It’s Official, She’s a Girl

From left to right: Jingle the Puppy, Deet Deet the Caterpillar, Belle, and Mulan. Not Pictured: Lynnette, Tinkerbell, and Rosetta.

*I was rolling around in bed on Saturday night. Lynnette and Madison were in Mad’s room. After a while, I noticed that the bedroom light was still on. I got out of bed and happened into something I had only heard about, but never experienced: an imaginary party.

When I walked into the room, Madison jumped up to tell me that it was Minnie Mouse’s birthday. “Am I invited?” I asked. “Or is this just a girls’ party?” “Oh, you can come, Madison said. So I crashed what turned out to be the final minutes of the birthday party.

Earlier that night, we hit up Toys R’ Us (which Madison calls Toy Story) and she picked out a Minnie’s Bowtique playset. She used up the last of her Christmas gift card. Apparently, Minnie’s Bowtique is the version of Mickey Mouse’s clubhouse that skews female. Lynnette tried to explain this to me, but was cut off by an emphatic Madison who said, “No, Minnie lives in the clubhouse with Mickey, but dis is her store.”

You know what the set is? It’s a figurine of Minnie with various bows, shoes, and outfits that can be changed out and arranged as desired. So it stands that the next thing Disney will teach my daughter is accessorizing.

It killed me that Madison put on her birthday crown from school.

I guess this would make it official: all of my machinations to guide her towards man-ish activities have failed. Madison is a girl. Since I don’t have sisters, this was the first time I had actually seen anything like this in person. I suppose it was the next and inevitable step up from walking through all of the pink aisles at the toy store.

Madison was thrilled, but Lynnette had this look on her face of pure joy. I cannot imagine what Lynnette must feel watching her own baby become a little girl. I have my own descriptors, but I am sure they vary wildly from Lynnette’s. I kept making eye contact with Lynnette and she must have read the amazement on my face because she kept nodding and smiling. Madison brought it home when she told me that I could have some cake. She got up to get it from her play-oven because she didn’t want to leave it out to get cold. Holy cow. Madison is a genuine little girl.

My dad was thrilled to play the part of nurse to Madison's doctor.

*I wasn’t the only one to deal with Madison’s girlie imagination this weekend, though. When we went over to my parents’ house for lunch on Sunday, Madison brought out her animal hospital (I’ll give you one guess as to who bought it for her).

She began playing with the set in earnest during the final quarter of Sunday’s Thunder/Lakers game. As sports fans will tell you, the game was pretty amazing. More incredible was the fact that my dad plopped himself down next to Madison’s hospital and started asking the “doctor” all sorts of fake medical questions.

I love this picture because I caught the game action in the back and my dad doesn’t even care. I suppose he could hear the announcers and could easily look behind him if something tremendous happened, but for the most part, he was completely engaged with Madison.

“Grampa, dis is Ploop-Ploop and he’s a fish.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I think he’s a little sick. I think he needs to go in the water.”

“I don’t think he can handle without water.”

Yes, this is the kind of sage-like medical advice my dad was doling out in the middle of the living room. As I sat and watched his face light up with every word flying out of Madison’s mouth, it occurred to me that my dad likely has never had the chance to play like this, either. Oh, I’m sure I made him pretend to be Star Scream (so I could be Optimus Prime, of course) at some point in my childhood, but that’s straight-up masculine. He looked like he enjoyed being bossed around by the animal doctor. He asked questions and smiled whenever Madison would answer him with 4-year old logic.

If the toes aren't shriveled, it isn't time to get out of the tub yet.

*Madison and I ended the weekend with something of a consolation. I had told her that we’d play water balloons on Sunday afternoon, but the weather gods didn’t cooperate with us. It was already raining when we got up from our nap and continued on into the afternoon. When Madison inquired about the water balloons, Lynnette looked out the window and said the weather didn’t look good. “It looks okay,” Madison countered.

“Hey, I know we can’t play with the water balloons, but would you like a bubble bath instead?” I asked. She paused for a second and said “Okay, but I need all my toys.” She makes like I don’t just dump them all in there anyway.

I have long since given up trying to hop in the tub with her. The last time I did, she was two. She tried to move around, found that she couldn’t, and then said flatly, “Just get out, dad.” I was pretty sad about it.

Yesterday, she stood outside the tub barking out orders like a little dictator. “Use my Hello Kitty bubbles.” “Now put the Cars bubble in, too. I might need a lot of bubbles.” Yes, boss.

