Coach Johnson

I don't know if I've told this story before, but all this discussion of junior sports, about winning and effort and what's important, has got me thinking about a time when effort meant more to my coach that the actual results.

Damn if I'm not forgetting my team name at the time, but I was in sixth grade in Akron, Ohio. We were playing the best team in our league. They could hit and field, and didn't have a weak player on their team. At least that was my impression. They would eventually take the championship trophy home. But on this day, they had to go through us.

We were pumped. Though we were huge underdogs, in our hearts we knew we could beat them. I played first base, and can still remember the intensity I felt on the field. The only play I can remember was a line drive shot over my right shoulder. I reached up with my glove hand (my left) and pulled it down to end their inning.

It was electric. We really came to play.

But in the end, we lost.

There were two traditions after any little league game in those days. You shook hands, and then the winners went for soft serve ice cream at the custard stand.

Shaking hands was always a perfunctory ritual. Get in a line, shuffle forward, slap hands on the way by muttering "Good game, good game, good game..." But today, as we passed by, I got real hand shakes. I felt the relief, saw it in their faces, heard it in their voices. "Great game, oh my God! That was close, nice snag you had there..."

Still.

Heads low, we gathered around the coach as he called us in for the obligatory speech. I'll try to reconstruct it, but keep in mind that this is only a reflection of the emotion I can still feel after all these years, after the details have faded away.

"You boys played one tough game out there today."

I thought, "Yeah, but not good enough."

"I have never been more proud of you than I am right now. By all rights you should have won that game, and it's only by dumb luck that you didn't. You played your hearts out."

He looked at each one of us, making sure we were paying attention. There was no mistaking his sincerity. "Now I'm not supposed to do this, but..."

We perked up like dogs hearing a sound outside the human range.

"I'm taking you all out for ice cream."

Today we have a thousand flavors to choose from, but back then it was chocolate and vanilla. I've probably sampled each of those myriad flavors since; but never, ever, has an ice cream tasted so sweet as that plain vanilla cone did that day.

His name was Paul Johnson. I'm betting that his son, Paul Johnson, Jr., my erstwhile friend, classmate and teammate, is a little league coach today.

A Word of Explanation

I'm getting the feeling from the response to my last post that I've sold myself as a different kind of person than I am.

I love kids.

And many of you know that. But I have to be clear on one point. As a coach, if I have six kids on the field and six sitting, the six that are on the field need to be playing to the best of their ability. I don't mean to say they should be the best in the league, and not even the best they can be. But they better be out there trying and paying attention. Or they will be pulled out until they get that.

I'm not going to be responsible for scarring kids for life, and if you ask any parent whose kid is on my team, you would not get one of them saying that I'm being unfair in any way. I had one parent observe that his kid hadn't played in a quarter, but one kid has to sit every quarter of a game, and that has to cycle through every kid in my team. The only criticism you could level, and one that would fall on deaf ears, is that I don't make my best players sit out.

A game is about having fun. On that we all agree. Where people diverge is on what the definition of fun is. Fun for me is hard play, and yes, winning. Winning is fun. There I said it. Winning is FUN. Losing is not fun. The trick is balancing a winning strategy while spreading the play time around to all the kids involved.

So, to be clear, I have several players on my team that have absolutely no soccer skills. They can't kick, pass, stop a ball or get in someones way. They simply do not exist on the soccer field. They get equal playing time, and when they make a play, any play, coach Scott is out there letting them know.

But, I'll admit that I did want to have an assembly of kids that could really play the game, mostly so that my son could know what it was like to be on a team of crackerjacks. I still remember when I was a kid and won a little league championship. The feeling was beyond description, and it lasts a lifetime. And it doesn't happen to everyone, and maybe I'm hopping on that ride too soon. But I promise that I'm not taking it out on the kids, that they are having fun, and I would rather shoot myself through the head than to give them a bad experience of the scarring variety.

We've all had them. I'll never forget mine, and I won't be responsible for dishing them out. I still want to win my games. I give it my all just like I want my kids to give me theirs.

Sweet and Sour Weekend

Mother's Day we took my wife to the Brimfield Antique Show. I was prepared for an extremely boring day of shopping. As it turns out, it was kind of neat. The proprietors of each station are some kind of hybrid between carnies and deadheads, selling some pretty random shit. I should have kept a notebook of some of the more obscure, such as a child's toy that I remember from my own childhood. It was one of those panels that have a series of knobs that click, whir and ding, a rotary telephone dial. Funny thing is, for as old as it is, my kids zoned in and went to work on it. I had to pull them away.

One station had old band equipment, used up trombones and tubas. There were ancient baseball mitts, catchers gear, helmets, and bats. Arrows with the guide feathers stripped. Crazy. And old man scrutinized us as we sifted through the trash. As we left, he seemed angry that we didn't buy anything, picking up the tuba and slamming it with a thundering crash back onto the pile of twisted brass.

I ended up buying a collection of old pinup art of sexy ladies in embarrassing situations, such as the time Marilyn Monroe stepped over the street vent, and she had to hold her hands down in front of her to keep it from blowing up. My wife is still trying to figure out why.

The day before, on Saturday, my son had his sixth game of the soccer season. You may already know that I am coaching this team.

Now this is where some of you are going to diverge on your opinion of me. This is an under eight league, meaning that the kids are only seven years old. I am all about having fun; but fun for me is all about winning. I could amend that by saying that I can take losing as long as our effort was a hundred percent. But to me, there is no sense in playing anything unless you are there to play.

There is another coach in the league that handpicked her team and gave everyone what was left over. When I was asked to coach originally, I was able to have a few choice players as well. My aim was to have a team that could compete on game day, so my son could have that experience. Last year the coach didn't care, and it trickled down to the players. I could see it on the kids' faces that they didn't like losing.

So once I had my team in place, the aforementioned coach didn't like that my team looked so good, and it got around that I was stacking my team (I know this sounds ridiculous, we are talking about kids here--I get it). So, I gave one of the other teams that didn't have many talented kids basically my best player. So, the aforementioned coach decided that she had a kid she didn't want, so she gave him to me.

That same player's father this weekend complained to me when we were up five to four with three minutes left in the game that his son hadn't played in a while. It was true, but one kid needs to sit per quarter due to the number of kids on my team. It was his turn. However, I acquiesced, and put his son in the game, the same kid that just earlier was contemplating the mystery of a hole in the ground while he should have been defending.

The other team tied it up. Then, when we got the ball back, this kid gets the ball and dribbles it backward, toward our goal. He passes it to the other team, and they scored the winning goal.

I have been going back and forth about this in my head. My whole goal for this season has been dashed. Now I have to be a smiley bobble head and say that it's just about the kids and having fun.

But I tell you what, I could have strangled that kids father. At the same time, I'd hate to be in his shoes.

Oh, by the way, my son is totally digging baseball. We bought a new bat and a cool batters helmet, and suddenly he thinks he's Big Papi.

The No Asshole Rule

This is the kind of thinking that made America great, the lack of which has made us a country of simpering milquetoasts.

The following is an excerpt a Publishers Weekly review of the book, The No Asshole Rule:

This meticulously researched book, which grew from a much buzzed-about article in the Harvard Business Review, puts into plain language an undeniable fact: the modern workplace is beset with assholes. Sutton (Weird Ideas that Work), a professor of management science at Stanford University, argues that assholes—those who deliberately make co-workers feel bad about themselves and who focus their aggression on the less powerful—poison the work environment, decrease productivity, induce qualified employees to quit and therefore are detrimental to businesses, regardless of their individual effectiveness. He also makes the solution plain: they have to go. Direct and punchy, Sutton uses accessible language and a bevy of examples to make his case, providing tests to determine if you are an asshole (and if so, advice for how to self-correct), a how-to guide to surviving environments where assholes freely roam and a carefully calibrated measure, the "Total Cost of Assholes," by which corporations can assess the damage. Although occasionally campy and glib, Sutton's work is sure to generate discussions at watercoolers around the country and deserves influence in corporate hiring and firing strategies.

There is some hope after all.

Healing Smile

I really, really hate the snow, and the cold, the ticks, the mosquitoes, opening and closing the pool, and even the neighborhood where I live, the neighbors that form against you for whatever reasons secret reasons they have (could it be because I voted for Darth Bush, the creator of terrorism?).

This place kinda grows on you though. Nothing worthwhile comes easy, as they say.

