren't strong. But I think it intimidated the competition because he shook hands with the board president and said, "I think it's for the best." So it was no contest. My man got the job. Now Coachzilla will be a coach like any other, not only lacking control over player placement, but now she has an enemy in the captain's chair. We'll see what kind of coach she is with a normal team of kids—which may just work out in her favor, she being an excellent skills coach.

Towards the end of the meeting, and right before the elections, the president asked if anyone had any observations about the past season, things they would like to see changed. When nobody offered anything up, I said, "Ok, I think there needs to be more parity in the league. There's clearly a handful of teams that have all the talented players—"

Coachzilla interrupted. "Oh, like there hasn't been any effort to balance teams!"

I felt my face turning red. It's a flaw of mine. But I pressed on. "I realize that there has been some effort," I partially lied here to keep it clean, "but—"

"You have no idea how I have busted my ass to make this league right," she screamed.

Another parent, "Coachzilla, you need to let him finish a sentence."

"But he's accusing me of—"

"Nobody is accusing you of anything, Coachzilla," another voice chimed in.

"There are a couple teams that are really struggling," I continued, "such as Coach D and Coach…" I drew a blank.

"DON'T NAME NAMES, SCOTT!" She was getting shrill.

"Coachzilla," another parent chimes in, "you need to calm down."

I continue. "I'm not here make accusations, my only interest is making a set of teams that are roughly equal so that on any given Saturday they might win. Nobody is getting steamrolled, and no one is mowing."

"Oh, and I suppose we should just ignore parent requests then," Coachzilla supplied. "What do you do when a parent doesn't want to play on someone's team? Huh?"

"You tell them," I said, "that you will take that request into account when you make your final roster decisions, that although you respect their wishes, your first priority is to the kids, that creating equal teams fosters a better and more friendly environment for all."

More guffawing and jawing and huffing and puffing etc.

"Listen," I said, "by the time the kids are 8, we as coaches have spent three years with them. After peewee, we sorta know who the players are, U6 even more so, but by U8, there is absolutely no excuse to have overloaded teams."

This went on for some time, and I rarely got to finish a sentence, and what you see above is my reconstruction of a lot of bickering, so it wasn't all so smooth. But a few voices from the board, voices I have known and didn't think supported my way of thinking, spoke up that night. From now on, before a new season begins, all the returning coaches will get together and talk about rosters and what can be done to equal things out.

And no more parent requests.

Ahhhhh.

So a major victory was scored by the good guys last night. No more nepotism in this league. I have to give a special thanks to my wife who made all the phone calls, who organized our strike, who got me going on the path. Last night I discovered that if I keep my head and speak my mind, that others actually do listen and respond. Who'da thunk?

A New Sheriff?

Against my better judgment, we played Coachzilla last weekend and got our butts stomped six to one. It would have been worse, but the game was called in the early fourth on account of thunder showers. During the game, Coachzilla recused herself to the sidelines, giving the reigns to her assistant coach, who is also the coordinator of the entire in-town soccer league, meaning he has the ultimate power to move players from team to team. My wife was appalled that Coachzilla didn't actually coach the game, and it was concerning to me too. I was sure that somehow it was a manipulation on her part to make me look like a bully, that I had cowed her into submission.

So my wife called the assistant coach and asked him point-blank why Coachzilla sat with the parents. He claimed that he wanted to coach the game, that Coachzilla was doing him a favor by letting him.

Silly man. Doesn't he know that this is a small town? That people talk? Turns out that Coachzilla openly admitted that she gets too worked up when she coaches against me, and that she gave herself a timeout. Isn't she a noble beast?

My heart wasn't in the game, and neither were the kids'. And Coachzilla's team was possessed, running like their asses were on fire. And up six to one, they were still playing for blood. My defenders for some reason ran to the other side of the field, so Coachzilla-Junior sent his son to our side of the field to camp out, waiting all alone for the ball to come his way. The kid scored twice this way. In the big leagues, this is called being offsides, and I would never condone our kids playing like this. But technically it's legal at this level. Again, my heart wasn't in it. As I saw this happening, I could have prevented it by calling it out to the defenders, but a part of me just said, "Take the victory then leave us alone."

But tonight there is a big vote coming up. Parents of children that play soccer can attend. Coachzilla-Junior wants to continue having control over the league, and Coachzilla wants a power position as well, so she can continue to gather the young talent on her PeeWee and Under Six teams, cutting out the players that can't play so well. A coach from Under Six is running for the position of in town coordinator. My wife and I have called all our friends, including parents on my past and present teams, to come and vote against them. I don't think the opposition even knows we're coming. It's going to be an eye opener when so many people come to this meeting to voice their strong desire for change. The new guy wants to institute a system that we currently use for baseball placement. Have an evaluation day then divide the teams up equally, giving all the kids the best chance to have fun, not to get blown out or to blow away, but to compete on an even playing field.

How novel.

So cross your fingers that we have enough kick to buck these crooked cowboys. It's high time we had a new Sheriff to clean up this town.

Toast and Patch

I was so wrapped up in my little soccer drama last week that I didn't give proper homage to my meeting with the Ultra Toast Mosha God—who from here on out will be referred to as Toast for reasons that should be obvious—and his buddy Patch last week. It's a little sobering to live just outside of Boston and have to be shown around the city by two tourists from Bristol, UK. And ironically it turned out to be de-sobering as well.

My newest friends got a first-hand glimpse at a previous-me, the me that could be, the me that wanders off the reservation, away from responsibility and sensibility and into the world of no consequence. It was quite liberating. Thank goodness the guys couldn't stay out longer. After three beers I was in the mood to rock and roll, and when that happens I could wake up anywhere from somebody's couch to a back alley dumpster.

I was worried driving into the city that I wouldn't recognize Toast from the few pictures I had seen of him. Our plan was fairly loose, to meet at Quincy Market. As I approached the Government Square exit and examined the Big Dig tunnel roof for loose tiles, I imagined half the night being pissed away, fruitlessly searching for someone I had only seen in blog photos.

