Napalm Happy Valley. STAT.

I'm not gonna get too far into it, as every news source, web site, newspaper, and networks are covering it ten fold but the horrifying stories coming out of Penn State are turning my stomach.

There are a lot of questions that need answers; how did this sick, demented individual not only gain but maintain access to the facilities of one of the most prestigious colleges in America, how much/how long did the 84 year old patron saint really know, and how did so many people turn a blind eye come to mind.

But for me, the biggest question is this. How did this eyewitness, who purportedly witnessed first hand something even hardened criminals serving life in prison find completely depraved, just simply walk away and wait until the NEXT DAY to tell someone?

Not go to the police, not tell a superior IMMEDIATELY, and better yet, not do his very best to put this guy THROUGH the nearest available wall?

I'm 5 ft 5 and weigh 145 pounds when I'm wearing 10 foot weights in my shoes and this guy would have been breathing through a tube and eating all his food through a straw if I'd seen this. The fact that these people just turned a blind eye and apparently hoped it would all just go away makes me sick to my stomach.

If we don't look out for the children and the disabled and the down trodden and the ones who don't have a voice then what are we?

There's a line in Shawshank where the warden threatens Andy that he's gonna throw him down into the pit with the Sodomites in the prison.

My God, if there's one time in life that I wish I could channel a movie it's now.

Only that would be too good for these people.

Tomorrow? Roller Blades!

Have you ever gone on a bike ride with a 5 year old who just got rid of his training wheels a few weeks prior?

If you haven't, DON'T. Unless you're wearing a football helmet, have nerves of steel, and the reflexes of Spider Man.

This all sounded like a fantastic idea; perfect fall afternoon, spending some quality times with my two boys, and me getting some semblance of exercise. And like all of the things that in my head are great in theory, in reality this was an experience in survival.

For one thing, he's determined to at least keep up with Rakes and not let me get ahead of him, which is fine. Except he's looking everywhere but where he's going which in turn makes you feel like you're riding bumper cars. I figured out I needed to stay behind him after the 5th time he ran me into the curb while avoiding him flying into me.

In addition there were about 15 "I need to take a rest, Dad" the first of which occurred no more than 100 yards from our driveway. We had to stop and push our bikes up any hills bigger than a bike ramp (Of course I had to as well as him; remember, I couldn't get ahead of him) and on the ensuing down hill rides?

Have you ever heard anyone use the phrase "Hell bent for leather"?

Imagine Trot wearing a deranged smile going roughly 15 miles an hour down a hill with his feet off the pedals yelling "WHEEEEEEE!!!!" at the top of his lungs. Throw in the fact he still hasn't grasped the whole "push back on the pedals" stopping thing and you get him with his butt 2 inches away from the back tire, dragging his feet on the ground to try and stop at the intersection at the bottom of the hill while I'm screaming "THE BRAKES! HIT THE BRAKES!"

As we slowly pedaled our way home I kept repeating the same thing in my head, over and over.

I wonder if Evel Kenevels kid started out like this.

I read somewhere Orson Welles got HIS start like this.

Rakes got a speaking part in the kid's Christmas play at church this year.

It may be time to look into another church to attend full-time.

This may be the first time in history a parent is going to be guzzling Pepto like it was water during the program.

Throw in the wild card that is Trot ALSO being in the play?

They may ask us to leave before this thing is half-way over.

"America's Funniest Home Video's" is still on the air and you can bet your sweet boopie I'm bringing the camera come December. If nothing else, I may be able to fund a couple of college educations out of all of this.

Hey, Sam Malone did it. Why not me?

This is what it's come to.

Baseball is over and won't return for 6 months. Theo and Tito are gone, one to Chicago and the other to God knows where.

Trot is on a record setting pace to shatter the Kindergarten "Get on Yellow" prize, Rakes is asking me what "gay" means, and Ciera is THIS close to me shipping her off to Alaska to live out her teenage years, although if I did I'm pretty sure some Eskimo in the middle of nowhere would find her and my stomach ulcer will go Defcon 5 no matter what I do.

So I'm left to become obsessed with a show called "Bar Rescue", which is really nothing more than "Kitchen Nightmares", only this time without a foul mouthed English dude. In his place is a foul mouthed dude with big eyes and male pattern baldness who "fixes" bars by showing the clueless owners how their inept staff is costing them money by over pouring and how drunk people REALLY want more edible food.

If I learned one thing over the past week or so it's this.

I REALLY need to get a hobby.

Or MLB seriously needs to look into going year round.

Enough Candy to Last a Whole Year

4 miles of walking, 2 restroom breaks back at home ("Can't I just go behind that tree?" was ruled out immediately), 3 pumpkins full of candy, baths, 2 stories read and both boys in bed before 9 p.m.

Among the highlights of the night was Trot yelling at the top of his lungs at everyone he saw "Who are YOU?!" and upon ringing the door of one house, yells out "Hey! You've got TWO wiener dogs?!"