I spend a lot of time around the kids, and it makes me sad to think that someday, every last blame one of them will be crusted over by the time they reach adulthood. Maybe I'm being cynical. The world has a way of doing that to you.

There's a new girl in the office: young, blond, pretty. I've tried to say hi here and there, but when she passes me in the hall, she looks away. She seems a bit unnerved by me. I think, "Do I exude the stalker vibe?"

But after she accompanied me and the guys for a few coffee walks here at the office, she's opened up to me in particular. "Has anyone ever told you," she asked me, "that you are a bit intimidating?"

That sounds a lot like my dad. Mean looking, hard edge, soft creamy center, hard core.

"But then when you smile," she said, "I see that you are OK."

I'm really getting into the rhythm of coaching soccer. At first I was shy. Who wants to listen to me anyway? And where does that negative thinking come from? The same negative thinking turns the corners of my mouth down, and I peer at passersby, as if to say, "Don't fuck with me or you will pay!"

Wow. You would think I'd spent time in prison, or kicked in doors in Baghdad and watched my friends get cut down in routine raids. Is life really all that bad? The answer is, for some, yes, but for an average Joe like me, not even close. But then I think it's precisely because my hackles are up that I don't get eaten by the wolves.

But when I see the faces of those children, the kids who run up and down that field for me on Saturday mornings, I feel like I'm doing something important, and it heals me in a small way.

There are two girls on my team that have never played soccer before. One of them, Caroline, jumped in front of the opposing offense, stole the ball, and dribbled it a quarter of the field, approximately three kicks, before losing it to the last defender. I cheered my head off, ran out and gave her a high five. Previous to that, she was nearly comatose out there. She tasted success, and I let her know I noticed.

You should have seen her smile.

A New Job

As a courtesy to all who enter his contest, Jason gives honest critical feedback to all contestants that request it. I took him up on his offer, and found it to be quite helpful. Little things make a big difference in reader perception.

So thanks Jason. I really appreciate your honesty and your commitment to writing and to the community you've fostered.

In other news, I just gave a month's notice to my current employer. I've just accepted an offer from another company whose software developers, and any other of their employees for that matter, are completely remote. They don't even have an office.

This was the first step in what will likely be our departure from Massachusetts once we are able to sell our home. Roughly translated, we could be here for a while, or we could be out of here in a flash.

I've made some good friends here where I work. I never expected to. Past experiences at the work place have conditioned me to keep to myself, to keep my opinions close to the vest. In short, I was starting to feel I'd gone the way of the dodo, the rotary telephone, the cassette tape, or VHS. It turns out that I may have overreacted.

I'll be posting more about that later. Let's just say there are some difficulties that must be overcome before I leave. But the most important hurdle has been cleared. I have a job.

Prom

I've said it before, that in high school, I was invisible to the upper crust. And I totally get it, especially looking back at some of my old photos. If you know anything about me, perhaps by being a long time reader, or having grown up with me, watching me make my mistakes and learning from them ever so slowly, then you would too.

I didn't even bother to ask anyone to the junior or senior prom. It would have been better had I just been a total geek, which I may have been, but not in my mind. I played football and put the jocks on their backs, but I couldn't put that damn basketball into the hoop or dribble for shit; I had the stamina of a tree sloth and was utterly baffled by the curve ball since eighth grade (a story for another time).

I didn't think I needed to work for anything, and couldn't understand as the years went past, why everybody else was stronger, faster and better than me at everything.

My sense of humor was childish; much like it can be today, which makes me a pretty damn funny dad to have. High school nearly squashed me flat. It tried to take the smile from my face, but I wouldn't let it.

But they won in many ways. I spent way too much time worrying about what the kings and queens of that society thought about me, instead of focusing on what I had. And believe me, I had plenty. I could have been happy, but I dwelt on what I didn't have. It ate at me from the inside. It wasn't until my ten year reunion that I realized how much, and finally began the process of letting go.

Like Lime Disease, it's a sickness that will always linger. Perhaps that's why I get so messed up about losing a contest, and worry about what my friends will think.

So prom wasn't even on my radar. Even then, in the height of self-denial, I knew enough to stay away.

So now, some twenty four odd years later, someone finally asked me to go to prom with her. Being the self actualized fellow that I am, perhaps now I am ready to face the music. Be warned, Beth: I've got two left feet.

It's Not Easy

I'm trying to put it delicately, without seeming like a poor sport, that in all of Jason's contests, my name has never even been mentioned. It takes me a couple days each time to get over it. Not only is it a blow to my self esteem, but I think it damages my image with my fellow writers, who at one point may have thought I had some talent.

This isn't a pull for sympathy. It just is what it is. I know for a fact when I enter that I won't be recognized, and yet I put myself out there, telling myself that I don't care, but hoping secretly that this time will be different.

This business, the one that I hope to be part of someday, is all about rejection. I have to be able to take it. But it isn't easy.

Scarlett Johansson is Too Funny

My wife and I were totally blown away by this Saturday Night Live skit. Check it out.

Big Papi

This weekend was Jackson's first day of rookie league baseball practice. I basically had to drag him there.

That will probably make a lot of parents cringe, and there are several of us that had parents that were rabid sports fans, that basically did the same thing, forcing their boys to play sports they had an interest in.

I get it. I really do.

But instinct is telling me to make him play.

Here's my thinking. My son is a negative thinker. I have to work on that, but his answer to almost any question is the opposite of what he thinks you want him to say. Unless he is wholeheartedly convinced that the upcoming activity is one that he will love more than a hot steaming stack of pancakes, he will refuse to do it. And nine times out of ten, when he does it, he loves it.

It doesn't always work that way, but if you were the kind that plays life by the odds...

The first time I hit a home run, it took me totally by surprise. I wore the green uniform of the Jaguars, a fifth grade little league team in Akron, Ohio. Everyone else had been playing since they were in tee-ball, but this was my first year. I didn't realize that when the ball goes into the deep weeds, it was an automatic home run. As I rounded third base, the base coach laughed himself to coughing as I booked by at top speed, he trying to tell me to slow down.

I shared the home run title with Mark McKenzie.

There might be better feelings in the world, but if I had to choose one to hold on to, that might be the one. Your team meets you at home plate, and suddenly, where you were just one of the guys, for a while, you are the only guy, the hero of the moment.

I've hit others since, and of course now I've learned to trot, and treat it like another day at the office, but it still feels great.

I can't explain that to my son. But I know in my heart that when he takes that first stroll around the bases, he will know. He might not thank me right then, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he will remember the time that dad dragged him to practice.

Or not.

That's the gamble.

So during practice, Jackson, like all the players, filled out a questionnaire, determining how much he knew about the game.

Oops. I watch football, and can't really be bothered with watching baseball, though it's my favorite sport to play. I felt like I had failed him in a small way.

Name: Jackson
Nickname: Dominick (I scratched this out and wrote: Jax)
Thing you like least about baseball: Red Sox
Favorite baseball team: Red Sox
Favorite baseball player: Tom Brady

He heard me telling his mother about this and said defensively, "Well I don't know anything about baseball!"

Great, I was making fun of my son. "No, Jackson," I said, "I thought it was really cute."

He seemed mollified by this. I continued, "It's my fault because I've never once even watched a game with you."

I turned on the TV, and wouldn't you know that the Red Sox were playing the Yankees. Perfect.

I paused the TiVo when they showed the line up and explained everything that we saw. He snuggled next to me on the couch, and I was surprised to find that he was getting into it. Not to mention that, being in first grade, he is able to read progressively harder words as the year goes by.

"What does DH mean?"

"Designated Hitter." I looked at the player name playing DH, and it was none other than David Ortiz. "Now if you want to have a favorite player, you could do a lot worse than Big Papi. He is always smacking homers in clutch situations."

And then, as if by divine intervention, Big Papi crushed the ball over the right field fence, putting the Sox ahead, where they would stay for the rest of the game.

Yesterday he told me that he wants to see a game, and that maybe we could bring our mits, catch a ball, and have Big Papi sign it.

Never Eat the Worm

Update: It's up!

Here is my entry, entitled Never East the Worm, soon to be up on Jason's blog.

Back aching, he woke on a cold linoleum floor. His brain seemed over inflated, throbbing in his skull, threatening to burst.

Sitting up too fast, the hot hand of nausea clenched his guts. A belch erupted from the pit of his stomach, spewing bile into his throat, raking as if he had coughed up a cactus.

No mistaking the day-after taste: Mezcal.