I was a half hour early so I took the time to find a parking place, avoiding the garages—a great investment for the owner to be sure—to save myself thirty dollars. A short casual, people-watching stroll later, a block away from and in full view of its pavilions, I asked a young couple if they could direct me to Quincy Market. They smiled and pointed.

Doh! Thanks.

All my worries were for naught. The two of them were the only two on the steps, reclining casually like two sleepy cats, exuding a comfort and world-ease that unconsciously invited the same to passersby. A quick glimpse of his profile and I knew it was him.

I think I said, "Are you the Ultratoast?" I meant to say the whole thing, but does anyone really know it? Does he? Try saying it out loud. Ultra Toast Mosha God. It takes practice. Come to think of it, I totally forgot to ask him what it means.

And how would my greeting have been perceived if I had mistaken someone else for him? An overactive imagination could have supplied a few interesting explanations for sure. I had uttered a code phrase, for instance, that demanded a scripted answer, like "Only with magna-butter and deoxyribonucleic-marmalade," or "Nine out of ten dentists surveyed prefer Jeannie over Samantha any day."

At any rate, he was not what I expected. I had in mind someone around five foot eleven. As he rose to shake my hand, we stood nose-to-nose. At six foot four I have gotten used to being upwards to a head taller than most everyone else. I had the same experience with Mr. Schprock, a notable absence from this get-together, who already had plans for the evening of a fun and family nature. Bummer. He would have really enjoyed this.

Toast introduced me to his buddy Patch, who reminded me of Adam from the second season of Heroes—blonde hair, square jaw and a friendly, welcoming air. We all shook hands and exchange pleasantries, the like of which nobody can ever remember. It didn't take them long to figure out that I knew nothing about the city. The Celtics were playing and they knew of a nice quiet bar where we could get a beer and take in the game. They seem a bit shocked and amused that I didn't care one way or the other about basketball. Perhaps their idea of the typical American was influenced by crowd shots at Fenway and the movie Independence Day—which might not be far from the mark.

As we walked along on the city sidewalks, Toast brought up that business with my soccer team, which he had taken the time to read about on my blog. I felt a certain ease with Toast and Patch that I can't really explain, other than to say that I have been a long time reader of Toast's, and many are the stories of parties and excessive alcoholic consumption—which reminds me of the good times I once had with my buddies. His blog is clean, but there are hints of political incorrectness here and there. So on this night, for old time's sake, and because I damn well felt like it, I stepped up to the plate and let her rip. Such was my disposition when Toast pushed my hot topic button, the big red shiny button, i.e. Coachzilla, so I let he and Patch know what I thought about her in the most base, guttural and Anglo-Saxon way possible, distilling my words and syllables to their lowest common form. "She's a…"

As Twain wrote in Tom Sawyer, let's draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.

This had the happy side-effect of setting the tone for the evening. As Toast would later write, "He is so open that it would seem rude to not join in." It took a little while, perhaps like those first few face-twisting bites of an orange with freshly brushed teeth, but they got the hang of it.

Their quiet tavern had filled up in their absence. Standing room only. We picked the only spot open to us, which is classically the most annoying to waitresses, obstructing their path to the drink ordering station at the end of the bar, denoted by the pair of hooped brass bars that resemble in-ground swimming pool hand rails. Toast offered to buy the first round, and who was I to argue.

The roar of the bar crowd proved to be the undoing of any meaningful conversation—my ears already have a constant hum from cranking my Sony Walkman as a teen. But before we departed for greener pastures Patch introduced me (fact check: was it Patch that suggested it?) to Smiddicks, my new favorite beer. As Jules would say, "Mmmm-hmmm, this is a tasty beverage."

We found an Irish Pub with far less people, but roughly twice the noise due to a solo guitar player/singer, but we managed to squeeze in conversation between songs. I noticed that Toast had long fingernails on his right hand which he purposely allows for picking at the guitar. As we approached the bar, Toast sang a line of the song the guitarist was performing. His voice was perfect. I regretted that he didn't have his guitar with him. As it turns out, he plays sometimes at establishments he passes through. Too bad this wasn't one of them.

I bought the first round as lips loosened even further. Mainly the conversation centered on the fairer sex, though I decline to delve into the meatier details contained therein. But I made a connection with Toast on the subject of mindless sex vs. meaningful relationships, although he might not have realized it. As a teenager my beer-toting, braless and saggy-breasted step mother used to tell me that I was way too serious when it came to girls. She might have had a point, but I was always searching for "The One." And I don't mean Keanu Reeves, even if he could act. So it was pleasantly and mildly surprising when Toast told me that he is not into one-night-stands; that he is searching for his soul-mate. Growing up in the era of Porky's and Spring Break had programmed my mind to prioritize the former, even though my heart was never into the hunt.

But life has a way of testing our convictions. No sooner than we had taken our next sip and set our glasses down did a beautiful blonde traipse by our table, arresting our conversation into awed silence. Toast looked up and gave me a wry smile. "You know that stuff I was just saying? Forget about all that."

I could go on and on. I started this post on Monday, and here we are almost a week later. Time to publish this bad boy. So Toast and Patch, cheers to both of you. Thanks for making me one of your stops. It was truly a pleasure.

Upcoming

I'm working on a post that details my meeting with Ultra Toast Mosha God, but it is taking me a while to get done. I volunteered at my son's preschool this morning, which is my normal time for wasting company money.

More later. I'll be dropping by and saying hi.

And by the way, after my son's second grade concert last night we took him out for ice cream and ran smack into Coachzilla. I acted like nada mucho and was as pleasant as a sunny day. It's better that way.

Headaches and Handshakes

I want to recap what became of my refusal to rematch Coachzilla, as Alan so eloquently coined. My own nickname for her also starts with a C, but this blog is PG-13.