Earlier during the weekend, I asked Madison who my favorite girl was. She squinted her eyes and pointed at Lynnette. I laughed. “Okay,” I said. “Who’s my favorite princess?” I asked. She smiled wide and tapped her own nose twice.

There’s no use fighting it.

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.

Lose Your Illusions

*Today was just one of them days, and I did my damnedest not to take it personal(ly). Our morning started with two staff members from Madison’s new school coming by the house to meet Madison answer any questions that Lynnette and I might have. Because I am a conspiracy theorist, I also assumed they were over to scope out our place, you know, to make sure that Madison is growing up in a safe and sanitary environment. That’s why I spent parts of Monday and Tuesday cleaning up the common areas. For those of you not in the know, that means roving around the house scouring the carpet looking for balls of fur from Abby’s disemboweled chew toys. Mostly, though, it means shoving all of Madison’s toys lying around the living room into an empty soda box, and tossing the newly not-empty soda box into Madison’s real room, as opposed to the master bedroom which she says is her room. It’s kind of like CM Punk’s WWE Championship belt vs. John Cena’s – you know what? Never mind. All I know is that if the two staff members from the school asked to see Madison’s room, there would have been 2 seconds of silence followed by 14 seconds of excuse-making followed by 3 seconds of touring followed by 4 minutes of note-writing. Lucky us.

If I was Hot Rod and saw that the Matrix had turned me from a muscle car into a f*cking RV, I would have thrown the thing back at Ultra Magnus and said "This is bullsh*t. It's all you."

The acting is tough enough to watch for free on most Monday nights. You've got to be a SUPER fan to buy into any of this. Unless we're talking Jesse "The Body" Ventura in Predator.

Immediately following the home visit, the three of us hit up Walmart to pick up the few school supplies that Madison needs for the school year. Sadly (as far as Madison is concerned), the plastic cubby box, three-ring binder, and spiral notebook did not come in purple. After garnering her items, we headed over to the movie section and I found these thought-provoking DVDs.

Believe me, I was very interested in the Transformers tv season on the far left. We’re talking about Hot Rod, the Autobot Matrix of Leadership, Megatron/Galvatron, Unicron’s head, etc. But I can never buy any of these DVDs because I already spent something like $30 on Season 1 years ago only to be shocked at how poor the animation was. The cause of this letdown is two-fold: 1) My fondness for the tv show is rooted in romanticized memories from my childhood, and 2) the animation for Transformers: The Movie was much better; I had seen that more recently and frequently and thus assumed the tv show looked like this. The second issue is a non-issue, movies are nearly always financed better than tv shows. The first issue, though, is something that really sucks the fun out of being an adult.

It’s true, the world is a much more open place to an adult, but in retrospect, perhaps it never feels that way. Here’s what I mean: As an adult, I can go to a strip bar if I want to, but I know that decision also comes with other consequences such as financial strain and the wrath of my stripper-phobic wife. As a child, I don’t have the right to patronize a titty bar – even if I want to – but on the other hand, I still believe that I could become a Major League Baseball player with a little more hard work. As a kid, I don’t have the life experience to know that Suburban Commando would probably suck, even if it featured the immortal Hulk Hogan. Childhood logic: Hulk Hogan is the best. Therefore, anything he does is awesome. So many years and hard-won lessons later, I know better than to watch The Chaperone no matter how hard those commercials during Raw stroke the movie. Aside: A few years ago, some of my students watched The Marine starring John Cena. Their review of the movie,” It was an hour-and-a-half of Cena jumping out of windows before the building exploded behind him.” Something like a year or two after that, I was flipping through the channels looking for something to watch. I stumbled upon The Marine and let it ride. I hadn’t watched for 5 minutes before Cena hurled himself through a pane of glass only to have the building behind him burst into a ball of flame. I COULD NOT stop laughing.

Again, you just hope this kind of intensity carries over to other areas like athletics and academics. But mostly athletics.

I'm three years away from rocking "#1 Dad" and "Bank of Dad" t-shirts and not caring at all. Scary stuff.

While I sat at the computer watching today’s Mets game (I’m going to miss you, Carlos Beltran, but that’s another blog, another time), Madison set up her “red fish game” on the dinner table next to me. It took a few minutes for my brain to calibrate the audio filter – you know – to block the sound of mechanical winding out of my head. When the Mets game coverage hit a commercial, I turned around to watch Mad gone fishin’.