One eye felt like it was glued shut. Peering through the slit of the other, glaring sunlight scorched his vision like a point of light from a child's magnifying glass.

He lifted the object in his hand before him. Something was caked onto his arm, cracking like eggshell as he moved it.

His good eye popped wide open.

He held a cook's knife, covered in the same dried-on blood that spanned the length of his arm.

His shirt was ripped.

A garbage can was tipped.

A curtain was torn from the wall.

In a haze, he stumbled along a trail of blood and broken glass into the next room, where it led to the lifeless body of the girl he suddenly recognized.

Sobbing uncontrollably, he tossed the knife and collapsed to his knees beside the girl he had hooked up with the night before.

The room exploded with laughter.

He whirled to see a group of his frat brothers, braying like donkeys.

The corpse couldn't hold it any longer. Sitting up and putting a hand to his shoulder, she chided, "The look on your face is just priceless!"

Unlucky Friend

After a fair amount of hair pulling, I've finally convinced a friend here at the office to start her own blog. She's had an interesting life to say the least, so I am expecting to read some great stories from her.

Check her out at Life of the Unlucky Girl. Her emails at work are rife with personality, so I can only imagine what she's going to do with this blog as she learns how to give it some pizazz. She won't learn it here, that's for sure!

Also, Jason is sponsoring the latest of his writing contests, so be sure to check it out. I have participated in all of them, and I have taken something from each one, even though I haven't placed--not yet anyway. Maybe this will be the one.

As much as I would like to win, I have to stress that Jason has created a community, and is a fair judge and skilled writer in his own right. So enter if you will, but I speak for all the entrants when I say that any comment made is greatly appreciated. Writing is an exposure, and anyone who does it is vulnerable to the void. So fill it with words of encouragement if you have the time.

Footprints

I had an interesting thought this weekend.

Have you ever wished you could know more about your parents throughout their lives? The way they used to think when they were your age, how they met, who they voted for in past elections, who the bully was in their school, what they thought of you when you were born. How about your grandparents, and their parents?

It's sad isn't it, that our lives pass in obscurity, leaving only the faintest of clues behind for posterity. My mother for instance, will be totally forgotten when I pass away. My kids only know her from a picture on a wall, and from the few stories I've told that are rated G for general audiences.

In the old days, before the telephone, before email, and even before the telegraph, the only way to say I love you to someone far away was by mail. A lot of what we know about George Washington is based largely on his correspondences with friends and relatives.

Here is an excerpt of a letter he wrote to Martha Washington upon learning some big news:

My Dearest,
I am now set down to write to you on a subject which fills me with inexpressable concern-and this concern is greatly aggravated and Increased when I reflect on the uneasiness I know it will give you-It has been determined by Congress, that the whole Army raised for the defence of the American Cause shall be put under my care, and that it is necessary for me to proceed immediately to Boston to take upon me the Command of it.

If I could only read a single paragraph from a family member's point of view on any subject of the past, I would feel connected in a small way. But technology took that away from us. How cool would it be able to listen to past phone conversations, for instance. But barring some miraculous national wire tapping and archive scandal, that's not going to happen. History of that nature is just not available to us.

But what if your parents had a blog? Could the internet be taking us full circle?

Natalie, aka the Magnetbabe, claims that she is not a writer, but her readers would certainly beg to differ. The mere act of writing itself technically makes one a writer, and as with any kind of exercise, constant repetition makes one better at it.

I find it ironic that the same technology that isolated us from the community is pushing us back toward it, hearkening back to a time when words were the footprints on the paths we once walked.

Thinking Blogger Award

Jaye Wells has once again proven herself a blogger of impeccable taste by including me in her list Thinker Blogger Award favorites.

Here is what she had to say:

My favorite part of Scott's blog is when he talks about his life. He has a warped sense of humor that I appreciate. He's also painfully honest about himself, which is refreshing. Not sure if Scott and I could be related. Instead, he'd be more like that slightly nerdy but cute guy I might have dated in high school. The one I still wonder about.

Thanks Jaye.

The Thinking Blogger Award is an effort to build a network of blogs linked together outside of the usual search engines. Here is how it works (sort of like a meme):

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to 5 blogs that tickle your grey matter.

2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme;

3. Optional: Proudly display the 'Thinking Blogger Award' with a link to the post that you wrote (here is an alternative gold version if silver doesn't fit your blog).

So now it's my turn to award my own favorites. This is where it gets difficult. If your link is on my sidebar, then you can consider yourself a winner. My new policy is to keep only those that I visit and participate with, if only sparing in the days of late. But that would be a cop out of weenie proportions.

Scott's Thinking Blogger Favorites

1. The Schprock Report - No surprise here, for anyone that has been with me for any length of time. He's been busy lately, so we don't get treated with the trappings of his brilliant mind, but Mr. Schprock has to be the most talented writer I know. Why he isn't a sports writer or a humor columnist for the Boston Globe is beyond me. He has a photographer's eye for life's funny moments.

2. The Perfect Neurotic - I've been with Beth since my own inception. Speaking of brutal honesty, Beth can really lay it out there. The first post I read of hers related the story of her first sexual experience with a boy who basically followed the tenets of the four F's. Find 'em, Feel 'em, (you know what)'em, and Forget 'em. I can't stress enough that, when Beth gets in that mood, no matter the length of the post, you will be glued to your seat.

3. Magnetbabe - Natalie will someday be a Nobel Peace Price winning scientist. Sure, today she is but a student, but watch out for this one. She writes from the heart, whether about caring for stray dumpster kitties or a good friend that she recently lost to cancer. Natalie has the word power to make me regret the loss of a man I have never met.

4. Meanderings in Hicksville - Feel free to reuse this one Mr. Schprock, as Trina is the author of his top shelf blog. And it's no wonder. Trina creates phrases that have heft of popular expression, and has a personality that leaps from the screen. How she does it day after day is a mystery to me. Perhaps Trina is really a panel of writers under common direction.

5. Zombieslayer - Recently back in the game, Zombie is all about political incorrectness and spirited debate, but ever the consummate gentleman. Do not let the look of his avatar fool you. He is a deep thinker, and has my vote should he ever run for office.

There are so many more, I promise you.

Now, I'm off to the Big Apple Circus and am almost out of time. Sorry if some of my tributes seemed rushed. But, you know, they were.

Glad to be Home Again

I'm realizing with some regret that I've moved on from my family. Physically of course, but philosophically as well. My dad has always had dreams of becoming rich, but he has always lacked the common sense it takes to harness the momentum that he has made an art of building. I used to look at him with three-d glasses, but now, without them, he's just a fuzzy mess.

God, I feel guilty.

He's all promise and no delivery. Like when I was a boy. He waxed poetic about college, how I was going, and he was paying my way through. But when the time came, we were living in a trailer without the proverbial pot to piss in. Far from having any money saved, he took from me what little I had. Not that I would have spent it wisely. I was too much like him to think ahead.

And still, part of me can't bear the thought of sacrificing a thing for tomorrow. I thrive on the last minute save.

My family is just like my wife's in one aspect. Both dump the entire weight of a failed and frustrated life upon their children. This weekend we spent Easter at my grandma's home, which politically is a controversial move. Dad figures that he's the head of the family now that Grandpa has passed away, but we will not stay with him.

Why?

Let me count the ways.

On our last visit, his St. Bernard bit my youngest son. It turns out, thankfully, that the dog was only posturing. I blogged about it when it happened. But the scare at the time, the helplessness I felt… All just to make my daddy feel loved.

He swears that the house is ready for visitors, but it only has one bathroom, and the access is through the master bedroom. They gave us the master bedroom and slept upstairs, and used a porta potty, the kind that kids use for the first time.

To complicate matters, my dad's wife's son is staying with them, who as it turns out, pisses out the window to avoid having to go through their bedroom at night.

Wow. I can't wait.

I am starting to totally fucking resent the pressure.

So this weekend, dad said he'd come for the day. But when I told him we were going to visit a few relatives, he made a lame excuse for the morning and said he'd be late. With that time off, so to speak, we did a little sightseeing. When he showed up and found out that we still hadn't visited anyone, he made an excuse and left early.

His wife told me it was a "sharing" thing.

Tell me this: am I going to be this pathetic? If so, then take a gun and shoot me through the skull.

Why is it pathetic? Because the man has lived his entire life and made nothing of it. He lives in a home in the middle of Amish country that is barely adequate to sustain life. And that's fine. But he thinks it's an oasis, a paradise retreat, and expects everyone around him to tell him so. He wants me to subject my family to his delusion, and I won't do it.