In a nutshell, I've decided that Coachzilla doesn't just have ego problems. She might be certifiable--a criminal genius in the mold of Dr. Evil. I wrote a nice polite letter—and I really mean it was polite—respectfully declining a rematch. I'll tell you what, you be the judge.

Hi (Coachzilla),

I've been doing a lot of thinking about having a rematch with your team. Last year when I asked you for the same, I mentioned it to another parent who thought I was putting too much pressure on my kids. So I took back the request. I don't want to do that to them this year either. That was a big game for the kids, a real bright spot for the season, and I don't want to take that away from them. If you want to have us play (Coach A) and (Coach B) again, that's fine. A couple of my kids got hurt playing (Coach C) and I would rather avoid that one as well. Sorry if this disappoints you, but I have to put the feelings of my kids first.

Scott

This was her reply:

Sorry, but the schedule is already set. The strong teams must play each other again as I stated at the beginning of the season. I already changed the new schedule twice for other coaches and I'm not changing it again. I gave coaches an opportunity to voice their opinions two weeks ago. If you're putting too much pressure on your kids, then you need to re-evaluate your coaching style. My team has nothing to do with it and I'm not juggling the season so teams can keep their records in a league that doesn't keep stats.

This really teed me off. Actually, it sent me into a rage. While it's true that I had a chance to contest the rescheduling of the games, it didn't really sink in what she was doing until I had time to think about it. I'm a slow burner. Last year she had an undefeated team, and my team had only lost one game. I thought it would be really cool to rematch her so that my team would have a chance to be considered the best. One of the parents looked at me askance when I mentioned a rematch, and it hit me that I was using the kids to glorify myself as a coach. But notice how in her reply she takes that single instance and twists it to epidemic proportion. But what really got me is how she accused me of trying to preserve my team's record. I replied that I was insulted, and she wrote back, cc'ing league management. I had a discussion with the league president, and he told me that he put her up to the rescheduling of the games because some of the weaker teams were getting beat ten to nothing. So I was wrong that she was abusing her power, and I wrote her back and told her so. I added the lines: I really wish you wouldn't have called my motives into question. I'm a reasonable person and I always try to do what's right.

Here's what she had to say about that:

I didn't call your motives into question. Several parents and other coaches did, as well as what I have witnessed during two games against your team.

Last season you promised your team ice cream if they beat my team and did this in front of me and my players. This season you left one of your weak players in net the entire game and rarely subbed your strong players. While I understand you had only two subs, those subs complained that they got no playing time. Additionally, you were witnessed yelling at your own son during a game after he was hurt and doubled over in pain. This is not criticism, this is a suggestion to back-up and think about what our purpose is when coaching U8. I am an intense coach as well and have had this same conversation with myself many times. You are not the only coach I have spoken to this season. And I am not the only coach to have an issue with your team. As coordinator of the program it is my job to check in with you now and then and point you in the right direction. If you see this as a personal attack, then I'm sorry. My timing in speaking to you after our game may have been unfortunate but I would have said the same things to you later in the day.

If you choose not to play my team, then you are doing a disservice to the kids. I will not reschedule and my team will simply have a scrimmage that day.

(Coachzilla)

She totally missed it that I had capitulated, deciding to play the game, thus perhaps some of her anger. But look at the attacks on my character! Last year, before the game, I took my kids to the other side of the field, away from all eyes and ears and told them that if they won the game I would buy them ice cream. This is something we did in Little League when I was a kid, and I thought it would be extra motivation. But it was a mistake, and it was more of that pressure that I shouldn't have been applying. But I did this away from her. It's just that one of the kids ran over to her side and told her kids. She makes it sound like I used pyrotechnics and a pa system. Mind you that she cc'd league management with this.

As for yelling at my son… With this statement she knocked my teeth out. At the end of the last game, Jackson took an elbow to the stomach. He had his hands over it and was walking down the field, slightly stooped but moving. The other team was advancing on our goal and had he been running he could have prevented it. Had I known the extent to which he was actually hurt, I would have called a timeout. As with most kids, my son tends to dramatize when he gets a bump or a scratch. I yelled out for him to run twice, and when the goal was scored and he still wasn't running, I knew something was really up. This comment from Coachzilla really hurt me deep.

I called my son's school and told them to make my son a walker. I was picking him up. I was reeling with guilt and shame, and frankly near tears to think that my son would think I valued the outcome of a soccer game over his well-being. I put my arm around him as he met me outside the cafeteria, where we were surrounded by other waiting parents, just beside the school busses that were being boarded by the other kids. As I was struggling for the words, we walked in silence beside Bus 5 when a head popped out of the rearmost window.

"Hey Coach!" It was one of my boys.

"Hey Austin," I replied as I watched his smile widen.

Over the top of his head came another of my boys, waving frantically, eyes pinched in a gesture that I could only explain as proud. "Hey Coach!"

I pointed at him, feeling a little emotional now. "Hey Luke."

Beside the next bus, one of the kids that doesn't get to play as much as the others pounded on his glass and waved hello as well. And another as we got close to the parking lot.

On the ride home I asked Jackson, "Am I a mean coach?"

"No!"

"You can tell me, Jackson. If you ever have a problem with me I will listen. I promise I will."

"I know, dad."

"Do you think the other kids on the team are having fun? Do they think I'm too hard on them?"

"Dad, why did Austin and Luke, and Patrick and Hanna say hi to you?"

We both laugh.

And everything is ok.

The next day I saw one of the coaches from the Navy Blue team, who, if I can intimate from Coachzilla's email, complained about my treatment of my injured son.

"Coach C," I said, "It has come to me via the grapevine that you may have taken issue with the way I treated my son at the end of our game the other day."

"What are you talking about?" She looked bewildered.

