Spring Break 2012: Wednesday – Madison’s Sick!

With Madison at home because of sickness, I didn’t even bother with the charade of paper work. I turned my attention instead to cleaning our computer room/library/my second closet. Of all the logistics that we’d likely encounter upon the arrival of our still as yet hypothetical second child, what the hell we’re going to do with all of the stuff in the computer room (which I would assume becomes Phil, Jr.’s). Anyway,  I had Pandora rolling while I attempted to rid my life of some dead weight. There was one gem today:

Sadly, this is the best version of the song I could find not bound by Vevo.

It always has to get worse before it can get better. This was like half-way through.

*I set Madison up with Froot Loops (she’s going to develop an immunity to them soon) and juice before heading into the computer room. I don’t mind cleaning, provided that no one or no dog bothers me while I am doing it. My mind wanders too easily without help. External distractions are death on my personal projects. Luckily, since a sick Madison is a shell of the meddlesome clown she usually is, she was content to watch her TV shows and gobble up her toucan-approved cereal. I am writing this entry now because I have time. I have a date with fourteen term papers later tonight, so there that goes. On the bright side, I have received an email informing me that Lost Season 6 and Chuck Klosterman’s The Visible Man have shipped and I will received them on or about the 22nd of this month. Good news.

"You have the man because you're a man, and I'll have this key (battle ax)."

Aside: The washing machine just beeped to let me know that my load is completed. I am willfully ignoring it. There is a 68% chance that this choice will lead to me forgetting the laundry is in there which will then result in having to wash it again because I let it sit there overnight. These are risks I am willing to take in the pursuit of this blog.

Madison’s inactivity didn’t last for long. While I was in the middle of deciding how to rearrange the closet, she popped her head in and asked if she could help. “Sure,” I said. “You wanna pass me that bag over there?” She turned and eyed the bag. “I think I have to rest because I’m sick,” she countered. I should have snapped at her. Like I wrote on Facebook this morning, I should have been a raving lunatic to her all day so that the last thing she ever wants to do is stay home from school. The pandora’s box of procrastinating, cheating on your significant other, and skipping school  opens when you is do it and find out that lightning doesn’t fall from the sky and strike you down. She’s gotta learn that school is always a better alternative than staying home.

In the midst of my cleaning, she and I tore open an Optimus Prime toy that I had received for Christmas. She was solely interested in Prime’s weapon which she saw as a key. Madison then spouted the kind of goat logic Lynnette has made famous as an argument suggesting that she should be given possession of the “key.” Abby will chew this toy down into bits of plastic by the end of the week. I will then have the honor – nay, the privilege – of vacuuming it up.

Madison will be four-years old in less than a month. I'm going to come out and say that perhaps Lynnette and I were being a bit quixotic when we thought we'd be able to transition her from our bed to her own.

*I took a break from cleaning to whip us up some lunch. And by “whip up” I mean “microwave.” Madison had some ravioli and I had myself a couple of Hot Pockets. If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think either of us really enjoyed our meals. But we ate all of it anyway. Team Higa.

After we ate, I tried to put Mad down for a nap. I asked if she wanted to nap in her room or our room, and she said her own. She got into the bed without incident and I laid out a comforter next to it so I could lie next to her. We were in there for 15 minutes. I hit that middle-sleep place where you go from being alert and actively thinking of something to losing consciousness and whatever you were thinking of kind of melts into a haze of nonsense as a result. I popped up to see if Madison was sleeping. She wasn’t. My back hurt so I asked if she wanted to try to nap in the usual spot. She agreed. She finally fell asleep – for twenty minutes. I was already in the computer room trying to finish up when I heard her yell something. She was upset because she woke up alone. Author’s Note: If you replace the pronoun “she” in the previous statement with the pronoun “I,” you’d have a pretty good idea of what my 4 years of college were like.

She scolded me for leaving her alone, then told me she “wasn’t a little tired.” Played back through the Madison Subtlety-O-Meter, that statement means:

Father, you tricked me into taking a nap by falling asleep next to me. I was only able to nap because your obstreperous snoring is comforting to me in its familiarity. How dare you leave me to nap alone. I no longer wish to nap, and any attempt on your part to hoodwink me into sleep again will be met with the kind of resistance that will be so miserable, it is highly likely to ruin your day. You are, of course, my father, and will do as you see fit.

We exited the bedroom and I may or may not have turned on the TV for her.

If any of the women (canine or no) in my house ruin this, there will be varying degrees of hell to pay - depending on which one of them did it.