I quickly grabbed my phone to snap this picture featuring Madison’s Michael Jordan-esque concentration (and tongue-wag). I watched her play (and cheat) this game for five minutes. She narrated everything she did during those five minutes, informing me that she had “caught a Mets fish” (the orange one), “put the fish back in his home,” because “he misses his mommy and daddy.” Whenever I watch Madison engage with mundane things like this, I am made happy and saddened at the same time. I am happy for her because she’s still so very young and therefore able to see the world as fresh and new and cool and as a place filled with infinite possibilities. I, on the other hand, sit on the couch and watch a preview for Conan the Barbarian starring Jason Momoa and understand that the reasons that remake can happen in 2011 are A) movies are aimed at young people, B) the audience for the original film series is no longer young, C) making a movie is much easier if there is existing source material. Then I think that I should like to see some kind of update of Ghostbusters or Big Trouble in Little China, but also know that I would hate it because they wouldn’t be making it for me, they’d be making it for the kids I try to teach sonnets to. The danger in trying to re-live and/or recreate the personal favorites of ones childhood is the destruction of those illusions that the nostalgic darlings of our formative years are awesome. I’m positive they were awesome, but alas, seeing those things in my head through the haze of an 23-year old preserves what would otherwise be sullied by the eyes of an adult.

The finishing touch to all of this philosophical meandering through space and time came courtesy of an epiphany I had while shopping at Costco this evening. Lynnette needed a specific item, and thusly Madison and I were obliged to join her at the greatest use of a warehouse not featuring half-pipes, a dilapidated taxi cab, and a secret room. We meandered through the aisles of the clothing area for a few moments before we stumbled across the aloha shirts pictured above. I asked Lynnette which was the ugliest (one of the criteria I take into account before purchasing an aloha shirt). Before she could answer, Madison announced that she had to use the bathroom. I was left alone to choose among the $7 shirts. In looking at the various styles and trying to figure out what size I’d be, a thought seized me: it didn’t matter which shirt was the ugliest. When Lynnette returned, I was still standing next to the shirts. “So what?” Lynnette asked. “Shit. I think I just realized something,” I said. “What?” “I’m too old to ironically wear anything ugly, aren’t I?” Lynnette was silent. “Because I’m at the age when people would actually consider-” and she cut me off with a “Yeah.” Ironically, unlike my former favorite kids’ shows, when I see a hideous polyester aloha shirt at Savers, I see it through the eyes of a 20-year old. It isn’t until I hold the shirt up against the bump of my stomach and imagine myself wearing it that my illusion of youth is shattered.

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.

The Lesson: Pop Culture>Formal Schooling

*Should anyone ever get their hands on my official academic transcripts, they’ll discover something that could have easily been gleaned reading a few of these blogs: I wasn’t a really good student. It’s not that I didn’t try (I did try some times). It’s not that I didn’t get (except for math in all its forms-except geometry-I never understood any of it). It’s not that I’m not bright (I’d like to think that I am possessed of above-average intelligence). I guess it was mostly that there were other things I focused my brain power on more keenly. Baseball, of course, is the obvious culprit in this regard, but coming in a close second is my self-mandated study of pop culture.

Oh, ’tis true! When I was younger and had more free time, I spent it remember lyrics from songs and lines from movies that would have no positive impact on my life, unless you count writing this blog. Then-it could be argued-that such pursuits were not, in fact, colossal wastes of time.

This “studying” of popular culture was taken to another level while I was in college as I became an English major and thusly created more free time for myself. In addition, my nascent analytical skills were slowly being honed to a razor’s edge. The collision of concurrent events allowed for the picking apart of songs, movies, tv shows, and whatever else I could digest and regurgitate with alarming frequency. As such, I thought I’d share some of the wisdom I’ve gained through popular culture.

I was in on this convo. Wonderphone on mute, baby.

1. Mean Girls (2004). I came for the Lindsay Lohan (bottom left) and stayed for the Lacey Chabert (top left). The lesson(s): If you absolutely must have an illicit tryst with female students, make sure they aren’t friends. Never, ever put it in writing.

2. Saved by the Bell (1989-1993). I spent the better part of my pre-pubescent life wishing I was student at Bayside High if for no other reason than to catch a glimpse of Kelly Kapowski. The lesson: People only have one dimension to their personality, maybe two if you’re one of the cool kids.

3. The Princess Bride (1987). You have to understand. I was an extremely literal being as a youngster. I didn’t understand how a person could be both Han Solo and Indiana Jones. One lived in a galaxy far, far away and the other existed in the not-so-distant past. That’s why it hurt to find out that Andre the Giant did things other than wear tights and destroy people in the wrestling ring. The lesson: you know you’re probably a nerd when bringing someone back to life is less impressive than having six fingers on your right hand.