I explain. The add, "I want you and everybody else to know that I love my son more than anything in the world. I would do anything for him." My eyes are a little glossed and I am cursing my lack of control. She sees this and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Listen," she said, "we're competitive coaches, and some of the others just don't understand. When one of our kids goes down, we yell at them three sometimes four times before we realize that, oh shit, he really is hurt."

"Exactly!" I can't believe what I'm hearing. "You never know when they're really hurt because kids are always being over-dramatic."

"Listen," she said, "people around here talk sometimes just to hear themselves talk. Don't worry about it."

So Coachzilla put the Jedi Mind Trick on me, and I bought it for a day. She is softening me up for our rematch, but I'm pressing on with the way I've been doing things. I'm pretty sure there is nothing I can do to please her aside from throwing the game. It scares me what she did, and to the length she was willing to travel to knock me down. My wife told me that anyone who has met me for ten minutes knows that I would never mistreat my kids, much less my son.

It turns out that Coachzilla is defending herself in the Peewee league at an all-coaches meeting for her aggressive style of coaching five-year-olds. Apparently she has compiled a team that is dominating the other teams and she has pissed off every other coach and parent there as well.

I've decided that no further comment is needed by me. I must never underestimate her again. She really tried to hurt me.

Bad Parenting/Bad Coaching

I'm not sure how this is going to come off, so I'll just tell it and let you decide. Amazingly enough, this involves little kids—not high school or college age. These are eight-year-old kids. I coach my son's soccer team, and we had a great season last spring, losing to only one team. We lost one of our best players this season and got another who has never played and can't really run, shoot, dribble or pass, so I expected that this would be a lesson to the kids in "you win some, you lose some." And that has turned out to be the case.

Realize before I go any further that I probably know every kid that plays on every team since I have been volunteering at my son's school for in-school class assistance and at recess, and I have been coaching since Peewees. The one team we lost to last season went undefeated. The coach is very good, but she is also in charge of the league, and has the authority to move kids from one team to another. So what she does when she has a player of similar skill sets to the boy that joined my team this season, she finds a reason to cut him or her. Two seasons ago, she got rid of a sweet girl because she got in a fight with one of the other players. One season ago, she was "told" that my team was too strong, so she gave me one of hers. Then, stunningly, she was winning every game, and rubbing it in after each one, bragging about her strategy and her coaching style.

So by a miracle this season, two of my less-skilled players didn't make the game that we played her team, so I never had to sub out my stars, and we beat her by a single goal. When I went over to her sideline, I explained that it was unfortunate timing for her that our team was stacked the way it was. In other words, I was trying to be gracious. She cut me off and asked me what business I had playing a kid in goal for the whole game (we're supposed to switch goalies every quarter) and I told her that nobody wanted to play it but the kid that did. Then she told me my kids were too rough, which is maddening because my kids are constantly reminded about sportsmanship and fair play, even when teams like hers (yes, I said hers) is throwing elbows, pushing and shoving. I gently reminded her of this (I have witnesses that will testify in court that I was saintly in my patience with her), and she said, "I already talked to my kids about it now talk to yours!"

She had one other criticism, which I bore silently. Then I took my kids out for ice cream.

The next week, as in this last weekend, we played Navy Blue. We went down three nothing within minutes and I thought we were goners, but the kids rallied to tie it up at half. Navy Blue went up again, and again we tied. Now all game, two or three of their kids were elbowing and pushing. But worst, which is illegal at this level in our league, they were slide-tackling, knocking our kids on their faces. The ref was just a passive kid, and I should have protested before it got out of hand, which it was about to. Our star forward took a cleat in the thigh. He buckled over and lay in the fetal position crying. I didn't see who did it or if it was on purpose. I took him out and the game continued. Then, with thirty seconds left in the game, the same kid elbowed my son in the stomach and took the ball down field while my son stumbled forward, arms crossed over his midsection, a couple of other kids of mine looking on concerned. Navy Blue scored and won the game.

It happened so fast that I didn't think to stop the game. The other team celebrated, did the chant and came to shake. I hollered over to the other coaches that they should wait since my kids were in traction.

Kids. Right now I just want to scream. The coaches from the other team didn't even apologize, nor did they seem to think anything untoward had occurred. I wanted to rage at them, but I didn't want to be like that coach I was just describing, even though it would have been justified to do so. They would have just written me off as being just like her, a sore sport and so competitive as to have lost my perspective.

The only thing I told my son after the game is that if another player plays him dirty like that again, to feel free to knock the kid straight on his ass. Because the kid isn't going to learn any lessons from his parents, one of which was his coach, the other looking on from their goal. The only way a kid without any guidance is going to learn sportsmanship is to hear it from the birds whistling around his head. No way am I putting my son in harm's way again by putting a sheep in with a den of wolves. When in Rome…

Anway, I'm pretty steamed right now. Now the team that was undefeated last season, that lost to us this season and to the same Navy Blue we just lost to, wants a rematch. Last season I asked the coach for a rematch to end the season, but a parent from my team said that it might be putting too much pressure on the kids, so I told the team's coach I had made a mistake. She curtly told me she wasn't going to do it anyway. With roles reversed, she didn't bother to ask me this season; she simply used her scheduling authority to make it so, under the political guise of "keeping it competitive."

We're talking about kids, aren't we? Or is this a staging ground for the egos of frustrated parents. I think I realized the latter was my own case last season and had the fortitude to recognize it and keep it fun. But now what do I do?

Should I refuse?

Five Things

I wasn't officially tagged for this, and I won't tag anyone after me. Trevor once commented to the effect that the bloggers who do not get tagged are hurt by the omission. I've felt that disappointment too, so I'm not going to do it. Besides, at the rate I've been posting, this is similar to that mythical tree falling in the woods.

But this meme from ZombieSlayer's blog is kind of interesting because it poses some questions I'd like to answer.