Man, sometimes I just want to disappear.

I mean it. There's something wrong with him. Something seriously wrong. I used to think it was sorta cute how he would tell the same story over and over, each time growing it just a little. I think he actually believes the stories now. He told one about me this weekend, while I sat there and nodded, affirming the total bullshit.

Basically, what he said, was that I fell down a three story elevator shaft and survived it by grappling all the way down with the various protruding implements. The truth is that I fell one story from atop a wall in a house he and I were framing. Sure I grabbed a few things on the way down, but even if I didn't, I would have been banged up but living.

He told another. When I was a boy, there was a wall -- and I remember this -- that had large bricks with deep hand holds that tempted me to climb it. It was a two story apartment building to my recollection. When dad first told the story, he caught me on my initial ascent, grabbing me by the collar and pulling me off. This weekend, I was three stories up, and he had to run up the stairs and reach around a corner to get me.

You could see as he told it, something behind the eyes. He was working out the logistics. You see, the reality only called for him to reach up and snag me. The story changed even as he told it this time. It was two stories, then there was a stairwell, and oh yeah, it was three stories.

And then! All the men in the family sit around like big fat Buddha kings, waiting for the women to serve them, milking from that experience the only self-esteem they'll ever achieve.

And then all the pissing and moaning about the diseases they've endured, the spouses they've buried, and the death that will surely come soon. The white pallor and the bloated bellies, and the various groups of people in the world that have kept them down, as if they somehow deserve better than they got.

Pathetic.

I'm just glad to be home again.

Me

Our Pinewood Derby Car

On vacation until Wednesday. Until then, here is the Pinewood Derby car we made for Cub Scouts.


Peace!

Timmy

I was just wiping the shaving cream remnants from my face, inside my head -- thinking about how, on Friday after work, having drinks with coworkers as a sendoff to one of our number moving on to another dead end job, the new girl accurately guessed my age as forty two -- when it happened.

My wife's voice, accompanied by a two-boy chorus of sniffles and sobs, quietly beckoned from behind me, "Daddy, we have two very upset boys."

Oh my God. "What happened?" I asked, braced for the worst.

"Timmy just died."

"Who?"

"Timmy," she repeated, "their dog."

We have a dog, and her name is Roxie. I wrinkled my eyes to let her know I was waiting for clarification. The boys were on the bed. Emmett's back rose and fell where he lay curled into a ball, face in mommy's pillow.

Jackson looked at me through reddened eyes; in control, but clearly upset. He held out the Nintendo DS, which at one point shown brilliant ebony, now smudged and dull with fingerprints. I understood. The boys had been playing Nintendogs for the last three days, in which you adopt a dog and care for him.

"We donated Timmy," Jackson explained.

My wife added, "They didn't understand the finality of it. Now they can't get him back."

"I just miss him," Emmett wailed as he rolled over and reached his arms up for me. He rested his head on my shoulders as torrents pulsed through his little body.

Jackson continued, "When we gave him away, Timmy looked down and looked so sad." Then he was crying too.

I attempted reparations. "Jackson, you gave the dog up for adoption. Timmy isn't dead. Some other family has adopted him now that will take care of him and give him love. See?"

"You mean Timmy went outside of my DS?"

He believes in Santa Claus, doesn't he? "Sure." But my face had "LIE" written all over it.

"I don't believe you."

"Ok, listen. Timmy is still inside your DS, but it has a little world inside it. And in that world, you just gave Timmy to another family to take care of because you already had enough dogs to take care of. So if you think about it, you did what was best for Timmy. The family that has adopted him will take better care of him."

That seemed to do the trick -- for Jackson. Emmett, on the other hand, wasn't buying any of it.

This morning, Jackson searched around until he found a dog just like Timmy, and showed him to Emmett. "You see," Jackson said, "Timmy is alright."

We think that has done the trick.

Note to self: break out the old board games.

1776

I was really enjoying McCullough's 1776, and decided to share the joy with my Starbucks Barristas. Here are a few things I have noticed about the youth of America.

First, nobody gives a shit about history. Neither did I when I was a kid. But this is more than just dislike; this is bordering on phobia. There were three of them behind the counter, all looking to the floor, contemplating the mystery of their shoes. Fine, I'd keep it to myself.

But then one of them looked up and said, voice dripping with disdain, "Well I heard that the only reason we won that war is because we fought dirty."

Now mind you, this was after he confirmed we were talking about the revolutionary war.

So I have a few questions for my readers, some of which are from the UK and would probably have some more perspective on this. What the hell is he talking about? Is he making reference to the fact that General Howe, as was customary for the war savvy Brits, was taking the winter off when GW crossed the Delaware at Trenton?

And what the hell is being taught at our schools, anyway? How can a kid come out the other end needing to be reminded of the significance of the year of our declared independence? No wonder this state keeps reelecting Ted Kennedy. They probably think he's John F. Kennedy and scratch their heads any time someone says he got killed.

1776 is a very interesting read by the way. It's curious to find that George Washington was no military genius. He had a few brilliant victories for sure, and I'm not being facetious when I say, a few miraculous and well timed retreats. But the man made a few very large blunders that could have cost the war early on. Had the literal winds shifted in those initial battles, or had fog not covered our intentions at crucial moments, we would be answering directly to Tony Blair today.

Our Health Problems Are Over

Congrats. A national conspiracy has been uncovered. Drug companies have been hiding miracle cures in order to keep the impoverished drug companies the money. Got cancer? No problem. One pill and poof it will be gone. Cue the banjos, ala Hee Haw.

Be aware that you are special. This is not for public release, posted for your eyes only.

In Five Minutes or Less

I've been dreading today since Friday evening. I've even played out mock scenes in my head on how today would play out. It kept me up for a good part of last night. And now, it's only a half hour away.

I've been a programmer for fifteen or so years now. Working in the software industry has its rewards, especially when your coworkers consider you a hotshot. But that, as they say, is a double edged sword. It's the classic problem of the old gunslinger, that eventually, someone will be quicker to the draw. In the mean time, he is constantly challenged by every itchy finger looking for a reputation.

I'm not old, but I'm not young. I'm ambitious, but I'm not hungry. I come to work because that's how food makes its way to my table. I work my time, and then I go home. I'm immune to the lie and lure of the eventual buyout and the fairy tale value of stock. Cuba Gooding Jr. said it best: show me the money.

So today, I'm going into a design meeting with the people who would see their reputations grow at the expense of my own. By my accounting, that should be a good thing, a meeting of the minds, the product of which should be the best possible system that we can produce; not a referendum; not a series of personal attacks.

Of course I'm not sure if that's how it will go, but my churning stomach seems to think so.

Wish me luck.

Oh, I've got pictures of our Pinewood Derby car (I just need to upload them). Turns out that I should have sanded the axles. It was slow, but if I do say so myself, it was one of the coolest. With eerie cosmic symmetry, my son's car won the award for being the most awesome, just like mine did when I was a boy. Like my father before me, I paid more attention to how it looked, and not enough time on how it actually ran.

*******
Update
*******

I survived. All that fuss for nothing. Everyone was respectful, no flaring of egos, just a bunch of guys discussing how it all should work, disagreeing without getting personal.

I'll pay you all a visit in the morning. Wahoo!

Open Source

I've manage to learn UNIX enough to completely install a new website, which I will make known to everyone here once it is available for usage. It is a photo sharing site, and I used what is called "open source" software as a base.

To those who don't know what open source is, allow me to explain. I'm relatively new to the game, though I've heard of it for a long time, and have even benefited from its use in the past. There is a community of software developers that enjoy the idea of pooling their collective efforts so that others can benefit without having to (pardon the cliché) reinvent the wheel. The wheel in my case is a web application much like Flickr, where users can download photos, organize them into albums, allow users to comment, search, email, etc. This has already been done for me. I just had to learn enough to install it and make it available on my own website.

Pretty cool, huh? There are thousands of such applications ready to roll -- yours for the price of your time to understand it.

So that, in part, is what has consumed me -- that and my continuing effort to write my novel. An online buddy of mine has offered to collaborate on a short story in the fantasy realm so that we can both expand our resumes. Sounds exciting. I'm not sure how these things work, but I know how valuable a second and third pair of ears is with what I'm trying to do now.

Oh, and my writing mentor would like for me to read his newest and pre-published novel, in exchange for a latte and an acknowledgement in the final print. How sweet is that?