*So the first mission of the day is accomplished. The computer room is clean and organized. There are two trash bins near my home. One of them has 7 bags or boxes of trash in them. They’re all mine. Believe it or not, cleaning the room is the easier of the two tasks I must complete today. When I am cleaning, I get to do menial tasks like strip boxes down with a box cutter. I don’t know why, but that has always been enjoyable to me. Maybe it’s to compensate for the fact that I have zero interest in March Madness. Who’s to say?

Anyway, I have to get dinner started. I think we’re going to go with baked salmon with mayo/bacon/mushrooms/onions. I wanted pasta something, but Lynnette had that for lunch today.

I’ll update you on dinner and the term papers tomorrow.

Change will Come. Change is Here.

We probably couldn't afford Costas or Musburger.

Yesterday my high school alma mater and current employer made the announcement that it would begin accepting female applicants for the 2012-2013 school year after 49 years as a school exclusive to males. It’s kind of a big deal. I hope that those who have made this decision have also acquired the services of the WWE’s Jim Ross (“GOOD GOD ALMIGHTY, THERE’S A GIRL ON CAMPUS!”) or TNA’s Mike Tenay (“Wait…is that? That’s a girl!”) for the first day of school next August. I mean, if there was ever going to be a reason to do it, this would be it, right?

I spent the latter half of my teenage years and the better part of my adult life at Damien. That’s nearly half of my life in total. Like Saturday Night Live’s Wong and Owens, it’s all I know. Those numbers are the reason I am torn by the school’s decision to go coed. As an alumus, I am disappointed that the school I knew and know will cease to exist. As a teacher, I can understand the logic behind the decision. But that’s like saying I understand why I lost a game; it doesn’t make the loss easier to deal with in the least. For those who have continued to be involved with the school, the announcement could have come as a surprise, but should not have come as a shock. This drastic change is simply the acknowledgement of the enrollment problem that has gotten progressively worse in recent years.

In the hours following the announcement, my Facebook page exploded with commentary from current students, former students, and my high school classmates. While the response was overwhelmingly negative, I found it interesting that there seemed to be a correlation between the intensity of the responses and the age of the posters. The most numerous and visceral responses tended to come from current students or those who had graduated within the last three years. There were a few posts from alumni who are now in their mid-twenties, mostly inquisitive. My high school classmates mostly made observations and jokes. I realize a few of hours of posts on Facebook is a pretty small sample size. I also realize that Facebook itself probably skews towards a younger set. But it feels like the people who felt most strongly about the change where those who are still at Damien or recently had been. I think that’s telling. The most emotional opposition came from those whose memories of the Damien are the freshest. My brothers, classmates, and former co-workers whom I spoke to on the phone weren’t emotional, but mostly curious.

At least Buckner was an actual player in the game.

Humans find it easier and more comfortable when we are able to put a face on our antagonist, to give our enemy a name. It’s the reason Terry Francona won’t be back as the Red Sox manager. It’s the reason Steve Bartman was unfairly blamed for the Chicago Cubs 2003 play-off failures. It would be a mistake, however, to blame any one person for our school going coed.

If you use the published numbers as a guide, then the current enrollment is under 400 students for 6th-12th grade. When I attended Damien, there were over 500 students in the high school grades alone. From what people tell me, the numbers were even greater than that in the late 80s and early 90s. But it’s 2011. I don’t think those glory days are coming back.

There are too many other, smaller private school options on the island. Damien no longer competes with only a small handful of private schools. If you think I’m overstating the impact of those smaller schools, tell me how many schools Pac-5 is really comprised of.

Damien’s demographic has generally been the middle class. My parents sent me to Damien because they wanted me to have a private school education and Damien was simply the best they could afford. In talking with students over the years, it seems as if this is still a common consideration among parents. In this recession, however, those likely hardest hit are families in the middle class or lower. I cannot envision the enrollment increasing until the recession ends.

I don’t have the exact numbers, I can’t do economic climate forecasts, and I wasn’t there in the room when those charged with making decisions for our school decided to go coed, so I can’t say for sure. But I have to believe that going coed was very nearly the last resort. This isn’t change for the sake of change. Perhaps this will sound a bit too melodramatic. It is and it isn’t. But this is Darwinism in action. Change or die. Damien isn’t locked in a death match with Saint Louis. In my opinion, whatever Saint Louis does or does not do is irrelevant. Saint Louis has one thing that we can’t touch and everyone knows it. But it doesn’t matter. Damien’s struggle isn’t with another school. We’re in the fight of our lives against time and a paradigm shift and a cold economic context. I don’t know that going coed is the solution or even part of it, but to do nothing – to preserve the status quo – would mean willfully turning a blind eye to the hard truth that the status quo is not working.