Ten years ago I was:

At my age and stage of life, what I am doing now and what I was doing then only differ by employer and pay scale. Psyche! I was living in my San Francisco apartment back then, and life was totally different. My first-born had yet to make an appearance, and my then girlfriend had just moved in with me. This was that magical time in any new relationship when all your friends disappear and new ones appear in couples. One by one the implements of my bachelorhood were replaced with floral vases, paintings of scenic landscapes, matching table settings and cookware. I learned to say please, thank you, I'm sorry, and yes dear, of course you are right. I also learned that burping was not a compliment to the chef.

Five things on today's to-do list:

I filed an extension to my taxes on April 15^th at 4:45PM, then made a mad dash for the post office which closed at 5. I got there just as the door was being locked. I'm kind of on a new kick—or should I say an evolving kick—to never pay another professional for what I can do myself. This started with the swimming pool. After getting stuck with a bill for five hundred dollars for closing the pool for the winter, I have been doing it myself since, for around thirty five dollars. Then I moved on to installing my own dimmer switches, then graduated to running a new outlet directly from the fuse box. I re-planted grass in my front yard, but I may have to get bailed out of that mess. So now I am doing my own taxes, with the help of Turbo Tax that is. I'm finding that there are a great many more deductions than those that my accountant was able to find. Despite only paying a portion of the estimated taxes that my accountant insisted I do, according to my numbers I still have money coming back. That's the only real item on my list right now, other than getting the house ready to sell if the market will bear it. I really doubt that's going to happen this year. I'm also thinking about growing some vegetables in the back yard.

Things I'd do if I were a billionaire:

Of course this would take some serious thinking, but I would find a place in America where the absence of a common source of income had been removed, and the people there are lost and unemployed. I'd pick a wide open field with a view of the mountains, alongside a lake and rivers and streams--and build a town. I'd create homesteads and give them away to anyone that agreed to farm the land. I'd invite and finance businesses that provide all services that are required for a community to be self-sufficient, the only requirement being that I am a majority shareholder in that business but a silent partner until such a time as that business infringes upon the environment. There would not be a drop of oil in town, unless it was prefixed by Olive. In the mountains I would build a massive wind farm, and start a company to employ the people to build turbines. There would be an ordinance prohibiting any sort of gas consuming vehicle within the range of all this. Anyone caught breaking this rule would have their car impounded and recycled. All homes and businesses would have solar panels, which my new company would provide at cost. I would create a mini-intelligence agency, whose only purpose was to find and prevent any corruption in the governing of this community. I would buy and store the material necessary to build a crenellated wall around the whole thing, and the weaponry and ammo to arm the potential guards that would walk its perimeter—not to protect anyone from terrorists, but from our own, if there ever comes a day when the people can't feed themselves any more.

Or I would start a technology company under the auspices of some abstract concept like "B to B Commerce", and hire all the best hackers from every college. Then we would systematically break into every known government database, into the bank accounts of oil barons and no-bid government contractors, and divert their moneys to making this planet a better place to live on. I'd call this company Sherwood Industries, and my phalanx of programmers the Merry Men (even though a great many of them would be women).

I'd start an online community that brought together people from all sides of the political spectrum, and hire charismatic speakers to spread the message that the people are tired of two-party politics, that democracy doesn't work when it is hijacked by the media and the elite that control it. I would start my own media empire that would be untouchable by anyone. Each station would be independent, just like the sections of a worm that can survive if cut off from the main body.

In short, I would do what I could to keep America free in the strictest sense of the word. I would take back what has been taken from us and bring us closer to the promises made by our Constitution.

Three bad habits:

I'm totally with Zombie on this one: video games. I don't know what to do about this. I think I am a lot like my mother, having an addictive personality. I have to be addicted to something. To pretend otherwise will land me in AA. At least it's video games. To date, I have played Call of Duty 4 for an hourly total of nearly ten days. That's two hundred and forty hours, two complete work weeks. And you wonder where I've been.

Coffee—again with Zombie on this—is another. Although I'm not as bad as I was when I commuted to work. There I would drink it just to be doing something. Now I only drink around two cups a day. But that is fully loaded with caffeine, and that can't be a good thing.

I'll have to ask my wife for a third. I suppose she would say that I don't do my laundry like I should. She has boycotted doing it for me, which is a theme in my life. You see, at heart I am a total slob.

Five places that I have lived:

Akron, Ohio – Where I was born and where, for years, I yearned to return. When I did, I was perplexed to see how run down it was compared to the other places I had lived.

Niscayuna, New York – I remember this most fondly when I was a kid. There was a network of trails in the woods behind my house that in one direction led to a golf course. I came back for a night visit when I was first on my own and passing through the area and found that it has all been developed with new homes.

Juneau, Alaska – A great place to be from, and even a better place to live if you love a glacial backdrop and have a taste for the outdoor life. The former I have to admit never really got old, but the latter was not me in the slightest. The most memorable characteristic of my high school brethren was a tendency to settle arguments with a fist, which was not my gift. But come to think of it, that was the way of things at every school I went to. If I could have only learned to go right down the middle with a haymaker, how easier life might have been.

Hayden Lake, Idaho - Turns out that I wasn't far from the heart of the Arian Nation when I lived here. When I pointed this out to my father, he told me that some of his friends at the time were heavily involved. Now that's scary.

San Francisco, California – I already mentioned it earlier, but I would like to point out that I have never lived in a more beautiful city (and I have lived in quite a few, more than I have listed here) than San Francisco. This city is contained in about a seven mile by seven mile box, but is packed with wonderful surprises. You could be a block away from a children's park or a highly eclectic street of shops and not even know it. There is a pride in knowing your way around the city, and where to find a great place to eat for pennies on the dollar. Of all the places I have ever been, this is the one that I would go back to if I had enough money to do so comfortably.

Five jobs I've had in my life

My first job was toting supplies for my dad and his cronies on various home building projects. My official title was Dumb Ass, Shit Head, Lazy Ass, Dumb Fuck, Shit for Brains, and Slow Leak, depending on the day. Ah, those were the days.