Since there was so much snow over the weekend, the Cub Scout Pinewood Derby was delayed for a week, which is ever so lucky for us. We would have had something ready, but not nearly as cool as what is almost completed now. We decided to pillage Jackson's old Lego sets and found a spaceship cockpit, a steering wheel, stick-shift, and the makings of some radical looking laser cannons. I'll post a picture when we finish. What you see here is a slick looking derby car I found online, which I used as a base. Our final product won't have the industrial edges that bound this little piece of perfection, but I have to say, ours is pretty damn cool.

Peace friends. I hope to be back soon.

Don't Give Up

Hey all.

I. Am. So. Busy.

And that's a good thing.

I'm up until the wee hours writing and doing my little side business. Work is crazy but good. I'm in the zone.

So don't give up on me fellow bloggers. I will return with a vengeance.

Be a Little Selfish

I want to pay everyone a visit, but I've got a couple things going on that make reckless to do so. There is a narrow opportunity for me to get my original design project back under way here at work, before any software emergencies occur. Actually, one did occur, and I'm trying to wipe that out this morning. A friend of mine from California has a business idea that is going to at a minimum make a little money, but has the potential to make a lot more. It involves an online (web) application, and I found some open source software that does ninety percent of the work. But it takes some of my time still to deploy onto a server and publish it to the rest of the world.

And, of course, there is my novel, that becomes easier to write as time goes on. I've been writing literally every day now, even if it is only for a half hour at lunch and an hour at night. It adds up.

As for my son, it looks like he took my advice, or at least has internalized it, and seems to have taken it in the most positive manner. I think, at his age, his heart cannot be broken as easily as us older folks, whose hearts have been glued back together so many times that sometimes it only takes a good shake to have it crumble. He's going to be ok.

I reiterated to him last night that he should only be friends with kids that want to be his friends, that if he starts taking abuse like that being dished other kids will take the same cue; and soon enough, everyone will be doing it. He went to brush his teeth, but came back and said in the tone of self-discovery, "He did hurt my feelings, and I don't have to keep trying to be his friend."

This situation spurred me into action. I wrote an email to the parent of one of Jackson's friends, with whom I have spoken several times at soccer games and such. Long story short, we have plans to get together. My wife is speaking with another friend's parent, and I have another call to make. My son is lonely, and I won't let that other kid have that power over him any more.

I think Jackson thought that there was only his side of the bargain to hold up, and that other kids didn't have to play up to him. I think we may have taught him a valuable lesson in regards to interpersonal relationships. You have to be just a little bit selfish to keep it interesting.

Psycho Envy

I feel bad that I left the last post up for so long without at least letting everyone know that life with our children has been a lot of fun lately. It seems that just when it all comes to a boil the pot is removed from the flame. We all adjusted. Beth and I try on our part to be more engaged, and the kids seemed to have lightened up as well. Jackson especially has been more positive and helpful.

Somebody, who shall remain unnamed, suggested that a little swat on the rear would have done the trick. No thanks. It's harder my way, and more frustrating, but the rewards are far greater.

We've got another situation brewing. One of the neighbor women -- I'll call her RB for Raging Bitch -- if you can believe this, covets our babysitter. RB has a son Jackson's age -- I'll call him SB for Selfish Brat -- with whom Jackson rides the bus. They used to go over to each others house for play dates and such. But once, last summer, while we were over at SB's house, some other boys came over and they ignored Jackson completely. Jackson cried so I took him home, over the protests of SB's father -- I'll call him Milquetoast -- who claimed that it was all just kid stuff and that they should just be left to work it out.

Lately the bitch, I mean RB, has been going around the neighborhood complaining that she can't get more time with the babysitter because she is always engaged with us. She used to come over and try to manipulate us into giving up some dates, even suggesting once that we really didn't need a babysitter, per se, rather it would be better to have a mother's helper. WTF? Once she tried to pressure me by complaining that she called the babysitter, that she was busy, then stared at me as if waiting for a response that would clear the situation up.

I said, "And?"

"And, uh, well, I mean, you're not doing anything wrong--"

"I know that. So what are you saying then?"

"Nothing, I, uh…"

You get the point. And this isn't the only time. Every damn time I see her we end up in a conversation about the babysitter. If we see them out, she asks where the kids are, and who's watching them. Even the babysitter complains about the scrutiny she gets about the time she spends with our kids. I'm telling you, the woman is psychotic. Now suddenly her son, SB, bypasses my son on the bus in the morning, where once they used to sit together. This same kid has always just stared at me when I ask him a question. On the Cub Scout campout, his father gave Jackson and SB laser pointers. About half way through, SB started to demand that he have both, and his father had that look on his face that he might ask for it. We would have come to blows before he got it back, but he must have sensed it. But that's the way it is. When that spoiled shit of a kid demands something, both parents would rather light themselves on fire than to say no.

This morning I walked Jackson to his bus stop. I told him not to bother with SB any more.

"Does he ever sit with you on the bus?"

"No, he walks by me and sits with (another kid on the bus)."

"Well, let's just stop going over to his house anymore. If he doesn't like you, then you need to stop trying to be his friend. You've had friends like that, haven't you, that liked you more than you liked them."

"Yeah."

"You don't want to be like that person do you?"

"No."

"You are a wonderful boy with lots of friends at school. If you had to name your top three friends, who would they be?"

He names off three.

"I notice that (SB) is not on that list."

"No."

"He's just convenient, isn't he? Do you really think he's a nice kid?"

"Not really."

"I think he's selfish and not a very nice person. You deserve much better than that, Jackson. Don't settle. How 'bout I call some of the parents on your list of friends and see what I can do about getting you play dates with kids you actually like."

"Ok."

"Just promise me you won't let (SB) hurt your feelings. He's not half the person you are."

The Long Weekend

Moni!!! That was not intentional. If anyone else notices that I have omitted their link in my blog buddies list, please let me know. I've dropped a few, those few who haven't visited in a long time, posted in a long time, or those who just completely ignore me. My list is long enough, and I like to keep it manageable, lean and mean.

It was a tough weekend on the child rearing front. Mommy and daddy were just a little short on patience, with the younger finding his inner Pavarati. Now it is almost impossible to determine who is at fault. But both kids are at each other's throats. Noise in the house carries, and both kids run like they have cement boots. The pounding is terrible.

See, as a parent, you can never let your enthusiasm wane. Kids sense it and turn up the intensity. If you have the energy to pull out games, experiments and the like, then life is wonderful. Not in the mood? You will be punished. Unless of course you have a magic switch behind a metal shield that the kids have tried and failed to open so many times that they just know not to try. But of course, that's not us. Suckers we are, with a capital "S."

I took the kids sledding. Now they are addicted. I hate the cold, but it was a lot of fun. Jackson likes to stand in the way as me and Emmett slide towards him, then dive out of the way at the last second. Emmett loves it. Just before we got there and had to climb the hill, Emmett wanted me to carry him. After the first time down, no more problems. He scooted his little body up the hill and hurried me along.

I've decided that my football player is going to be nicknamed the Sandman, earned for the number of quarterbacks, running backs and receivers he's put to sleep. He's always the first player on the field for home games, his coming heralded by Metallica's Enter the Sandman.

Oh, and Emmett's new nickname for everyone is Butt Cheek.

Interesting Friday Night Lights coming up this Wednesday. Parents of girls should be interested in how the Taylors deal with their daughters decision to have sex with her boyfriend. I've come to respect how they think. This will certainly be a big test.

Nicknames

I need cool names for football players.

Both kinds. Real names and nicknames. The most important name is that of a linebacker that simply removes the offender from the football. The kind of guy that hits so hard that the ball is left floating in space before falling to the ground. This man is feared statewide. His nickname must instill fear.

Not so important, but just as fun, are the names of other players on the team, such as a lightning fast running back (or corner). It's not the position, is the physical characteristics.

Even if you don't like football, just think nicknames for killers, big men, and fast men.

These are bad attempts, but you get the idea:

Killer: Tank, Thor, Bruiser, Truck, Yank (could be from the north). Think of real names that can be cleverly converted to killer names. We never used this, but once on a softball team they were looking for a nickname for a guy named Cyril. So I came up with Cyril Killer. You see why I need help?

Big Men: For a guy named Dan, my brother knows a big man they call Double Dan. I might use this. Another Dan in another town, Dandroid.

Fast Men: Oh, I don't know.

Be creative; have fun.