Happy Halloween from my weird little corner of the world.

Friday with Trot.

"I've got an emergency."

"Huh?"

"I think I flushed my amethyst ring down the toilet."

"Huh?"

"Trot was playing with your shaving cream in the bathroom and had it all over the sink, floor, and toilet. I cleaned it all up and I think I threw my ring AND the toilet paper into the bowel."

"HUH?"

Yet another one of those conversations that I have with Ang on a seemingly daily basis about Trot; turns out he spewed my shaving cream all over the bathroom (he told his Mom he was writing her a love letter. May I remind you he's 5. How does he come up with this stuff?) and in the process of cleaning it up and yelling her head off my dear, sweet wife thought she'd flushed a $500 dollar ring (a gift from my brother in law about 10 years ago) down the toilet.

Thankfully we found it in the trash can, tangled up in the bag that came out of the bathroom can.

No, I have no idea how this happened. And no, I didn't say a word.

But the fact a valued piece of jewelry can end up in a trash can thanks to a 5 year old, a can of shaving cream, and a demented mind is frightening on about 300 levels.

One day, this kid will drive a car.

May God Have Mercy on our Souls.

Learning from a 13 year old.

I went and ate lunch with Ciera at school today, which is no small miracle since she's in 8th grade now and I figured the last thing she'd want was her old man coming to school and all her friends seeing how "awkward" I am. (Awkward is her new favorite word. Rakes is awkward, a movie scene is awkward, me wanting to take our picture is awkward, me wearing jeans and flip flops is awkward,.... you get the idea.)

Yet last night, when her Mom asked if I was eating with the boys today she very firmly and very loudly said "He's eating with ME."

So I did.

Upon arriving, she had me sit next to her and I pried out of her what had gone on that day while she looked distracted. I figured it was because "he who shall not be named" was sitting one table over and I was asking her if I should go over and say hello. Turns out, she was just waiting on everyone else to get to the table.

Then, her and about 8 girls at our table and her cousin and about 8 boys, including the one on my hit list, all bowed their heads, held hands, and prayed for their food. Turns out they do this everyday and don't really care if other kids or the teacher have a problem with it.

I never did anything that gutsy when I was 13.

Just when I thought I couldn't be more proud of her, she goes and throws me a curve ball.

Pass the Pepto.

I'm not going to mention this kids name, but according to Ciera he's, and I quote, "Just my friend, Dad."

She sits with him on the bus, talks about him constantly, and tonight went with one of her girl friends to a Haunted House here in town where she told her Mother, who somehow is happy about all of this, that he'd be there and told me he probably wouldn't be.

Maybe.

I gotta admit; I'm about as ready for this as I am for Alf to land in my back yard with ET and the two of them set up a tent and stay for a week.

Can this really be happening already? Is it too late to buy a gun? Can I train Rakes and Trot to take out a human being with nothing more than a Pokemon card and a plastic sword? Better yet, even though I'm not Catholic will they accept her into the local nunnery?

The next 5 years are gonna be like riding the Tilt-a-Whirl at some local carnival.

Fast, scary, and I'm gonna feel like throwing up after it's over.

Sons

Due to the fact Trot conked out on the couch with his legs draped across my lap around 7 and Rakes basically sticking toothpicks in his eyelids to stay awake around 8, something happened tonight that hasn't happened in a long, LONG time.

I carried both my sons up the stairs to bed, one sound asleep and the other not too far behind.

And as I tucked each of them into bed and said their prayers with them, I found myself doing something I very rarely do.

Fighting back tears.

'Cause as fast as they grow up and as big as they seem to me now, they are still just two little boys who wanted their Dad to sometimes tuck them into bed at night.

And that made me one happy, somewhat frazzled, Dad.

Sometimes you can't ask for more than that.

Sure. This won't end badly.

As soon as I took Trot's training wheels off today and watched him practically burn rubber down the drive way I asked myself the following question.

"What in God's name did you just do?"

This is a kid who I caught jumping from the landing at the top of our stairs onto the couch last week, a kid who would play frogger on the Interstate, and so far in his 5 years on earth has shown exactly zero fear of anything.

So naturally I take off the two things keeping him from being the 21st century version of Evel Kenevil.

I fully expect a ramp 8 feet high to be built and sitting in my driveway by Wednesday.

If I'm lucky.

Requiem to a Day Off.

Took the kids fishing today and all the tangled lines, multiple "Dad. I'm hung on a rock" moments, high blood pressure, Ciera and Rakes getting soaking wet jumping out onto a rock, and the cost of the worms was worth it when Ang put Trot to bed and he said, with a grin as big as the lake we fished on......

"I sure had fun tishing today, Mom."

Can Pedroia Pitch?

I'm not gonna re-hash the events of September have turned the Red Sox, in one brutal month, from a model franchise to the MLB's equivalent of The National Enquirer. It's all been documented by men and women who write a whole lot better and with way more knowledge about it than me.