At sixteen I was a windshield washer for a Chevron gas station.

After that I bagged groceries for the super market in the same shopping center. I got fired for calling in sick and playing the junior-senior football game, which we, the juniors, won. It was worth it

After that, McDonald's. The hardest job that I have ever had.

My dad met the woman that he is still married to today when he picked her and her girlfriend up on the side of the road hitchhiking. He was running a major construction operation, with about a hundred employees, composing three framing crews, crews for soffet, vinyl siding and manual laborers for set up and clean up. When he met the love of his life (he was still married at the time), he dropped all these responsibilities into my lap and disappeared.

Candidates: Take Note

I posted before about the book I have been reading, The Shell Game, which is basically a fictional account of the world in 2012 headed for the next 9/11. If you are a hardcore liberal, then all the events woven into the lead-up to the upcoming Armageddon will be familiar at best. This will be enough to derail any conservative or Neocon from getting past the first chapter. But for me, a guy who definitely supported the Neocon view of the world, this book is upsetting. And the fact that it has taken me so long to read is a testament to that. It's not that I believe everything the book's author, Steve Alten, proposes as fact, but I cannot discount him either.

The man has done too much homework. You would just have to read the book to fully appreciate just how true that is.

Without permission from the author—but I'm sure he will forgive me—I am going to reproduce a section of his novel. It echoes my exact sentiments on the upcoming election. I've said it before that I need to hear something from the candidate that I will vote for, and that as of today, I have not heard it yet. Natalie (Magnetbabe) told me that I could do some research to determine the positions, and that is true. But the kind of message I'm looking for would find its way to me all by itself.

The following passage needs a bit of preamble. Jennifer Wienner is an ex-Republican strategist who up until recently had vociferously defended the actions of the administration and its war on terror. She dismissed any rumblings of truth as conspiracy theory. But when Republican president McKuin (sounds a little like McCain, no?) has a "stroke" in accordance with one of those crazy theories, she is finally spurred to take action. McKuin is succeeded by the Vice President, Neocon Ellis Prescott. And with him running on the Republican ticket in the '12 election, Jennifer jumps sides and approaches Senator Mulligan, the Democratic nominee for president.

Here it is. And please, please, please, if any of you presidential candidates are reading this (Hillary, Obama, McCain), you will have my undying devotion if you will only have the balls to say and do what this fictional character proposes:

(Excerpt from The Shell Game, pages 243-245)

Senator Mulligan chides him with a look. "What Silas means is we feel pretty good going into the convention. Guess no one expected us to take the nomination from Senator Clinton."

"Sorry to rain on your parade fellas, but the only reason you won the nomination was because the GOP wanted you to win. Their aim was always to drive Hillary and the other front-runners out of the race. Like it or not, you won by default. And here's another reality check, just in case you don't read the papers: Prescott has three times your war chest and a 7 percent lead in the latest poll. Your campaign's floundering; unless you pull a rabbit out of the hat at the convention, you'll be dead as McKuin come November."

Whitener begins to retort, but Mulligan signals refrain. "Fair enough. But if we're in such dire shape, why the sudden interest? I've never heard of a born-again liberal."

Jennifer smiles. "I'm not a liberal, I'm a realist. We're entering dangerous geopolitical waters, and the Neocons prefer force where tact is needed. America needs to steer the western world onto a new course, the question is whether you have the balls to see it through."

"I'm listening."

"The mistake all Democrats make is moving to the center to try to win votes. Americans need a clear choice, not Republican-lite. You need to carry a new message of hope to the American people, and that message is no more oil. 'In '13 we go green.'"

Mulligan glances at the negative response from his staff. "An entire campaign on the environment? I don't know—"

"Not just the environment—energy. Your platform will radically wean us off oil. If Brazil can do it, so can we. No more oil means creating a new infrastructure, one that produces good jobs that will remain in this country. New jobs mean a new tax base that will help clean up the deficit. They ask you about Iraq, and you tell them we went in for oil, but since we won't be needing oil anymore, our boys and girls can come home, and anyone who refuses to allow our kids home is obviously not a patriot or a parent. Every time the Rove Rats toss another God, gays, or guns grenade at you, you'll repeat this exact phrase: 'The election's far too important to the future of our country to be caught up in the usual republican horseshit."

Senator Mulligan looks around the room. "Horseshit? You really want me to use that word?"

"Yeah, I do."

Cesar Diaz shakes his head. "You'll lose the Christian right."

"You never had the Christian right. Let the American public see you as the no-nonsense guy you are, not the wimp these middle-of-the-roaders have turned you into. Speak your mind, but stay on message. When they ask you about Kyoto, you say we'll sign, even if China refuses. Then you force the Chinese to stand alone. They'll cave, believe me. They can barely breathe in their big cities. When the media corners you on abortion, you look them straight in the eye and say, 'I'm all for outlawing abortion, but only if we start doing a better job educating our teenagers about having unprotected sex.' When they ask you about the war on terror, you go back to the energy message, and how it's America's addiction to fossil fuels—an addiction fueled by oil pushers like Ellis Prescott and his new running mate—that helped hijack our foreign policy. Simple message: No more addiction. We create a twelve-step program to wean us on green. In '13 we take our country back from the pushers. You repeat that every day in every interview, in every debate, on every bumper sticker, and you'll win the White House."

Suzie Perlman claps.

Cesar Diaz is not as enthused. "What about money? You start targeting big oil and the military suppliers and—"

"And what? You think the scraps they're tossing you now are meant to feed you? Wake up, Amigo! Those funds are designed to keep you in line. Stick to your message, and money will come—big money---because the majority of Americans actually feel the same way you do, only they've been waiting for a democratic candidate with a set of testicles who can rally the troops while not looking like some staged, gun-toting dork. Bill Clinton may have dipped his wick in the Oval Office, but his poll numbers never dipped; that's because America likes a man in the White House who has something hanging between his legs, not some prissy Ivy Leaguer who spends his weekends sailing. And no photo shoots with Hollywood celebrities! You think Jack and Jill Average American can relate to these people? You graciously accept their contributions and tell them we'll see 'em at the inauguration ball. Until then, just sign the check, and stay the hell off the TV."