All that said, things will change. Uncertainty is among the most dreadful things humans can encounter, and perhaps that is what is fueling the harsh negative responses. “Different” doesn’t necessarily have to mean “worse.” I have no idea how all of this will play out on a school-wide level. Only time can reveal that. As for me?

I have long stated that having to teach females would be a professional nightmare for me. I grew up without sisters and my mother – the lone female in the house – was someone I struggled to understand. I was lucky enough to trick a woman into marrying me, and my daughter has done absolutely nothing to clarify females for me. It’s possible she’s made it worse. At least I used to try to figure them out. Now I just throw my hands in the air and wave them because I just don’t care.

By no means am I a man’s man, but I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m not a ladies’ man, either. My bag of educational tricks is filled mostly with references to sports and movies and geek mythology. I use The Lord of the Rings trilogy to teach Epic poetry. I use Star Wars to illustrate character archetypes. I say things like “Victor Frankenstein and Anakin Skywalker and Severus Snape are the same guy in that their existences are shaped by personal tragedies brought on by their own misguided decisions,” and “Conrad introduced Kurtz so late into the novel for the same reasons Michael Bay waited 45 minutes to show Optimus Prime in Transformers: to build suspense and create expectations.” Honestly, I have no idea how I am going to make those adjustments to my methods and style to accommodate the females who will be my students in a couple of years – only that I will because I must. Such is life. Change or die.

Can We Watch Something Else, Mad?

I swear to you it was a gift.

"Why that car sad, dad?"

Like I said, Madison loves Cars. In the two to three weeks during which Madison has been on her Lightning McQueen/Mater rampage, her entire world view has shifted. She sees the world in Cars the same way I used to see the world in Tony Hawk in College, which is the same way Neo could see the world in the Matrix in The Matrix.

When we’re driving on the road, she’ll see a tow truck and say “There’s Mater!” If we see a semi, she’ll claim that it’s Mack, even though I tell her that it’s just as likely that it’s Optimus Prime. Every single red sports car that zooms past us on the free way is McQueen, and he “wants to race us.” She claimed that the light blue VW Beetle in the Mililani Town Center parking lot was “Sally.” When I tried to explain to Madison that Sally is a Porsche, she shouted back at me “Don’t say that!” Aside: When the movie Step Brothers came out,  my brother Matty and I were instantly drawn to the scene in which Will Ferrell shouts/whispers “You don’t say that!” at John C. Reilly. Over time, Matty and I would say this to each other whenever we were put off by something the other had said. For example: “Hey Matty, the Taco Bell on Kam Highway is closing.” “You don’t say that!” Well, years later, my daughter says “Don’t say that!” whenever I say something she simply does not want to be true: “Okay, Mad, it’s time to take a nap.” “Don’t say that!” “Goob, say goodbye to the fish, it’s time to go.” “Don’t say that!” “Mad, tell Mater good night, it’s time to turn off Cars and go to sleep!” “Don’t say that!”

If Madison becomes attracted to guys with "bitchin' rides," I will blame Lynnette forever.

I have not sat through Cars from beginning to end, but I am positive I have seen the entire movie. Yeah, it’s like that. It was bound to happen, anyway, so I might as well get to it. After the first 15 or so viewings of the movie, the character of Doc Hudson (left, voiced by the late Paul Newman) drew me in.

He’s not the mentor in the traditional sense like Oogway in Kung-Fu Panda or Dumbledore in Harry Potter or Obi Wan Kenobi in that movie I can’t remember the name of. Those kinds of mentors knew their place and were at peace with it. They always seemed to have an aura of omniscience about them. They always knew exactly what had to be done, but all three characters also knew that they weren’t the ones who could do it. Traditional mentor figures like these are at peace with their place and know exactly what it is they have to teach. They do it and leave their students to figure out the rest on their own (which they must, lest the mentor become a crutch).

Doc Hudson’s first appearance in the film is as a judge in Radiator Springs. He starts out on a rant about putting the car who tore up his city in a jail until the jail rusts over him, and so on. Once he sees that the offender is a race car, he immediately attempts to have McQueen thrown out of the court and escorted out of town. This would lead into an episode only slightly less chaotic than when Brian Dennehy tried to politely escort John Rambo out of town.