As a fan, it makes me sad that the greatest manager this team ever had and the G.M. who led them back to the promised land are both gone within a week of each other. It makes me angry some idiot decided to throw a good man in Terry Francona under the bus on his way out.

I wish Mikey Lowell's body could have made it one more year because I've got a feeling if Scenic was still in that locker room some of the stupid stuff we've been reading about never would have happened. Or Schilling or Timlin or Trot or any of the guys that you KNOW wouldn't have allowed the inmates to start running the asylum.

I've watched every game of the post season so far and watching these teams fight and battle and jump up and down and in general act like little kids getting to play a game for a living is reminding me yet again of why I love this game so much.

I just hope the guys in Boston are watching too.

I Need An Agent. And some Prozac.

Amazingly, there is a "Trot peeing somewhere inappropriately" story that I hadn't heard until tonight.

My Mother-in-Law is the secretary at our church and today she was having a meeting with the Pastor and another employee. They were in our pastor's office and at some point in the meeting the other employee looked out the window and commented on how beautiful some sort of bush was.

She then asked what happened to the other ones that had been there before, and Darrell, with a serious face, uttered "I don't know, but the one that is there is the one Trot peed in about 3 years ago".

This was right about the time Trot stopped wearing a pull up and would pee in anything when the urge occurred; plastic alligator, vase, garage floor, flower pot, and apparently the bushes at church. Ang remembers running to get him and looking up to see our Pastor merrily waving hello at her and Trot at the time.

How this story has eluded me for 3 years is a mystery, but what is truly amazing is the bush he peed on has flourished while the others have gone the way of the Dodo bird.

It's like "Where the Red Fern Grows".

Trot style.

You don't get "I really wanna chew and curse and I can't" from every broadcast.

*Image courtesy of Kelly O and www.sittingstill.net*

I sincerely hope somebody in the upper echelon of FOX Sports was watching the first two games of the ALCS and now realizes just how God awful horrible the combination of Buck and McCarver truly is.

Maybe they're like Rakes and Trot; if I separate the two they are like angels. Put the two together and it's WW3. So putting Tito with Buck made the latter infinitely more listenable and Francona was fantastic. He honestly blew me away with how composed, funny, and insightful he was for an entire broadcast.

Possibly this would work the other way as well; put a new play by play guy with McCarver and maybe he's not so bad, although I highly doubt it. He's been on auto-pilot for years now and the last time he came up with something insightful was probably during the Nixon administration.

And as much as I enjoyed Tito, get ANYBODY to take over. At this point, Mayor Menino of Boston would be better, and Jr calls him "Mumbles" if THAT tells you anything. Give me John Smoltz or Boomer Wells or Mickey Rivers for God's sake; HE makes as much sense as McCarver does these days.

Wally Pipp had Lou Gherig and hopefully McCarver had his these first two games.

'Course this is the network of Rupert Murdoch and Bill O'Reilly.

So don't hold your breath.

Just Win, Baby

Yeah, he was nuts.

And yeah, he could be an ornery SOB.

But the world of sports got the short end of the stick with the passing of Al Davis. Look up "Maverick" in the dictionary and if they are telling the truth there is a picture of Al Davis there.

He was born in New England, grew up in New York, and sounded like a cross between Rhett Butler, Vinnie from the Bronx and my Uncle Possum when he talked. He wore his hair like a 50's Hood, thought black and white jogging suits were the height of fashion, and LOVED speed.

The physical kind, not the drug.

He was the ultimate bad guy in a sport full of 'em and relished every minute of it. And in this age of political correctness he was one of the last links to an era where you said what you believed and didn't give a rip if it offended somebody. He collected bad attitudes and guys who were thought to be past their prime and proceeded to win Division Titles and Championships along the way.

Best thing about Al? If you were a Raider even once, you were a Raider for life.

And in this time of "what have you done for me lately" a guy like Al Davis was a rarity.

They Ain't the Prettiest. But They'll Do.

As I sit and watch Game 5 of the ALDS and pray Detroit can take the Yankees out (3-1 Tigers in the top of the 6th right now) I got to thinking about all the things about not having the Yankees, and to a lesser extent the Red Sox in the playoffs for the rest of the way would make me happy.

10. No stupid re-hashing of 1978, 2003, and this September. And you KNOW if the Yankees or Red Sox make the World Series FOX is dusting each and every one of them off and running it into the freaking ground.

9. Tony LaRussa micro-managing the game like some demented chess player. He may be one of those guys who is actually too smart for his own good.

8. Being able to sit back and watch the game without developing a bleeding ulcer. This happens whether it's the Red Sox or the Yankees. Combine the two and I'm main lining Tums until Christmas.

7. The Brewers. Animal House meets the 2004 Red Sox with the added bonus of the bigg

est "vegetarian" in Prince Fielder I've ever seen.