Jennifer looks around the room, the men dumfounded, Suzie grinning. "Any questions?"

Senator Mulligan smiles. "When can you start?"

Life

I've been thinking a lot lately about what life is all about. It's kind of corny, but for me it has really boiled down to what Val Kilmer said at the end of Tombstone, and I'm paraphrasing a little: "There is no point to life, Wyatt, there is only life. So go out and live it."

When we were kids, didn't we always think there was some goal to achieve, like our life was a story that just had to have a happy ending? It was always about the future. Some day I'll be rich and drive a Ferrari (I'm too tall for one of those by the way, ditto for the Lambourghini).

I hate to say it, but now my only goal is to pave the way for my children to follow the same dreams, and hopefully make them come true. It's not that I've given up on my own dreams, but I don't feel them as passionately as I did before. It could be the lithium...

(I'm joking about the lithium by the way.)

That might seem defeatist, but it makes me happy to release myself from those lofty expectations. My dad always had his head in the future, promising that someday we would own a ranch and raise horses and grow fields of corn. I suppose we came close when we bought a farm back in the eighties. We had no money, but that never stopped dad. Let's just say he found a way to subsidize our little experiment in life, and all told, I wouldn't take it back for the world. Dad was crooked, and I would never in a million years emulate his style, but he had brass ones, and there were some good times in between the depressions.

Now I have my own kids, and thinking about their future and what a responsible parent could do to make it the best it can be is what moves me anymore. Yesterday I was working and Emmett came in and poked me in the neck with Chopsticks. Later he gave me a Black Spiderman tatoo. Then he told me a story. And like so many times when the kids, so animated and beautiful, go into their tales, I don't hear what they are saying. I'm mesmerized by their faces. Emmett brought me back to my high school reunion when I attempted to talk with Dennis, the king of our graduating class. Dennis was on my football team, and I saw him in the bar where I was playing pool. The winner of the Handsome Harry contest for our school, Craig, interrupted our conversation to tell Dennis a joke. His hat was on backwards and he still looked as young to me as in '83. His face was alight, so eager to please Dennis. Just like my son before me.

I still bear the weight of that night, when I realized after ten post-high-school-years, I was still that awkward kid, invisible to the royal elite. But now I am Dennis to the three most important people in my world. The least I can do is shed the past and pave for the future.

I'm certainly trying.

And what makes me such a special dad. One simple thing: I never grew up. And everyone knows it. Three days ago, Jackson wrote the word "poop" in invisible ink and his spy-pad, the writing only visible under a black light. His pen has such a light where the eraser would normally be, and as I walked in I saw the word just before he clicked it off and put on his guilty/innocent face.

"Did I just see the word poop!"

"How did you know?!"

"I saw it."

"But how did you read it so fast?"

"It's what I call a sight-word. The kind that is instantly recognizable. It's not like I had to go," I wore a dopey face and pursed my lips, "puh... oooooooo... puh..." I pondered the phoenetic sounds then said with more confidence, "Puh oooo puh. Hey, wait a minute, that's poop!"

He was still laughing when I put him to bed.

The Shell Game

I'm reading an absolutely frightening book called The Shell Game. It's a political thriller forecasting the inevitable conclusion of modern events. Its detractors will label the author as a liberal loon, a radical and conspiracy theorist. But nobody could justifiably call his work under-researched.

My friend Eric had me read a book a while back regarding Peak Oil. I don't remember the title exactly, but I'm sure it is still on my shelf. It really freaked me out. Badly. For a while I told all my friends about it, the implications of just a shortage of oil. Forget about the taps going dry. It only takes for oil to cost more in oil to retrieve to cause the dominos to fall, a situation that could possibly already exist.

My friends would smile and nod and ask patronizingly, "How long do we have?"

The fact is that we, as Americans, have no clue what's really going on in Washington, even those that do listen to NPR. We can debate whether or not whistle-blowers are telling the truth or not, if the Patriot Act really is necessary or is just an intentional and aggressive erosion of our rights. We take sides by choosing Democrat or Republican, as if either choice will make a difference. There isn't a politician out there that has a chance of getting his or her party nomination, much less elected to the presidency, who will do what is necessary to put our people in a position to survive the end of cheap energy. We think we live in a democracy, that grand a beautiful illusion, but we do not. We are ruled by money—a shitload of money.

Those of you that have known me know that I have been a Bush supporter. That has officially come to an end. Will I vote for Obama or Hillary? Not on your life. Not unless there is no other choice. I will "waste" my vote on an independent candidate that sings the right song. In my opinion, if the right candidate did ascend to the presidency, he or she would be murdered within a year. Like I said, money rules, and money kills. I just hope that our hero will be carrying a grenade, pin pulled. We need a champion. To quote The Shell Game:

The brakes are shot and civilization is being diverted, instructed to gaze in the rearview mirror as we drive ourselves off a cliff, only you're too busy micro-managing your life to see what's happening.

What would you do to survive if there was no more food at the grocery stores? Or if water no longer poured from your faucet?

And if you think that isn't possible, consider that it is oil that creates the fertilizers that coax the soil into producing agricultural products at unsustainable rates. The population has grown in proportion to that capacity. Without oil, food production drops, and with it so too the population. It's that simple. Add to that the conundrum of our global economy. We used to be an agrarian society, but now we import most of the food we eat. Our farm lands are being paved over. So if food can no longer be imported, then where is it going to come from? Answer: nowhere.

I know most readers have developed distaste for what I am saying. That's ok. I get it. But I have kids to take care of, and turning away from inconvenient truths is no way of going about it. I don't have a plan yet. But it's developing.