Scoop

We watched the first half hour or so of Scoop before putting it back in the Netflix envelope and putting it back into the mailbox at arms length like one would hold a dead mouse by the tail.

Are you getting it? This movie stunk!

You see, this is what I was talking about when I said that Woody Allen should hang up the acting hat and stick to writing and directing. He took two talented (and beautiful) actors, Hugh Jackman and Scarlett Johansen, and made them seem like insipid bobble heads. Allen plays the neurotic shithead again. Doesn't this guy have friends with the balls to tell him that his schtick is getting old? It's actually embarrassing, like watching a comedian flounder on stage like a dead fish. Surely somebody with some influence on him sees this. This person must watch with dread, like a wife sitting helplessly in a jeering crowd as her husband, too tired to lift his gloves, takes a beating that drives him permanently to the mat.

I was blown away by Matchpoint, but had there been so much as a cameo by Allen, the movie would have been shit. Do you hear me, Woody? Hang it up. I've seen better actin' in tough actin' Tenactin.

I'm super busy juggling a couple projects. I'll make up for my lack of commenting on this or any other blog soon.

Snow Day

Pete's Coffee just does it for me.

In other headline news, it's a snow day here in New England. Most schools are closed. I found this out online at wbztv.com through a single click. When I was a boy, I had a "clock radio" (think Austin powers describing the "laser"), which I would tune into on a potential snow day with the same alacrity I would apply to ripping open a present on Christmas morning. My school was always the last hold out, and alphabetically the furthest down the list. I remember the disappointment when mine was skipped over.

Yesterday I realized that my boss, though the nicest guy you could ever ask for, is so damn boring one on one that he makes himself yawn. I will call him Mr. Analogy. I'm building a software system. He is my manager, and asked me for a document that breaks down the tasks that need to get done in the process. I wrote my outline, pasted some pretty pictures, then showed it to him to validate as being on the right track. Somehow, he got to the point of drawing me a cell phone and, in painful detail, all the functions of that cell phone, and how I would go about documenting it. He lost track of what he was talking about, then took another look at what I had given him, and gave his blessing.

Handy Man has struck again. I sent a company wide email begging for help. Here it is, for your viewing pleasure:

Does anyone know the basics of home wiring?

I have what some call a situation at home. I've done the software equivalent of putting untested code into production, and consequently bringing down the national grid. Not quite that bad, but let's just say there are a few dark passages in my house right now.

I'm doing the man thing, by the way, so an electrician is out of the question. Besides, now it's personal.

Scott

The aforementioned manager read this before coming into work, and brought me a book and some kind of electrical reading gadget thingamabob that not even he understands how to use. I should really learn how to use it though, because testing a 220 wire with your tongue is no way to determine if it's hot.

My wife dressed me yesterday in brown corduroys and an orange sweater -- the kind of orange that would prevent, say, a hunter from mistaking you for anything natural. It got lots of comments. I was called a pumpkin on more than one occasion -- not terribly original. The Charlie Brown comment was better thought out. When I told my wife about the reception, she smiled, fixed my collar and told me I look very handsome. I can't shake the feeling that she is making damn sure no female of the species will find me attractive.

As I walking into my manager's office, he took one look at me at said, "Hey pumpkin!" I couldn't resist the opening. In my best Joey Tribiani I said, "How you doin' sugah tits?"

Grid Wars

If you like an old fashioned video game with a modern kick to it, check out Grid Wars. It's a clone of Geometry Wars, but since the original is not available by any means I can divine, Grid Wars is gonna have to do. It's addictive, so beware.

If you don't believe me, then perhaps the fact that Microsoft is going to shut Grid Wars down will convince you.

Upgrading

I've bitten the bullet and am upgrading. In the meantime, things might look a little different for a while.

Update: The template is ugly. It will have to stick for a few days unfortunately. I am reviewing all my old posts and putting thought to the labels. I'm deleting a few old posts too, the kind I don't care to share any more. I'm making a "My Favorites" label for, you guessed it, my favorite posts.

So bear with me for a while.

Q&A

One of the characters in my work-in-progress is a Houston police officer. He was a linebacker at a prominent football school, and would have been a first round pick in the pro draft had he not blown out his knee. His life since he was a child has been about football. Without football he has nothing, including the will to even live.

He is recruited instead into the police force. Life he finds, is far from over. His particular talent for taking people down makes him well suited for law enforcement. His reputation grows. Various departments court him. Finally, though, he transfers to narcotics.

And here he thought he would make the biggest splash, but he is sorely disappointed. His biggest collars are dismissed on technicalities. By the time he catches up with another of my characters -- a drug smuggler working for a particularly nasty gang, represented by a lawyer that has never let one of them do so much as a day of community service -- he's ready to exact justice more directly. And he has friends in the force that will back his play.

That's the gist of it. Now, how to implement the details.

My brother lives in Houston, and he happens to have made the recent acquaintance with an HPD officer, who has been part of the force for twenty five years. So I told my brother to ask the officer if he would consent to a Q&A session with me. Last night my brother called me with the man's cell number.

Given that this is about a corrupt cop, I wonder how I should phrase my questions. I'm pretty sure if someone were writing a book about a software developer that wrote a super virus that took down the security grid, I would be more than happy to play along. I guess it just depends on the personality.

So, my good readers, what questions would you ask?

Here are a few I have in mind.

Q. Within the Houston law enforcement organization, what are considered the dream assignments? Does every rookie cop want someday to make Detective, for instance?

Q. What is the chain of command in the force? Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain, Commissioner? (I might look this up instead of asking)

Q. What assignments are given to officers as punishment for botching an investigation? Guarding the police parking lot for instance.

Q. A sergeant at a precinct can make the job worth doing, or be the reason that one would quit. Without naming names, of course, what frustrations have you experienced in the past with a sergeant? Do any come to mind that did an outstanding job?

Q. How about with assistant district attorneys? Have you ever felt that your collars were being rejected due to shifts in the political wind direction?

Q. In what ways have solid cases that you have made or those made by your fellow officers been dismissed in court? Has corruption ever been suspected as the culprit?

Q. What motivates you to come to work each day? Did you have one idea about your job when you started, but have since adjusted your views?

Q. What is the most gratifying part of your job? Have you ever been thanked by a civilian for a job well done?

Q. The most oft question asked of an officer is probably "Have you ever killed somebody" or "Can you fix this ticket for me" What other questions are typically asked of you? And what are some of your canned answers?

Q. What is some of the street slang that has made it into the police lexicon?

The Handy Man Can

After a year and a half of lukewarm showers, I decided to take action and replace the heating elements of my hot water heater. There is a little faucet at the base of the heater tank, which was too clogged with sediment to run, so I removed the top heating element, about one-third of the way down the tank. This is akin to removing a very large cork. I caught the water in a garbage can, which spouted like Austin Powers' marathon leak after waking from deep-freeze.

There is another element near the base of the tank, too low from which to catch water in a garbage can, so I decided instead to reexamine the faucet. I had been intimidated to do so before because of the mess it would make, but what the hell now. I had just made a huge one. It's kind of like getting the first scuff on your new shoes, or bird shit on the windshield pulling out of the car wash. The next one is old news. So, after removing the faucet head and poking a clothes hanger into the tank, the water started flowing again. It was embarrassingly easy.

After pulling them both out, I could see that the old elements were perfectly functional. Ooops. Oh well. I replaced them anyway with the new ones and put it all back together, filled the tank with water again, and cranked her up. With much anticipation, I took a shower the next morning. No difference.

Khaaaaan!

So then I did the unthinkable. What any sane person would have done in the first place. I turned the temperature up.

Voila. Hot shower.

In a concentric ring surrounding my hot water heater, like Dante's seven rings of hell, lie refuse, scattered tools, discarded packaging and ruddy sediment. The detritus of a dirty bomb.

Need a handy man? Here, take my card. It reads: Wile E. Coyote, soooper genius.

A Brilliant Idea

I started writing a novel, as some of you know, and am participating in a writers group to help me along technically and motivationally. After five thousand words of a single chapter (that seems like a lot, doesn't it?) I stumbled a bit. Not a dead stop; rather a moment of reorganization.

One of those, "Hey, wait... What if...?"

So I wrote my Indian spirit guide. And wow did he ever give me a great idea to go forward with. I guess he didn't get published on accident.

For the first time since I started this endeavor, I feel like I really have something going.

Change of subject: Global Warming.