6. The random come out of nowhere player that you never imagined turning into this years October hero. My money this year is on Delmon Young; if only for the sightings of his brother Demitri in the stands. When I last saw this guy he looked like the Yokuzuna version of a baseball player, and that was when he was PLAYING.

5. Giving the casual fan the experience of seeing just how good Miguel Cabrera really is.

4. The World Series could be played in Detroit. After the recession and the decline of the automobile industry and the 25 percent unemployment in what was once a great industrial c

ity, how cool would it be for the Tigers to rally the state of Michigan together, if only for a few weeks?

3. Roy Halladay vs Justin Verlander THREE separate games? This is the 2011 version of Gibson vs. Koufax.

2. This guy.

A baseball lifer who finally got his break and then almost threw it all away by doing cocaine, Ron Washington has a infectious love for the game and his players that makes my heart happy. He's a players manager and every quote from every Ranger I've ever read gives me the feeling they'd run through a concrete barrier for the guy.

And finally,

1. Jim By God Leyland.

He's looked like this since 1991 when he managed the Pirates and he's only 66 years old. He chain smokes Marlboro's, drinks his weight in coffee every day, uses the word Horse*(&% the way most of us use "OK" and mumbles his way through every stupid in game interview MLB makes him do. He's one of the last links to "Old School" baseball the game has left and he's been a winner almost everywhere he's been.

I love guys like Jim Leyland. He'll cuss a guy out and then start crying when talking about how much he loves the guy. He's an AL manager who'll double steal, put on the squeeze play, and tell a guy to hit away at 3-0, all in the same inning.

He reminds me of Sparky Anderson and Earl Weaver and Casey Stengal and in this age of Sabermetrics and new age technology and Bill James "Hot Chart" or whatever it's called it's nice to know there is a guy who will play a guy like Don Kelly and hit him second in the lineup just on the basis of "his gut".

I love this game.

He's no George Washington

Sometime between this summer and the start of Kindergarten Trot apparently turned into Jim Carey from "Liar, Liar". From spinning whoppers that would make Paul Bunyan blush to the one that has me and his mother scratching our head.

Every day he's been telling his teacher he has to buy milk and for the first couple of weeks, she went along with it. Until I emailed her and told her that he brings his lunch EVERY DAY and doesn't need to buy milk.

So yesterday he again buys milk, then comes in from recess to report the miraculous discovery of a Yoohoo in his book bag, claiming no prior knowledge of said milk product. So, after getting home from school yesterday we have an EXTREMELY long talk about lying and more to the point, lying to our teacher. After much pleading, crying, begging, and promising no more lying, I was confident we had the problem under control and he'd turn down the path of the righteous.

Right up to the point I got ANOTHER email today from the teacher saying Trot had emphatically told her he HAD to buy milk and did NOT have his own.

Which was proven false about 3 seconds later when his teacher opened his lunch box.

I have no idea what is so magical about the milk at school, why he feels like he needs to lie about it EVERY day, and what exactly is going through his skull because when I ask him why this is going on he just looks and me and mutters "I don't know, Dad".

Most kids will lie about bad words or stealing or cheating or peeing in the punch bowl; leave it to Trot to be completely honest about all THAT stuff yet feel the need to perjure himself over a 50 cent carton of milk.

Ciera and Cinderella

I blame the Red Sox collapse in September for making me this melancholy. If they were still in it I wouldn't be spending Sunday night watching the Ravens/Jets, flipping back to the Cardinals/Phillies game and DEFINITELY wouldn't be surfing YouTube and stumbling across this video.

13 going on 30 and as much as I try I can't slow it down.

Trot. And Tito.

On a day where I felt like like I lost a family member and just needed a hug my youngest son came through in a big way, although it probably shouldn't make me laugh as much as it did.

Trot, after going 4 straight days on Green at school only had to make it ONE MORE DAY to earn a reward. This kid had turned into Eddie Haskell before my very eyes, even earning a compliment from the teacher when I went and ate with him on Monday. Honestly? It was starting to scare me just a little.

Turns out there was no need for panic; he went from green to yellow to red faster than I could ever imagine by yelling TWICE in the hall to get on yellow then for some reason deciding to practice his 40 yard dash.

Right through the middle of the Spanish Immersion classroom on his way to the bathroom.

While the teacher was in the middle of her lesson.

In addition, although he packs his lunch every day he still has managed to twice go through the line and get the hot lunch, even though he has no money in his account. Rakes was particularly upset that Trot got to partake in the Nachos yesterday while he had to make do with a sandwich.

So today the Principle walked Trot down to the cafeteria, and much like a lawman does in passing out Wanted Posters, kindly introduced Trot to the ladies in the lunchroom and informed them that if he tried to buy his lunch he was most definitely not allowed to do so.

On a day that saw Terry Francona leave the city of Boston for good, Trot provided the perfect antidote for my personal blues.

Now, if I can only figure out a way for him not to get expelled over the next 11 years......

When Do Pitchers and Catchers Report?