4. Robin Hood: Prince of Theives and “Everything I Do (I Do It For You)” by Bryan Adams (1991). Even when I was a kid, I thought that casting Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio was odd considering that she wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. This seems even more egregious as time has passed. The lesson: If you’ve got a historical story as the backdrop for a love story and the soundtrack features an amazingly generic, catchy-but-universal single then you’ve got the makings of a pop culture monster. James Cameron and Celine Dion co-sign.

If humans are ever eradicated and so many years later aliens arrive, I pray that they do not find a copy of this single, lest they base their suppositions of the human race on it.

5. “Informer” by Snow (1992). If you believe the internet, a lyric of this song is “look down me pants, look up me bottom.” The lesson: Young people don’t have to understand what something means to find it cool. In fact, it’s possible that the ability to be understood is inversely proportional to a noun’s cool factor. *I know this and have still not figured out how to make my millions off of it.

6. Transformers: The Movie (1986). When Rhino released Transformers: Season 1 on DVD, I bought it thinking the animation for it would be on par with the animated movie. Boy, was I f*cking wrong. Apparently, my childhood was animated poorly, but my young mind did not perceive this to be so-probably because I had little else to compare it with. The lesson: Even if you have every intention of bring him back to life later, no-it is not okay to kill off the the courageous leader of the fucking Autobots just to sell a second generation toy line! Assholes!

7. Zoolander (2001). Like a fine wine- or watching this video–Zoolander only gets better with time. As a married man, I often wonder what the lives of Ben Stiller and Christine Taylor are like. There are several scenes in the movie when Stiller says something ridiculous and Taylor throws up a look of disbelief. That’s got to be their everyday, right? Without the midget and the Maori tribesman, obviously. The lesson: The reason why movies like this bomb in the theater and kill on DVD is because in absurd comedies like this, you can’t hear all the jokes in the theater because the audience’s laughter is drowns them out. Get Step Brothers on DVD or Blu-ray, cue up the subtitles,  and thank me later.

8. “Symphony of Destruction” by Megadeth (1992). The first time I heard this song, my radio exploded, my brain melted and I had a vision of 300 Spartans defeating an army… at least…three times bigger than that! Okay, my radio didn’t explode, but still. It may as well should have. No, Dave Mustaine can’t sing. And maybe it was like Metallica was a high school valedictorian and current law school student, and quite possibly Slayer was a better baseball player because he could pitch, but Megadeth kicked ass in their own right. The lesson: 99.32994% of the time, the best music isn’t played on the radio.

If teaching were really as exciting as Mr. Senate (left) made it seem, I could almost stand that crappy pay and take-home work.

9. Boston Public (2000-2004). The show started airing before I knew I was going to be a teacher and I am proud to say that I have outlasted this show. But no proud by how much. I guess it was supposed to be a drama, but the storylines were so absurd and unbelievable that I couldn’t take it seriously. It made high school seem like the craziest place on earth and the casting of Dr. Hannibal Lector’s psychiatrist only reinforced that idea. Mr. Senate (my educational mentor, I even dress like he does) had an affair with a female student and fired a gun in school without repercussions. Oh, he got in trouble-yelled at or something-but it was a formality. A mere slap on the wrist. The lesson: Nothing is ever as glamorous as TV makes it seems. I wish Wilfred Owen wrote a poem with a Latin title de-glorifying teaching. Not that it would have mattered with my degree and limited skill set.

10. Grey’s Anatomy (2005-present). I’ll admit it: When Grey’s first aired, my wife and I watched it weekly. I could provide you with a list of personal justifications as to why I did so, but that would take about 40 minutes and I have to get ready for a game soon. Something about a pre-uber-fame Katherine Heigl. Suffice it to say that when the show started it was fine. There was enough hospital drama to give the show weight and the characters were developed well enough that the cast didn’t seem like retreads from old TV shows. Then as the show progressed they tried upping the ante (like all shows do) by getting more and more ridiculous. The lesson: As soon as all the characters on the show start sleeping with each other, it’s time to move on.

Friday! Transformers! Red Sox! Friday!

I'd like to think this is where the writers of Lost got the idea of having Kate sew up Jack in the pilot.

 

*Made it to Friday. I know I’ve still got Friday to get through, but I’m just glad I made it this far. I’m wearing the same smirk of giddiness that Rick Kane wore during the final heat in North Shore. If Lance Berkhart were here, I’m absolutely sure he’d ask me “What are you grinning at?” in that nasally pitch of anger. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve still quite a bit of work to do, but Friday is awesome.