One of the twists in the film is the revelation that Doc Hudson was actually a famous race car in his own right; the fact that an arrogant, me-first racer like McQueen had even heard of The Fabulous Hudson Hornet (Doc’s racing name) emphasizes his legendary greatness. There were also those three Piston Cups. And then it comes out. Doc Hudson didn’t leave racing on his own terms. He wrecked and somehow, wasn’t allowed to race when he healed/was repaired. He tells McQueen that they (he never specifically says who “they” are, only that “they” had moved on) had forgotten about him, and that’s the reason he’s never gone back. It makes sense that Doc would hide out in a small town. He told McQueen that he never thought that world (the world of race cars, I guess) would find him there. More specifically, though, Doc’s Clark Kent act in Radiator Springs is about control.

I can't wait until Mad gets into Criminal Minds because I was going to watch that over and over anyway.

What happened to Doc’s career was unfortunate, and the manner in which he describes his quick descent into racing irrelevance implies that he had no control over it. It’s not one of those “He will miss entire seasons with injury” things like Eric Chavez or a “He’s good for two DL stints per season” deals like Chipper Jones. Doc wasn’t a “He couldn’t stay healthy as he got older” like Nomar Garciaparra. Hell, he wasn’t even a “He’s not the same guy after the injury” like Carlos Beltran or Johan Santana or Edgardo Alfonzo. Doc’s career was over, and he had no say in it.

He positioned himself as a judge, doctor/mechanic and the voice of authority in a small town and become indispensable. “They” could never be through with him again. But there was still a problem. Doc Hudson was born to be a Fabulous Hornet, not a judge, doctor/mechanic. When Lightning McQueen showed up in Radiator Springs, the rookie racer’s bravado and behavior only served to remind him of this fact. When McQueen later said he and Doc were “the same” under the hood (their conversation took place after McQueen caught Doc racing on his own), Doc brushed it off with a comparison of their values, though obviously, that’s not what McQueen was talking about. Doc was wrong anyway.

Doc and McQueen were both selfish in their own way. While McQueen’s self-centered attitude was the obvious aspect of it, Doc’s selfishness was about maintaining a situation he could control. Of course, he was a hypocrite. He gave up McQueen to the media to get him out of Radiator Springs because McQueen had already changed the town and threatened to change it further. Doc was losing control of the situation. Also, if you really like sushi, but you can’t eat it right now (for whatever reason), you’d be pretty pissed off at the jackass next to you who’s downing the hamachi by the fistful. Lightning McQueen had to go.

Like Mr. Miyagi, Doc Hudson was a crusty old man well past his physical prime. Unlike Mr. Miyagi, a has-all-the-answers, 20-steps-ahead, highly-enlightened teacher, Doc Hudson had a couple of lessons to learn:

1. You can’t run (or drive, I guess) from who you are.

2. Blaming others is a pretty crappy way to go through life. At the end of it, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.

We will attempt to take Mad to watch Cars 2. I am terrified that she will sit through the first three minutes of it before declaring “I want the regular Cars, dad.” Well, she could also shout “Mater!” every time he appears on-screen, but I don’t think she’ll be alone.

If Life is a Highway, then We’re Riding it While Listening to “Life is a Highway” – ALL NIGHT LONG.

Two weeks into summer and I have to say that this is the worst summer weather ever. I haven’t been able to count on sunshine day-to-day the entire time. I don’t know what I did to upset the weather gods, as I have already offered a fatted goat for good weather and haven’t received my due. Like right now, they’ve decided to spite me with a drizzle in the midst of blazing sunlight. Who does that? I am quickly exhausting my indoor plans for the summer. Goobi and I are regulars at Target, Walmart, and we’re getting there with Pearlridge. I don’t even know what to say. It wasn’t so bad last week when Mad had a runny nose, it was okay. We couldn’t go to the beach or pool anyway, so it wasn’t a big deal. But now that Mad’s over the weather again, the weather still has the upper hand.

She's looking for those rare collectable variants!

That's like 50% of my genetics right there.

Just like "A League of Their Own."