So the "Greatest Team Ever Assembled" turned out to be, well, not that. In April we had too much pitching and one by one they fell to the wayside; Daisuke, Typo, Hill, and Jenks. And the ones that didn't get hurt were at best inconsistent and at worse "drive you to consider drinking Drano" horrible.

One of our prize off season moves was spectacular for the most part but seemed like he hit into an inning ending double play at every crucial moment and the other one played like a guy trying desperately to live up to a huge contract and failing miserably. The nuttiest guy this side of Julian Tavarez ending up being the best relief pitcher we had, Wakefield suddenly got REALLY old right before our eyes and John Lackey may be in over his head in Boston.

Youk played the whole year seemingly in pain or trying to pass a kidney stone, Scutaro was dinged up, and due to age and injury a philosophy major from Yale ended up catching in the last two games of the season.

However, Ellsbury turned into an MVP candidate, Pedie continued to dirty his uniform every day and play like every at bat was Game 7, Beckett became Beckett again, and we finally may have found a worthy successor to Trot's "Dirt Dog" status in Chronicles.

I can't sugarcoat it; the season was a disappointment to the players, the front office, and especially the fans. We ALL had expectations, and even after starting 0-6, after they climbed back from the abyss it sure felt like destiny to me.

But it wasn't.

And you wanna know something? That's OK. Because for 6 months my team, except for April and September, played the game of baseball at it's highest level. Even with all the stuff I mentioned above, they STILL were one of the best teams in the game. And I yelled and I cheered and I cursed and I hoped that this was going to be one of those years where I got no sleep in October and loved every minute of it.

Didn't happen. And that's OK. Because for all the ulcers and irregular bowel movements and splitting headaches that made me worry I was about to stroke out in the end?

It's just a game. A game I love and obsess over and cherish, but still just a game. It's not more important than my faith or my family or friends, even if sometimes it seems like it. It's an escape from a world that has war and recession and terrible crimes against humanity and gives me a reason, every night from April through September, to forget about all that. Even if it is just for a little while.

Besides.

I COULD be a Cubs fan.

It's ALIVE!

*Image courtesy of Associate Press*

After tonight, however, I may not be.

After 161 games it comes down to hoping Crabby can win on 3 days rest AND the Yankees beating the Rays. Otherwise the best I can hope for is a 1 game playoff at The Trop tomorrow.

I'm getting too old for this.

When Lunch isn't just Lunch.

I went and ate lunch with the boys at school today and after enduring a 1 hour "rain delay" after eating with Rakes, Trot appeared.

While the rest of his classmates were walking in a straight line and holding their finger over their mouths in the universal signal for "quiet" my little weirdo was twirling his lunchbox side to side and singing a song under his breath, which I think was "Camp Town Races".

This was the first time I'd eaten with him at "real" school (The teacher asked all the parents to wait until 2 full weeks in) and I had no idea what to expect. Would he tell me about what he had done that morning and would I want to even know? In the first 2 weeks he's come home on yellow roughly half the time, including once for looking under the stall door at some kid going to the bathroom.

What I got treated to was 35 minutes of him yelling either "Hey! I know that kid!" or "Hey! I don't know THAT kid!" at the top of his lungs while he totally mutilated a ham and cheese sandwich, ate half a Rice Krispy Treat before dropping it on the floor in mid-wave to the P.E. teacher and one attempt to join another class outside on the playground.

I think lunch was God's way of helping me get ready for the game tonight, where the Sox are currently losing to the Oriole's 6-2 and the Ray's are up in Tampa.

It it was, it really isn't helping much.

Where They'll Put Me In The Ground

I love going to Boston. Love Fenway, the buildings, the accents, the history as you walk the streets and look at things that have been there for hundreds of years and will be there for hundreds more after I'm long gone.

But I couldn't live there. The noise, the traffic, the people EVERYWHERE at all hours of the day would send me running and screaming to the nearest loony bin after 6 months. I can't help it; I was born in a small town in Virginia, grew up in a small town in Oklahoma, and for the past 21 years have lived in a small town in North Carolina. I love going to the city, but I'm just a small town sort of guy at heart.

I like the fact they roll the sidewalks up at 8 p.m. and the cops driving through my neighborhood 4 or 5 times a night. Granted, they do this because there is nothing else going on, but that's a good thing, right?

I can walk outside on my back porch right now, at 11 p.m. on a Saturday night, and not hear anything but crickets and the occasional bull frog in the patch of woods behind my house. Main Street has 2 stop lights, a hardware store, the post office, and 2 locally owned restaurants and every building is full.

I thought about this tonight while we ate dinner with two other families in our neighborhood at the local pizza place and realized that my kids are growing up just like I did, albeit in a much louder and faster paced world. And I'm glad I'm getting to raise them in sort of the same way my Mom and Dad raised me.

'Cause the world is fast enough just as it is without me doing anything else to make it go any faster.

One Night at Fenway.