It took a little longer to get to work this morning because it was raining steadily on the freeway and people go into ultra-conservative mode here whenever that happens. At about 8:00 last night, it started coming down hard-like someone dumped a bucket on our house-then stopped. Then it started again. It alternated between raining steadily and absolutely pouring for about 10 minutes before settling on a steady downpour.

Part of the beauty of living where I do seems to be the fact that whenever there is heavy rain, there’s a better-than-even chance we will experience a power failure of some length. When it appeared last night that the rain would go on through the night, I set the alarm on my phone just in  case the power went out and f*cked with my alarm clock. Sure enough, the power went out. My wife and I were stirred out of our sleep by the sound of answering machine resetting itself telling me to press some button to perform some function. I swore at the answering machine and sternly told it could “press this” while half-asleep. So much for a master-planned community. If you’re going to charge hefty association fees and enforce petty rules, how about you make sure you can provide electricity I can count on, Mililani.

Why do all the bad guys have fu-manchus or soul patches?

*Yahoo! has a page featuring the trailer for Transformers: Dark of the Moon, the third Transformers film. Apparently, Michael Bay and his cohorts decided to omit the word “side” from the title so that no one tries to watch this movie high while listening to Katy Perry’s Teenage Dream. Whatever.

Apparently, Bay has decided that ruining an entire generation’s collective childhood wasn’t enough; he’s rewriting history, too. In a little historical wrinkle (about 1/73rd as clever as those in Forrest Gump), Bay presents the ulterior motive of the Apollo 11 mission as exploring a crashed spaceship, proving to those in the know that humans aren’t alone in the galaxy, as one of the voice-overs alludes to that sentiment in the trailer.

But didn’t John Turturro’s character say that a branch of the US government had knowledge of Transformers as far back as one of the World Wars? Wasn’t that the whole twist in the second movie-that there had been other Transformers on the planet “in secret” since the Model-T? So how is it that NASA is shocked as hell to find an alien spacecraft on the moon in the 1960s? I mean, I love a conspiracy as much as the next guy, but… Well, it doesn’t matter. Michael Bay just wanted to go up into space again. Ever since Armageddon, he’s been dying to go back into space and now he finally has an excuse. This, of course, should prepare us for even more of the Michael Bay signature shot: Huge objects afire falling from the sky, impacting on earth and causing massive amounts of destruction and inconsequential property damage.

As reported earlier, Shockwave has been named as the villain for this film. He’s got the personality of a calculator and he turns into really big gun. But I’ve got money on Michael Bay making sure he transforms into something a lot more formidable. You know, like another jet or plane of some kind, because honestly, you can never have to many Decepticon planes or jets around. The Yahoo! film summary says:

A darker more introspective journey into the Transformers universe and their origins on Cybertron. There is also preview footage of the possibility of Unicron, the planet eater, in this sequel.

The first sentence of the summary sounds like the beginning of a really shitty essay about Heart of Darkness (With Robots). The second sentence though? That’s downright scary. Unicron? Yeah, he’s a badass, but that’s not what’s scary. The second sentence implies this 3rd film might not be the last, and that Michael Bay is yet to make Transformers: Armaggedon. You know he’d do it.

My brother whacks off to this picture.

*It’s been a busy off-season for the Boston Red Sox. They had already traded three top prospects for Adrian Gonzalez. ESPN reported on Wednesday night that Carl Crawford is the next name to be added to the Red Sox roster. My brother looks like that redneck guy that couldn’t talk during the last game in The Waterboy– wearing overalls without a t-shirt, pinching his nipples. He’s that excited. The Red Sox roster will look something like this:

Crawford LF

Ellsbury/Cameron CF

Pedroia 2B

Gonzalez 1B

Youkilis 3B

Ortiz DH

Drew RF

Scutaro SS

Saltalamacchia C*

The reason I’ve made special note of Saltalamacchia is because there have also been reports of the Red Sox offering former Dodgers catcher Russell Martin a contract. That’s just crazy. Martin isn’t the same player he was during his best season, but he’s sure to be an upgrade over Jason Varitek who stopped hitting 6 years ago.

I am happy for my brother, but also jealous. The Mets “big signings” during the winter meetings were DJ Carrasco (a reliever) and Ronnie Paulino (a catcher). The Paulino signing intrigues me because he’s supposed to be the right-handed compliment to the lefty-hitting Josh Thole. And Paulino destroys lefty pitching. Anyway, congrats A-Gonz and Crawford. At the very least, the moves will put the Yankees into panic mode and they’ll sign Cliff Lee for 8 years and $185 million dollars. Everybody wins. Except the Yankees. Good times.

 

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?