Being forced to stay indoors brought along something unexpected: Madison LOVES Cars. It’s one of those things you think are harmless as a parent. You’re tired of the stuff she’s watching, so you pick something else just as a change of pace, and then your kid ends up loving that more than anything else, and only wants to watch that. That’s Cars for us right now. Madison has two little Hot Wheels-esque toys (McQueen and Mater), we have Cars cereal that Mad eats faithfully each morning (the brown o’s before the reds ones because she likes Mater best), and she watches the movie at least once a day. It’s unbelievable. If you’ve seen the movie, then you’ll know what I’m talking about: Mad goes through the dialogue between Mater and McQueen when Mater accuses Lightning of “loving Miss Sally.” And she does voices! Madison takes up this weird, goofy drawl when she’s Mater and says “You love her, you love her, you love her.” And it cracks me up. Then she’ll say “shoooooot” the way Larry the Cable Guy does-right before trying to do that quick-speak thing that Mater does. I like Rascal Flatts even less now. And I f*cking hated them back then. It’s unreal. I told my dad that I think Madison loves Cars more than I loved Transformers and G.I. Joe combined. Madison’s devotion to the Pixar film makes my whispering obscenities in the theater when the Decepticons ganged up on Optimus Prime look mild by comparison. When you’re three, I guess it’s a phase, when you’re in your late 20s, people tell you to grow the **** up. Let he who has not pretended they were a robot that transforms into a red big rig and made his younger brother be Bumble Bee cast the first stone. That’s what I thought. Don’t judge me.

Zap!

She wouldn't let Honey slide alone.

"It's laundry time!"

Madison’s use of adjectives is improving, though she tends to describe things in terms of size and color. For example, our place is “the white house,” Lynnette’s parents’ house is “the green house,” and my parents’ house is “the big house.” Pretty simple system. Well, her favorite playground is the one at Mililani Rec 7, AKA “The White Playground,” AKA “Honey’s Mommy’s House.” I assume there are two primary reasons she likes this playground. 1) It’s probably the one she’s most familiar with. 2) It’s clean. She doesn’t dare bring Honey on any of the other playgrounds, just this one. This gave me the idea to go to as many different playgrounds as possible this summer, take a bunch of pictures, then throw them into a blog with a ratings system or something later in the summer. It’ll be waaaaaaaaaaaaay better than the kinds of ratings found on iTunes, but nowhere near as detailed as the spoilers found on amazon.com. The White Playground is also the only one that Madison refers to as her home. I don’t know why. But when she sees the plastic bubble (right), she says “It’s Laundry Time!”

If they could, my washer and dryer would be eating Snickers bars because they aren't going anywhere for a f*cking while.

Joining Washer and Dryer on the "Inactive List" is Laundry Pile. It's going to rival the trash pile Brett and I accumulated during college.

Speaking of “Laundry Time,” that’s not going to happen for a while. A few days ago, our washer started beeping on its own. I held down the power button and it stopped. Then a couple of nights ago, I was pulled out of my sleep by the same beeping. Here’s where the drama begins.

As you can see, our washer and dryer barely fit into the little closet allotted them. And since my stomach extends out a bit farther than my chest, I was unable to maneuver behind it to unplug it. I tried to suck it in. So hard. To no avail. So I had to wake up Lynnette.

I walked back into the room and whispered, “Sens.” (That’s her nickname. I don’t have time to explain how.) She doesn’t move, but she says flatly, “Do you need me to unplug it?” She roused herself from her sleep, weaseled behind the washer and dryer, and unplugged it. She’s my hero. Anyway, the reason that the washer and dryer have been summoned from their dwelling is that the lint hose cracked and therefore lint shot all over the place behind the stack. So my dad and I pulled these badboys out of the closet and I cleaned it as best I could. Lint is relentless. It’s clingier than Madison after she wakes up from a nap and my ex-girlfriend combined. But you know what? That lint was no match for me, a bunch of Swiffer sheets, a broom, a dustpan, wet microfiber towels, and a bunch of swears. Take that, lint. (High-fives self and cleaning products).

We went through something similar with our dryer about a year ago (it might even have been last summer) and were told that it’s the electronics. Like any other computer, it would malfunction eventually. The thing is, I don’t even watch porn on my washing machine that often. Weird. Well, apparently, the Sears technician won’t be able to come over until Monday, the 27th. I don’t want to do the exact math, but that’s not this coming Monday. Dude. You have no idea how much two adults, a toddler, and a dog can make in my house. I don’t know why. I don’t know how. But my family does with laundry what Jesus did with the loaves and fish. It’s that or our dirty clothing is capable of asexual reproduction and didn’t tell us. So, if you see me walking by and I’m wearing the same thing I was the last time you saw my walking by, look away, baby, look away. Also, don’t judge me.

Dongs, Kisses, and Boys Will be Boys

So wait, showing isn't better than telling?

*New York Congressman Anthony Weiner (nah, too easy) has a hobby: sending pictures of his crotch to women not his wife via the internet. After repeated denials, Weiner finally admitted to “sending similar pictures to six different women he met online over the past three years” yesterday.