Still here? Excellent. I thought I would share with you an article my wife found in the Lowell Sun. Check out this excerpt:

With glaciers melting, lakes drying, species vanishing, the oceans acidifying, corals bleaching, hurricanes intensifying, diseases spreading, sea levels rising, insurance companies balking and with 928 peer-reviewed scientific studies dealing with climate change in the past 10 years with zero, as in not a single one, disputing the theory that greenhouse gas emissions have caused most of the warming of the past 50 years (according to a study in Science magazine), can we answer the right question with, "Yes, global warming is occurring right now and its consequences are already being felt."

Check this out. Oil companies have been spending money in a deliberate attempt to confuse people about global warming, to keep us going to the pumps, and not, heaven forbid, get behind the idea of alternative fuel sources. Here's the quote:

The Union of Concerned Scientists recently reported that Exxon Mobil had spent $16 million on different organizations that would spread doubt as to the existence of global warming.

Want to do something about it? Check out this web site.

Never Again

I took Jackson on a Cub Scout camp out this weekend. My wife packed the suitcase, which basically means that we had everything we could have possibly needed and more -- and thank goodness for that.

We stayed in a cabin with the other cubs Jackson's age, and all the parents. Since I am a frequent snorer, I brought along a vat of ear plugs to distribute. Turns out it was unnecessary, because I didn't sleep at all. Technically that's not true, but I think in order for me to snore, I have to pass through the first two stages of sleep. During the first stage, the brain begins to ramp down as the body switches to sleep mode. This is usually associated with shutting the eyes. This I rarely did.

The cabin bunks were rickety and squeaky. Mine in particular was missing a few tie backs to the frame, so that it sagged like an open mouth nearly to the floor. My son lay on the top bunk and couldn't fall asleep, so he fidgeted for what seemed like an hour and a half. Kids in other bunks had meltdowns for various reasons while their fathers got in and out of bed to console them. Once my son finally zonked, I put my "mattress" on the floor. I quote the word because this was more like a plastic wafer barely the width of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Then one of the boys woke and declared that he couldn't sleep, so his father got up with him and they chatted right next to my face for half hour stretches. Then the boy needed milk, then he had to go to the bathroom, then he couldn't sleep again. I felt like Arlo Guthrie -- I wanted to kill, Kill, KILL! His father, thinking I was asleep, stepped over my head wearing just his underwear, then bent over with his ass practically in my face to get into the suitcase to retrieve a flashlight so that his son could read under his blanket. But the kid didn't understand "under his blanket" until I explained it in no uncertain terms.

Finally, the kid buried his head and fell asleep.

Then Jackson woke up hacking -- a horrible sound the shook the dirt from the cracks of the ceiling. Thank goodness Beth packed cough medicine. That took a while to take effect. Then he couldn't sleep, and had to go to the bathroom, then wanted to read a book. I checked the time. 4:30AM.

Tick tock (kill, kill), tick tock.

Never again.

What's Up, What I Like, and a Cute Kid Story

Let's see.

Work is going much better since I proclaimed my independence from repression.

My writers group starts tonight. This is a very good thing. If I have any ability to predict the future based on accurate assessments of the motivations of people, I would say that this group will be composed of serious writers that intent to write a novel or short story for publication. The moderator will be the professor from the class I took the previous semester. He is a published author at St. Martin's Press of several mysteries and thrillers, and is talented in my estimation to boot (the two don't always go hand in hand, although one is obviously a strong indicator of the other).

I'll be reading the chapter I have been writing for two months now. Understand that I don't have much time to write seriously. As it is I have to cheat my lunch hours longer, and at home it is tres difficult after giving the kids baths, reading stories and putting them to bed. My brain at that point feels like a shriveled prune. I have just enough energy to watch one TV show (I know, that's cheating), then to crawl into bed and read until I fall asleep (I know, that's not cheating).

Speaking of, have I told anyone that you have to watch Friday Night Lights? The relationship between the coach and his wife is priceless. They are so real, and yet so perfect -- but not in a Brady Bunch kind of way. This might be biased male perspective, but she is in many ways the female ideal, in a realistic sense. She's no pushover, yet at the same time, she gives so much. When her husband decides he doesn't like what she is doing, he insists that she quit. What does she do? She tells him to deal with it. He laughs and says that there's never a dull moment. He's typically blind like men are when it comes to emotional nuance, and she is acutely aware. You just have to see it to understand. So tune in.

Oh, this is why I wanted to write a post today. A month or so ago, Emmett refused to let Jackson sleep in his bed. Jackson was crushed, and told me as I tucked him into his own bed that Emmett didn't love him anymore. I explained that Emmett is only three; that he is going through a phase that will soon pass. I also told him how much Emmett tries to be just like him, how he laughs at all his jokes. Why do you think he always wants to play with the same toys you play with, I told him. Nothing satisfied Jackson though, and I know he went to sleep with that weighing on his mind.

Emmett has refused to give him a kiss goodnight many times since. But two nights ago, Emmett and I tucked Jackson into bed first. "Emmett," I said, "do you want to give Jackson a kiss goodnight?"

Emmett leaned over the bed and did so. As Emmett turned and pulled a plastic dinosaur from the toy rack along the wall by Jackson's bed, Jackson said, "I love you Emmett."

I could see the anticipation in his eyes as he watched Emmett. There was a pause. It was a long pause for me too, time enough for me to hope fervently as well. For though I knew it was true, Jackson needed to hear it.

"I love you too Jackson," Emmett said, still fascinated with the Brontosaurus.

Jackson looked at me and beamed -- his smile comical for the missing front tooth, angelic in its unguarded radiance.

A coworker and nascent friend told me candidly that he doesn't like kids, and may never have any of his own. I feel sorry for him.

That's Entertainment

I'd like to say something deep today. But that's the trick, isn't it.

So instead, here is a random sample of what is flitting through my mind right now.

Mr. Schprock has finally posted the long awaited and much anticipated tall tale of Big John Mooney. Stop by and let him know just how talented a writer he is.

Shopping at Costco is at all times like food shopping when you haven't eaten -- you drive away with a pile of junk. That said, I am happy to announce that I am the proud new owner of a NCAA junior sized football, the original Star Wars trilogy (digitally remastered of course), and my very own copy of Tarantino's masterpiece, True Romance.

As much as I was rooting for the Pats (I played Metroid Prime Hunters on Nintendo DS during the fourth quarter), I have to say, congrats to Peyton Manning and crew. There is nothing more disrespectful I think than to denigrate a quarterback as prolific as he is for an inability to win the big one. Well now he's going to the Superbowl you armchair pundits, spewers of statistics and disgruntled wannabe couldabeens. So shut up already and enjoy the next game. It promises to be a good one.

And let me say this. What is up with Tom Brady? Before the game, he called Peyton Manning to wish him luck or some such. "It comes down to you and me once again, eh old buddy?" After the game -- a game for the record books mind you (see smash mouth football) -- where was Tom Brady when Peyton was combing the field looking for him? Belichick practically brushed Manning aside in his haste to get off the field.

Before you make excuses for their behavior, ask yourself this: what would Brett Favre have done? Listen guys, you just won three of the last five Superbowls, and have and still enjoy total dominance in the AFC. You just took out the San Diego Chargers and came within a Caldwell drop of winning a trip to Miami. I can't say I'm too impressed with your sportsmanship. How many times have you dashed the hopes of the team that just barely got by you? You could at least shake their hands, say good game, and mean it.

It's cold in New England. In her haste to warm up the truck, my wife leaned over from the passenger seat and started it up. I was strapping Emmett into the car seat in the back when her hand slipped and she did a face plant into the driver's seat.

That's entertainment folks.

My Little Star Wars Fan

My son Jackson has been playing a video game called Star Wars Legos, which renders all the characters from the original trilogy -- Luke, Han, Chewy, Leia, Obi Wan, Darth Vader, the Emperor, etc -- and in fact, the entire Star Wars universe, entirely as Lego constructions. When a character dies, it shatters into a pile of Legos. Jackson has really taken to it.

Previously, when he was a couple years younger, I tried to watch the first movie with him. If you recall, it begins with a space chase. The tiny rebel ship is swallowed by the enormous Imperial Cruiser. The tense John Williams score pounds in your chest as the Storm troopers blast through the door, and the evil Lord Vader chokes a man who refuses to talk. Jackson made me turn it off.

But last night, his curiosity peaked by the events of the game, he finally watched it with me. He peppered me with questions, all the while. Are those bad guys? Are they dead? Where is his light saber? Where is Yoda? Is that Boba Fett? Is this where R2D2 gets hurt?