A beautiful Fall night at Fenway park with friends watching Beckett and the Red Sox win may not be perfect.

But it's as close to it as I've found.

Yeah, they're in a massive tailspin right now. And yeah, it'd be nice to have the Wild Card locked up, setting up the post-season rotation. And the thought of facing Verlander twice if they can stumble to the finish and make the playoffs isn't exactly heart warming.

But for one night in Boston, sitting next to friends and listening to the sounds of Baseball's Cathedral?

All was right with the world.

It Ends not with a Bang, but a Whimper.

No, not the Red Sox season, although 5-16 in the month of September isn't exactly filling me with candy grams and good feelings.

I'm talking about my trip to Boston. For the 3 of you who read this thing on a semi-regular basis, I've been sort of quiet for the last week or so. I went to Boston last week and just got back home tonight, and while pictures and stories are still to come, here's the Readers Digest version.

Fly into Boston, hit the Cape, back to Boston to see Beckett win, back to the Cape, back to Boston and quickly go to Cooperstown for the Baseball Hall of Fame, back to Boston to see Monday's day game, watch the beat down Monday night, see a bunch of good friends, have a most excellent time, and end it with my Pop picking me up in a massive thunderstorm in Raleigh.

Great to see all my friends and even better to come home and see my beautiful wife, daughter, and the two future Teamsters leaders.

Now, time to sack up fellas and finish strong.

You've got the Yankees coming up, still have a lead in the Wild Card, and a week and a half to get 'er done.

Don't let me down.

Time Keeps on Slipping. Into the Future.

As I sat in the Orthodontist office with Ciera, waiting for the Doctor or Dentist or Quack or whatever you call him, Hootie and the Blowfish's "Hold My Hand" came on. Naturally I started tapping her on the leg and pointing to the ceiling due to her comment from a short while back when she stated, and I quote, "They're weird, Dad."

And naturally, she rolled her eyes at me and muttered "Daaad". It was at that point I had an epiphany; she's not my little girl anymore.

Granted, I'm still her Dad and no, she's not going away to college tomorrow, but that downhill slide I've dreaded since the moment I first held her has started. Somewhere along the line she went from this adorable little girl to a beautiful young woman who has got this huge piece of my heart in her hands and one day is just gonna tear it to shreds.

Today, it's braces and one day soon it'll be a car and boys (I've told her repeatedly that not only will SHE hate me but any knucklehead who shows up at MY front door to take her out will hate me as well) and after that college and hopefully AFTER college I'll have to walk her down the isle and give her hand to the guy who replaces me in her heart.

I tell myself it's a long time away but the past 13 years have gone by so fast that I'm pretty sure I'll turn around and find myself in a church someday wondering "How in God's name did I get here and where did the time go?"

'Course Rakes and Trot setting fire to the alter or trying to pick up the ministers wife or giving each other a hot foot will most likely take some of the pain away while I envision 38 different ways to have them shipped off to Tora Bora but I gotta tell you.

As bad as my heart hurt just thinking about it today in that medical office?

I can't IMAGINE how bad it'll feel on that day in the suddenly not so far away future.

10 Years and It Seems Like Yesterday

Ciera had just turned 3 less than a month before 9/11 and just a few days after that horrible she asked me why did that plane fly into that building as I sat, in total disbelief, watching it happen over and over again.

Just the other day, Rakes caught me watching some other show about it and uttered "What was that Dad? Did that just happen today?"

Lots of things have happened since that day. I've had two more children come into this ever changing, always scary world. The Red Sox have won two Championships, we're fighting two wars that are a direct/indirect result of that tragic day, and had our everyday rights and habits changed forever.

However, 10 years ago tomorrow morning, we all learned what a TRUE hero looked like. It was that firefighter and police officer that ran into those burning buildings in New York and Washington D.C. that never came back out. It was those men and women who wear the uniform of the greatest country on Earth with dignity, bravery, and honor. And it was that stockbroker or commodities trader in the Towers leading people to safety and then going BACK to try and help more.

Lastly, a hero looked like those ordinary men and women on Flight 93 who uttered "Let's Roll." and in the process of losing their lives saved the lives of thousands of others.

Never Forget.

Ward Cleaver I'm Not.

Tonight, I did the following.

Took Ciera's Ipod and docking station away for not doing the laundry, had to force myself from not strangling Rakes after I told him to brush his teeth only to find him elbow deep in soapy water trying to give himself, and I quote "A Soap Tattoo Sleeve" and yelled for Trot to get in his bedroom only to find him UNDER his bed.

All the while Ang is fighting a Migraine and unable to help and Andrew Miller is doing his best impression of a Major League Pitcher and failing miserably.

So not only do I feel like a complete failure as a Dad, the Sox drop 3 out of 4 to the Blue Jays and I'm pretty sure I'm gonna be mainlining Maalox by the end of the week.

Sounds like a Thursday to me.