I don’t know Anthony Weiner, I don’t know anything about politics, and honestly, I don’t get it. Former NFL quarterback entrenched himself in intrigue for a similar offense by sending crotch shots to Jenn Sterger, a former employee of the New York Jets. To borrow from one of the greatest rock frontmen of all time, these two clowns give love a bad name.

The cliche goes that a picture is worth a thousand words, and I suppose in using that kind of logic, the picture message crotch shot must be more effective than any pick-up line, song, or conversation possibly could be. Let’s be fair, the poorly-lit, awkwardly taken photo of one’s penis with a substandard camera says so much without technically saying anything. It says “I’m into you.” It also says “I’m not joking around.” Metaphorically, it could be construed as romantic in the “Look, I don’t normally do this (not true in Weiner’s case), but I’m going to put myself out there. This is how I feel.” It’s entirely possible that taking a picture of your junk, then hitting “send” is just simpler and less time consuming than a conventional courtship. Why take a woman to dinner-or even coffee-when you don’t have to spend a dime spamming babes with profile shots of your Ultra Magnus? Well, if romance was dead before, it’s not been spat on, Hogan leg-dropped, buried, exhumed, and Hogan leg-dropped again. Personally, I’ve always been more of a “words” guy. I write a decent letter, I can put together a pretty solid mix tape filled that is devoid of a track with a 13 second clip of the sounds of people going at it. Maybe I’m not as creative as I like to think I am. I suppose George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex” as track 1 isn’t as specific as a photo of my schlong, but I do what I can. Thank you, Anthony Weiner for making me seem like a wholesome guy. And all I had to do was not take pictures of my dong and mass message people with it.

More or less offensive than trotting around the bases with your Randy Johnson hanging out?

*Speaking of men behaving badly (and dongs), baseball phenom Bryce Harper broke an unwritten rule of baseball this week by showing up an opponent twice on the same place. Reports say that Harper lingered in the batter’s box watching one of his homeruns, then blew a kiss at the pitcher on his way towards home plate. My own reaction was similar to the whispering match between Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly in Stepbrothers: when I first heard the story, the first thing I said was “You don’t say that!”

Reactions to Harper’s behavior are mixed, with most baseball fans (myself included) crying foul, while the opinions of ESPN’s analysts range from Bobby Valentine’s “no big deal,” to Keith Law’s “there’s likely more to the story than we know,” to Hall of Famer Mike Schmidt’s advice, “act like you’re used to hitting them (home runs)… tone it down, just play the game.”

Schmidt later added that if Harper’s manager won’t police him, then the game itself will. By “police,” I assume Schmidt was talking about headshot fastballs, benches clearing, and Harper earning a reputation as selfish player. What Schmidt is also acknowledging is the fact that no one player is bigger than the game itself. Baseball has a way of humbling even its best. Bryce Harper has always been talented, and he’s always been young. Hopefully, he will learn from this experience the same way that Lightning McQueen was able to learn valuable life lessons by being stuck in Radiator Springs for a week. I am almost positive that his great skills have made it so that he’s never struggled for an extended period of time on the diamond. I would kill someone to know what that is like. But even I know that you don’t disrespect other players, and more importantly, you don’t disrespect the game.

I hope they're pointing those at Michael Bay.

*Since we’re here and all, I figured I could go with Will Smith and Martin Lawrence or the Gloria Estefan. Either way, I guess. According to IMDB.com, Bad Boys 3 has a release date of 2015. One can safely assume that Jerry Bruckheimer isn’t concerned with the prognostication of the Mayans.

It seems like it would make sense considering Smith is already working up on the third film in the Men in Black series right now. Besides, I think the world is sadly bereft of buddy cop movies with awesome action sequences and multi-million dollar over-the-top explosions. Since Murtaugh and Riggs decided that they were too old for this shit, Martin and Will carried the torch until Michael Bay decided to move on to making films about robots while destroying my childhood in the process. Aside: I saw the Transformers 3 trailer during the NBA finals game yesterday and I have no idea what the movie is supposed to be about. That’s not a good sign. I always tell my students that if a two-hour movie is chopped down to a 30-second clip and you still can’t make heads or tails of the story, that probably means there isn’t much story there. I don’t know what the tendril thing taking down the tower was supposed to be, but I guess I’ll find out. Can Optimus Prime avoid dying in this one? Thanks. More recently, “Hawaii 5-0” has tried to take the buddy-cop genre to the small screen, and while the show is wildly popular, I don’t buy the banter between Scott Caan and Lynnette’s boyfriend, Alex O’Loughlin. Neither of them is the straight man, and neither is the comic relief. They’re both a little of both. That doesn’t work. One is always cool (Mel Gibson and Will Smith) and the other is always lame (Danny Glover and Martin Lawrence). Even The Hangover exploited this relationship dynamic. You could argue that O’Loughlin’s McGarrett is supposed to be the cool guy, but Caan’s Dano isn’t lame. They’re mostly the same guy.