Does Obi Wan Knobie die? No, he just disappears.

Where does he go? He becomes a ghost and follows Luke wherever he goes.

During the dog fight scene, Jackson pulled his knees to his chest and smiled for most of the time, until he noticed that all the good guys kept getting killed. But when Han Solo saves the day and Darth Vader spins off into space, he was elated.

Afterwards, he took out the light saber we got him for Christmas, searched his feelings, and felt the force flow through him.

Ahhh.

On a separate note, I've decided to get behind my home team, the New England Patriots. Dallas is my favorite team, and that will never change. What got me thinking is that Jackson's school has a Patriots day for the kids. My son, both of them eventually, will naturally become fans, and I don't want to be cheering against them, or causing them conflicting loyalties.

So good luck this weekend Pats. Or should I say, continued good luck.

Sorry For Your Loss

The night I got married, my father had to be taken to a hospital. He was having trouble breathing. No longer was he the invincible man, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, able to outrun a locomotive. He was a man, a vulnerable man, afraid to die. His eyes were wide with fear when he said to me, "I think I had a heart attack."

I was a drunken sot, thanks to a night of open bar and that special concoction they make in Maui, the name of which I'll recall later. When I met up with my new wife in the hotel room, I had been crying like a colicky newborn baby. Thank goodness she didn't annul the marriage right there.

As it turns out, he just had the flu. But my perception of my father was changed forever. I knew now that he would die someday, as ridiculously obvious as that revelation seems. And as little as I rely on him for anything more than a pat on the back, which still puffs me up like dry sponge dipped in water, he won't be around forever to lean on.

So my heart goes out to my friend whom I've never met in person, who nonetheless has encouraged me in so many ways to be a writer, and is an inspiration to a great many others as well.

I'm sorry for your loss Janey.

The Jeffrey Report

The name Jeffrey seems to have some significance in my life. When I bring the name up with my wife, she has to ask for clarification. Well, there are three that I refer to in varying frequency.

Jeffrey Roberts was my very good friend until he wasn't. He was like the lid on a mason jar of fireflies. Once removed, the fireflies scattered into the night, leaving me holding the empty container. I feel bad for my part in things, but my wife won't let me blame myself. Still, I know that for my part, I behaved badly.

But how much belly aching can I do? I hate losing friends, but sometimes it's a natural part of growing up. I was touched by a quote from Ernest Hemingway ala Tobias Wolff (which means Hemingway didn't actually say this):

Don't talk about your writing. If you talk about your writing you will touch something you shouldn't touch and it will fall apart and you will have nothing. Get up at first light and work like hell. Let your wife sleep in, it'll pay off later. Watch your blood pressure. Read. Read James Joyce and Bill Faulkner and Isak Dinesen -- that beautiful writer. Read Scott Fitzgerald. Hold on to your friends. Write like hell and make enough money to go someplace else, some other country where the . . . Feds can't get at you.

He later repeats the most important advice he gave in that passage: Hold on to your friends. The impression I'm left with, is that towards the end of the man's life, he came to regret letting go when it was in his power to do otherwise. That really makes me think.

As for Jeff Starr, I recently wrote about a phone message he left me declaring that he had found the one. Then, a couple weeks later, that he had run into the wall that too easily erects to staunch the invasion of true feelings. But I found out recently that all systems are normally functioning once again. It seems that she was only testing him when she asked for the month moratorium on what Clinton referred to as sexual relations, and was testing too when she asked to see other people. I'm suspect, but then again, I'm not a well man.

Last but not least, Jeff found my "hit me buddy" post and responded in such a way as to preclude any doubt that it was truly him, by correctly identifying the censored expression "(insert bad word)smack" as his inspired creation "cocksmack." Not even my word processor knows what it means.

It was great to hear from you old buddy. I've decided to post some pictures of myself and my family on Flickr. I'll post a link here in a couple of days. Some of my long time blog buddies will finally see the man behind the mask. This will discredit once and for all the rumors circulating the blogosphere that I moonlight as a Chippendale's dancer. For all my old college buddies, brace yourselves. I'm not a kid anymore.

Quick Update

A quick update.

If you have not watched Friday Night Lights, then I really think you should. Ostensibly, this show is about a small town high school football team -- the coach, his family, the players and their friends and family. But it's about so much more. As with Battlestar Galactica, this show is about drama first; all the rest is just setting. I'm not sure if it got nominated -- my wife thinks not -- and that's a damn shame.

Mr. Schprock is promising to post again, squelching any rumors of his untimely demise.

I'm going to be a soccer coach next season. When I told my dad, he asked, "What do you know about soccer?" Good point. My answer: a hell of a lot more than the guy coaching my son today. It's a funny little society. I told one of the other coaches that I will be doing this, and she told that she already knew. They were desperate she said.

Ahem. My kids will be ready to play, so bring it!

I've figured out why I've been so down at work. I'm a senior guy doing junior work, but I'm taking a stand and doing what I was originally hired to do -- design a new system. They derailed those efforts and have been sabotaging me in meetings with "minor" objections to the designs I have presented for review, causing me major headaches. It's been dragging me down to the point of giving up. Now it's time for the old Scott to step up to the plate and start losing friends and pissing off people. So fuck you Dale Carnegie, I'm doing it my way.

I saw a news story this morning. A lady stands in front of a lions cage and knocks, waking it up from a deep sleep. It rears onto its hind legs, reaches through the bars and wraps its paws around her shoulders and literally kisses her. It was so touching. The affection was so human. The woman, as it turns out, rescued the lion as a cub from starvation and nursed it to health. Wow.

If I ever find a video online, I'll post it. You just have to see it.

*** Update ***
Toni found it on BBC. I can't link it directly, but look to the right of the screen and see the video called "Woman embraced by Lion."
*** Update ***

That's all the news fit for print people.

Flash Entry

I just entered Jason's Silent Grey flash fiction contest. Check it out here.

An Inconvenient Truth

Just a quick note to recommend this movie. I can tell you, as a right leaner, I have never liked Al Gore. But after this movie... I was moved. I'm not one to fall for political bullshit, but Al Gore has sold me hook, line and sinker. He cares about the environment, and every one of us better take heed--and soon. I've supported the administration about some things, but they have blantantly ignored alternative fuels, aside from lip service in the State of the Union.

I'm not a persuasive writer. Just see this movie, no matter how you lean.

Blue Jay

Out of the clear blue, an old friend called me up to say he was coming to Boston this weekend. I've written about him in the past. He was one of my beautiful friends, beside which I was nearly invisible at nightclubs and on our co-ed dormitory floor. Now he is engaged, and was here to visit with her family.

My wife doesn't like Jay, because he did this once before when we lived in San Francisco, but never showed. My wife wanted me to go with her to visit her Grandfather, who died soon after the visit. I stayed home and waited for Jay instead. She doesn't like him for other reasons. If you read about him, you will most likely understand.

It's like I told her before going out to see him, and several times after. My past is important to me. And what is harder to explain, is that despite all his faults--his ego, his selfishness, his need to be the alpha dog in our relationship--he was my friend. I could never sell that to my wife, and I understand how she sees it. I suppose any self-respecting person would see it her way too. But you had to be there.

You had to see what I was.

His fiance was just what I expected, and nothing like I expected at all. I expected her to be beautiful, and she was. But she was sweet, and quite moved when I told the story of how I met my wife. When we parted, she hugged me and said I was the highlight of her trip to Boston.

In many ways, Jay has found his opposite.

Jay looked the same, and nothing like he did before. I had a hard time seeing the young man that the ladies all swooned for. He still had his hair, but it was slightly disheveled. The old Jay was quite sharp and overly conscious of his appearance. He seemed slightly stooped with age, and his face, once smooth and perfect, was wrinkled and sagging just a bit.

He thinks I still look young. I thought he was just being nice, but when I look at my face in the mirror, in contrast to what he sees when he looks in his, maybe I can understand what he means. I'm not young anymore; nor do I look it. But I have aged gracefully. I'm not a sad reflection of what I used to be, though when I do see my old photos, I wonder why I had such a problem with my looks.

It was maturity that kept me from realizing any early potential. Jay helped me work through some of my issues. He wasn't perfect himself by any stretch, but he once told me, when I was on the verge of socking him in the eye, to stop being like my father. You're a better man than he is.

I reminded him that he told me that. His fiance kissed him when she heard this, and told me with no small amount of pride, that the people he manages at work would kill for him.