School Daze

I emailed Trot's teacher last night to find out what we could do at home to sort of back her up while Trot gets used to all day at school. Turns out in addition to pinching, pushing, and the subtleties of the word "idiot" we've got another issue to deal with.

While I question the wisdom of giving a 5 year old a hall pass to go to the bathroom by himself, I understand why they do it. Nobody wants some kid whizzing in his pants one hour into the school day; multiply the kid times 22 and it makes even more sense. And even though they go, as a class, FOUR times a day apparently Trot needs more.

Mind you, this is a kid that when he's home will literally have a race between his feet and his bladder on which one will give up first while running to the bathroom because he just COULDN'T stop playing whatever video game he was plopped in front of. At school? Turns out he has to go roughly 35 times in an 8 hour period.

So the other day, when he asked again, he was given his "Get out of Jail" pass and 20 minutes later I guess they figured they'd better go make sure he hadn't fallen in.

Turns out he was in the Science Lab, playing with the Lizards. I should have warned her that giving that maniac a hall pass to roam the school was the equivalent of giving an alcoholic the keys to the liquor store and yelling "Have Fun!"

2 1/2 back of the Yankees and I feel fine.

This is how Charlie Brown felt when Lucy pulled the football away.

*Picture courtesy of Kelly and www.sittingstill.net*

When I woke up this morning, there were three texts I was praying I wouldn't get.

First, from Ang. "You need to come home; Trot has locked himself in the dryer on the Spin Cycle.

Second, from Ang. "I'm calling a plumber; Rakes has his leg stuck in the toilet".

Third, from Jr. "Beckett's hurt".

Thankfully, only one came true, although I think I'd rather it have been the one about the toilet. THAT? I can do something about.

Now, in addition to the scary fact the Sox either score 15 runs or none is the knowledge that the ace of the pitching staff sprained his ankle on a Toronto Blue Jays mound that the Oliver Stone part of me thinks was jimmied and is out of action for, at the very best, a week.

I need a Valium.

I'm pretty sure this is how Dillenger started out.

So the first full week of school for Trot ended today and we got his first Behavior Chart. Green is good, yellow is not, and red is the signal he needs to put a book down the back of his pants so his tail won't burn when I get done with him.

Turns out he hit yellow the last two days; after last nights talking to I was sure he'd be on his best behavior (or at least what constitutes "best behavior" for Trot. It's like asking a polar bear not to eat the salmon. He may eat it or he may not; just depends on if he wants to.

Anyways, Ang asked him once she got home why he ended up on yellow. What follows is the conversation the two of them had.

Ang: "So, why did you get in trouble today?"

Trot: "A boy named Jacob pushed me. So I pushed him back".

Ang: "Are you sure that's it?"

Trot: "Well, then I left that center and went to another one. And this boy Ben said the word "idiot". And Mom, you know that is a bad word. So I said "Don't say that word, Idiot!"

Ang: "And is THAT all?"

Trot: "Well, on the playground I pinched a little girl in my class."

Ang: "Why did you do THAT?"

Trot: "I don't know. But that was IT."

After having virtually no issues with Ciera from Day 1 I've got the sinking feeling we ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto.

Weird Science

*Image courtesy of Kelly and www.sittingstill.net*


Lost amid Jacoby Ellsbury doing his best Brady Anderson impression and hitting his 24th home run of the year tonight will be the Captain's a/b earlier in the 6th inning.

Looking like Vlad Guerrero he took a breaking ball that was about 2 inches off the ground, slapped it into right field and somehow ended up at third with the tying run scoring. I've watched the replay about 6 times and I STILL have no idea how he made contact, much less drive it all the way to the Monster.

Beckett, even while giving up 5 runs, is in line for his 12th win and my bet with Jr, although still in the "probably not gonna happen" category is still alive and well, Sox have a two run lead going into the eighth inning, and there is still the possibility someone will plant one between the 7th and 8th rib of Fransico Cervelli for his spaz attack last night.

Throw in the fact it's a Sox/Yankees game that just might end before midnight, therefore throwing the world off it's axis, and it's been a good night.

Off on the left foot.

*Image courtesy of Mrs. Karen*

Ang dropped Thing 1 and Thing 2 off at school this morning and Trot's poor teacher pulled her aside and asked "Does Trot roll his eyes at you when you ask him to do something at home?"

Not exactly the way you'd like him to start the year off; one day in and he's already rolling his eyes at his teacher. At this rate he'll be in ISS by October and expelled by Christmas.

Sox/Yankees start a 3 game set at Fenway tomorrow night.

I'll be the guy breathing into the paper bag if you need me.

I'm not bitter. Well, maybe just a little.

Due to the vagaries of the MLB blackout rule along with the general Dinkishness of Bud Selig and the fact that Rupert Murdoch is a stone-cold horses rear, I was blacked out for the second game of the Sox/A's doubleheader today.

Throw in the fact that I was at work for all but the ninth inning of the first game combined with no games tomorrow OR Monday and I'm pretty well torked off and not looking forward to the baseball withdrawl yet to come.