Just When I Thought…

I spoke a bit too soon when I gave my opinion on Wicked. The first half was brilliant, but the other… perhaps too abstract and slow. It was as if, with the end approaching, the author simply threw up his hands and said, "This has gotten out of hand, now how do I kill her?" I really became attached to Elphaba because she was smart and had a big heart. Her life was tough, and her beliefs were mocked as paranoid, though all along she was spot-on. I was sure, after all her suffering that eventually something wonderful awaited her at her end of the rainbow.

Uh… not so much.

From a gratification standpoint this novel completely failed. Obviously there are many out there that love this from cover to cover, but I for one will not read any more of Maguire's novels. He hammered this poor girl relentlessly. Ok, for a short while she found a ray of happiness, but that was simply used to make her life even worse than it was. Even her friends were a disappointment, her family too. In the end I was well beyond depressed; I was disgusted.

In the first half Elphaba was in college. It wasn't easy being green, but she had finally made some good friends and was enjoyed for her wit. She was approached with an offer that could have made for an interesting second half, but the offer was barely a factor in the upcoming events. Later Elphaba found the Grimmerie, a book of magic from another world. Cool, I thought, this could get interesting! Nope. Another non-factor. In fact, nothing interesting happened whatsoever in the second half unless you enjoy watching someone you love wither and die from a terminal disease.

And the ending! What the hell? I'm convinced that the author got lost and had to wrap things up. What a total disappointment.

I remember once that a blog-buddy Janie read a short story of mine and told me to rewrite the ending because from a satisfaction standpoint it let her down that the protag had been dreaming all along. She wanted me to make it real instead. If I were a proof reader, my advice would be to live up to the promises made in the opening chapters. Let her be just a little bit capable.

It reminds me of an expression from an eighties ski movie, "We were small but we were slow."

This steaming kettle boils down to one word: bummer.

Wicked

I haven't been hooked on a book like this since I was a teenager haunting the local drug store for the next in the Dune Series. Gregory Maguire rocks!

To Summarize

Where have I been? Let me count the ways.

I'm going to relate a story about work. Hang with me, there are other subjects below.

Remember when I waxed poetic about the boss and how he respects me? That theory was tested sorely. There is a genre (if you will) of computer programming dealing with what is called multi-threading. What this means is that there are two (or more!) "things" going on at the same time that sometimes need to synchronize with the other. This can be a nightmare, and has been mine for the last three weeks. We have a software release coming up to a major customer, so now there is a team of quality assurance folks that have been telling me about problems without providing much more detail than that. The longer these problems persist, the more my credibility slips. So all that goodwill I built up--remember?--took a shot in the gut.

My boss put it to me like this: I had until last Monday to fix it or we had to "punt." Meaning that if the problem couldn't be fixed, I had to back off everything I had been working on to the last functional state.

I worked through the weekend. My wife and kids had to take a backseat for the first time in I can't remember when. Daddy was a bear.

Come Monday evening I was forced to make the call. I was frustrated. Totally defeated. How close are you my boss asked me? Very close, but I've felt like I've been very close for a week now but it keeps coming back. Ok, he told me, send me a list of everything you've done and I'll take a look.

So this is what I did. In that process I saw something very odd in what I had done. Without explaining, I simply took it out. Voila. Problem fixed. For good. There was one other item that had persisted and I found that too. The quality assurance folks tested again and I was exhonerrated for all of it.

I tell you this: I was on the brink of despair. My job was still secure, but come April I will have to negotiate a salary, as I am a contractor now, and this situation wouldn't have helped. At least now I can say I was able to work through a hard issue.

Ok.

We're not broke, but we're not rich. We went a little crazy on Saturday and outfitted our four-person family in skis. Except for me. I got a snowboard. On Sunday we all went to the bunny slopes.

Jackson is one of those kids that doesn't have much patience for trial and error. If it is hard, he might not make it past the rookie stage of the game. We rented snowboards a month ago and he didn't like it. I tried to talk him into a new snowboard, but he opted for skis.

Good choice.

I could not get him off the hill yesterday. He was a natural.

Emmett is four years his junior. I held Emmett's hand and scooted him across the base while he learned to just keep his balance. After a while I gave him a push and ran after him while he slid on his own, screaming, "I'm skiing!" We went up the conveyer belt and I pointed him in a safe direction and let him go. Somehow he always managed to point right at a clump of trees or some obstacle, so Daddy was running like hell the whole time. Next time I think I'll get him in a lesson. If he could only learn to stop and turn we could all go at the same time.

As for me, I learned to turn on my front edge without falling every single time. Backwards is still a problem, but in my defense I only got about six or eight runs on the slope before it was my turn with Emmett again. I landed on my tail bone three or four times, each being worse than the previous. I couldn't bend over or pick up so much as the tv remote that night, and today I am like Christopher Pike at Kirk's trial in the Menagerie.

In other news, I am totally addicted to Call of Duty: Modern Warfare. This might offend some of my liberal friends, as this is game is about nothing but killing and killing again. To me this is cartoon violence, however graphic. I've been playing this multi-player, against snot-nosed kids that aren't even old enough to drive a car, and getting my butt handed to me. I'm getting better at it, but still, there are so many people out there to whom the game controls are second nature.

As for writing, well, that's the thing. I've put too much pressure on myself, and now I have to take a break. For a simple western short story I have researched and read and pondered and speculated and stressed. I'm sick of it. I need a break. I bitched about not being recognized in Jason's contests and now I've marked myself as a baby--and rightfully so. If I want to be a writer I have to handle rejection, and I'm not very good at it. Maybe I'm not cut out for it. I'm not giving up, but I see some of my co-bloggers having success and I can't even place in a contest. I've managed to exclude myself from even being invited and lost a few blog-friends in the process. And it all goes back to handling rejection badly.

So, it's time to hang up the pen, take a sabatical and come back fresh when I'm ready.