That’s why despite not having anything in common at all really, my wife and I seem to work. She’s the cool one, and I am happy to be the lame comic relief. The spotlight can only shine brightly on one. That’s the only way it works. Ask LeBron and D-Wade.

Commentary “On”

There’s a whole lot going on, though I wouldn’t know it because I’ve been trapped inside my house all week while my daughter says “I hungee!” Just toss an “R” in there somewhere and you get the idea. Anyway, if it weren’t for the internet, I’d have absolutely no idea what the hell is going on in the outside world. Kind of like that time in college when I fell asleep with the curtains closed, didn’t check outside before dressing for class, went with a t-shirt, shorts, and sunglasses, got outside, saw that it was pouring, but had to sack it up because I was already going to be late for class. Good times. Anyway, I have to troll for stuff I’m interested in because other than that, it’s just the Mets.

*Apparently, Megan Fox shant be returning for Transformers 3. I wish I could muster up some kind of speech about how I’m going to miss her, but she didn’t really bring anything to the table. Oh sure, we could debate all day about the merits of her body writhing across a movie theater screen, and while I can’t speak for any other red-blooded American male, I wasn’t really watching the movie for her. No, my heart belongs to a big red semi. Anyway, her name is Rosie Huntington-Whiteley (left, cruising in the Autobot Bentley- little does she know her feminine whiles don’t work on robots), and she is already being called “Shia LeBeouf’s romantic interest,” which is kind of shocking to me considering that when I do pay my $45 dollars to watch this movie, I will not interested in romance at all. Again, there’s something about a truck that transforms into a sensible humanitarian that kind of occupies my attention. Anyway, according to Yahoo!, Rosie has no prior acting credits to her name, though she has appeared on such shows as “Britain’s Next Top Model.” She’s also reported to be dating Jason Statham. Nice job, Turkish. Amidst this rush of information, though, is the news that she has previous experience with Michael Bay. Apparently, he’s directed a Victoria’s Secret commercial. The funny thing is I remember all the VS commercials with scantily-clad women roaming about, but I don’t remember a VS commercial that featured those same scantily-clad women running from gunfire or from large fiery objects falling from the sky. Don’t forget your roots, Bay! Well, Megatron has died twice now, and I hope they don’t consider bringing him back. His character is reaching the legendary come-back-from-the-dead levels reserved only for Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, and soap opera characters. I wouldn’t mind seeing Ultra Magnus and Hot Rod- provided of course that neither serves as the heir-apparent to Optimus Prime. I already lived through that crap of a storyline once (even if it was animated) and I don’t know if I could deal with that again.

*Just finished season 3 of Mad Men and I can’t get over how well done the show is. There are only three TV shows in recent memory that made me care about what happens to most of the characters: The Wire, Lost, and Mad Men. That’s it. Since the show is set in the late-50s/early-60s, they’ve got a great opportunity to make historical allusions (like Marilyn Monroe and JFK), and also for attempts at irony. Season 3 focused on the adjustment period for the Sterling Cooper Ad Agency after being sold to another company. Once they receive word that they are going to be sold again, the three major players (Don Draper, Roger Sterling, and Burt Cooper) conspire with their boss, Lane Pryce to leave Sterling Cooper and start a new company (a t-shirt for the company, left). They take the best talent and/or people with the most existing accounts and leave in secret over the course of a weekend. I have to admit that I was really excited as the pieces started to fall. The picture on the far left is the “office” of Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce and the rest of the staff. I have no idea how this will affect the other characters who worked at the OG Sterling Cooper (will we see less of them?), but I think the idea is fantastic. Most TV shows that go on for several years always run out of story to tell (just ask Lost), but this particular storyline is the best of both worlds- they’ll still be doing the ad work and living that lifestyle (the heart of the show), but it will appear fresh because they’re essentially a start-up now. It’s like starting all over- in season 4! Only not in one of those “we’re-taking-you-back-to-the-start-via-flashback-hope-you-can-follow-along” deals. There’s the rub, though. My wife and I enjoy watching the show by season (it moves slowly sometimes and we can best remember things this way)- we’re always a season behind because we wait for it to be released on Blu-Ray. Every single time I’m slumming around the internet, I avert my eyes at the mere mention of anything closely related to the show. But I’m so excited to see how this all plays out now, I don’t know if I can wait…

*Stephen Strasburg made his debut on Tuesday. Don’t act like you’re not impressed. I won’t go into the legend that is Stephen Strasburg. He can throw 100 MPH and all that. He saved 14 squirrels from a forest fire while barefoot. All of that. I tuned into the MLB Network for what was undoubtedly the most hyped debut by a baseball player I can remember (even Mark Prior wasn’t this big). He was amazing. He was working his 4-seam fastball at 97-99 and more or less maintained his velocity as the game wore on. I feel the need to explain how ridiculous that it. Very few pitchers top out at 99. That was Strasburg’s cruising velocity. He was throwing a sharp, late-breaking “curveball” at 82-83. That’s just not fair. He struck out 14 batters, walked none, and did it on less than 100 pitches. That’s crazy. Strasburg gave up a bomb on a change-up (his third best pitch) and that was about it. The thing that struck me the most was how easily the ball came out of his hand. He doesn’t have one of those max-effort deliveries like K-Rod. The ball just projectile vomits itself out of his hand. He is going to present an odd problem for opposing teams. Since everyone knows that the Nationals are going to handle him with kid gloves, other teams will be tempted to get his pitch count up. Take a few pitches, work the count, etc. The problem is that his stuff is so good that a batter can’t afford to fall behind. The last pitcher I can remember to be this out-and-out dominant was steroid-era Eric Gagne, but he was only doing it for an inning. Strasburg did it for 7. Granted, the Pirates aren’t a great team, but it’s still a line-up of Major Leaguers. The only guys who had success looked like they were guessing. It was like they were looking for a particular pitch in a specific spot. If it wasn’t there, then well, they were going to be beat. During the second time through the line up, he started throwing a 2-seam fastball at 92-94 (!) with tail into righties. If he can master the run on that pitch and turn it over into something closer of a sinker, it might be the most dominant since the steroid-era Kevin Brown’s. As a baseball fan, I’m so excited that Strasburg is happening right now- during a time in my life when I can appreciate how rare his gifts are. As a Mets fan, it depresses me to think that the foreseeable future will be filled with names like Halladay, Nolasco, Johnson, Hanson, and now Strasburg. Ugh.

*A while back, my co-worker (who ironically now lives in Arizona) briefly filled me in on the Arizona immigration law that caused a fervor because of racial implications. Politics and policy aren’t my forum, so I have to admit, I know very little about the law itself. What I do know is that it’s caused all kinds of backlash from citizens and also celebrities. Two of those famous people are Daryl and John Oates, the key members of a little band called… Hall and Oates. I caught a story that said the band would be canceling a show in Phoenix because of their personal stance on the immigration law. In other words, they can’t go for that (no can do). I’m positive someone has already made that joke, but I couldn’t help it. So… I guess it makes me happy to know that Hall and Oates are still touring and belting out their greatest hits. If you look at the picture to the left- the cover for the album H2O, both men are drenched in sweat and staring at each other while their faces are mere inches apart. They’re taking things a little too seriously. It’s awkward and it’s just an album cover. Strangely enough, though, the reason I love the music of Misters Hall and Oates is because I don’t take it seriously at all. They make the best kind of pop music, in my opinion: catchy, easy to relate to, simple, but always with subtle reminders that yes, there is genuine talent at play. Hall and Oates are the musical equivalent of The Shawshank Redemption, High Fidelity, Field of Dreams, and A Few Good Men for me. Any time I happen across those movies on the TV, I watch it. It doesn’t matter what point of the movie I stumbled into. I’ll just watch it until it’s over or something pulls me away from the TV (like a daughter shouting “I hungee!”). If I catch Hall and Oates on the radio, I’ll listen to them. If they pop up on my iPod, I have to think long and hard about jumping past them. They’ve got the best song about not doing an ambiguous something this side of Meat Loaf (“I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do)”). They’ve written about love that is so generic and beautiful it makes me crazy that they ruined it by making it specific by including a woman’s name in it (“Sara Smile”). They own one of the best feel-good songs of all time (“You Make My Dreams (Come True)”). They’ve got a better version of “One on One” than Natty Vibes. And of course, they’ve written one of the greatest audience-participation songs of all-time: “Private Eyes- clap- are watching you- clapclap- they see your every move.” I always say things like “Why don’t more people make music like Hall and Oates?” The truth is, not only would I not like it, I’d probably criticize the hell out of it. There’s only one Hall and Oates. I mean, really, when it comes down to it, what other artists can pull off an album cover like this one?