However, two things are keeping me from going Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon 2 at the present time. The first is the Sox swept the double-header and now have two days off to dodge Hurricane Irene AND get some much needed rest.

Secondly, when Trot becomes President someday and Rakes is Secretary of Defense and I'm doing my best Joe Kennedy/Puppetmaster over the whole thing, right before those two yahoos send the world off into the sunset of a nuclear winter I'm getting Trot to have all those stupid, mind boggling, need a degree in advanced calculus black out rules completely abolished and decreeing free baseball for everyone in the free world a natural, birth given right.

And if he's still alive, a permanent banishment of Bud Selig to Siberia, with only some food, clothes, and Celine Dion's greatest hits for company.

Rakes 101.

Rakes and Trot, in their last day of "freedom" before school started, spent the day yesterday with my Saint of a Mother. She was working in the yard when we got there, so both the boys got to spend the better part of the morning outside with Nanny, raking and sweeping and picking up sticks.

Mind you, if I asked them to do this they would look at me like I had 3 heads and immediately head off looking for ice pops and juice boxes. Nanny asks them? All of a sudden they can't WAIT to do a little manual labor.

Anyways, in the middle of all this Rakes and Mom had the following conversation.

Rakes: "Nanny, I love raking. Did my Dad name me after a rake?"

Mom: "No, Rakes. That was MY Dad's last name."

Rakes: "Oh. Anyway, this is fun!"

A few minutes later.......

Rakes: "Nanny. I know what I want to be when I grow up!"

Mom: "What's that?"

Rakes: "A Janitor!"

Mom: "Well, that would be good. But you could go to school like your Mom and get your degree, be a teacher like your Mom, and work at the same place as a Janitor but make more money if you wanted."

Rakes: (After a few silent seconds of pondering this new idea) "Nah. Being a Janitor is A LOT more fun!"

Ang says he's just like me. Content to go through life just being happy with what he's doing and no real ambition to strive higher.

There are a lot of things I can think of that would be worse than that.

He's Carl Crawford. And You're Not.

*Image courtesy of Kelly and sittingstill.net*

He just had a Home Run and 5 RBI in a 13-2 win over the Rangers.

If you see him out and about in Arlington tonight, it may not be a bad idea to get his picks for the lottery, see if he'll leave a personalized greeting on your voice mail, and buy that man an adult beverage.

On the flip side, he's decimated the Rangers the last two nights, so if you've got a wife or a girlfriend, you may want to lock them up for the night.

'Cause Carl Crawford is on a SERIOUS roll.

Tell 'Em Hells Coming. And Trot's Coming With It.

Tomorrow afternoon Ang and I are going to the school to meet the poor soul who drew Trot in the lottery to be his Kindergarten teacher.

These are supposed to be the sort of meetings where you introduce yourself, see his room, where his desk will be, etc.. and all the while I'm gonna be looking around for what that little maniac is going decide to jump off of, throw at, pee on, and potentially destroy.

I'm also gonna be debating internally whether to warn this poor woman of the havoc that is coming or just let her find out all on her own. The Assistant Principal goes to church with us, and seeing Trot grow up the last 5 years I'm pretty sure he either picked the teacher with the most patience or the one who's on his hit list; it could go either way.

Meanwhile, Rakes hits second grade and Ciera, God help me, is an 8th grader. 2nd grade is about as far back as I can remember, so hopefully the Mel Tillis impression he did the past two years is behind him. Both claim they want me to still come eat lunch with them on my day off, but so far only Rakes has sounded convincing. We'll see come next week.

Hard to believe that all 3 are gonna be in school and are considered "big kids" now.

Sorta makes me a little sad.

On the other hand, that 7 hour day by myself on Mondays isn't exactly gonna suck.

High Hopes

I have no idea how my parents raised 5 kids and none of us turned out to be serial killers.

In fact, other than me we're all a pretty well adjusted lot. Maybe it's because when we were little there weren't so many distractions. No cell phones, computers, texting, and Skyping. If we wanted to do something, we went outside and played and didn't come in until Mom called us for dinner.

Rakes and Trot have somehow taken it into their heads that the high form of entertainment is to bash each other in the gibleys as hard and often as possible; I remember my brother and I fighting but that area was always one of those unspoken rules that you just didn't go.

Maybe it's the video games. Maybe it's a total lack of parenting. Or maybe, JUST maybe my premonition about the two of them is starting to take hold.

I figure in 15 years or so Johnny Knoxville will be at the point where he realizes that taking shopping carts to his manhood or stuffing M-80's down his pants or whatever else idiotic thing he does for a cheap laugh is for the younger generation.

And those two lunatics standing behind Senor Frog will be ready to take the mantle.

At this point it's about the only thing keeping my thin shred of sanity from snapping in a thousand little pieces.

5 And Counting.

*Image courtesy of Kelly O and www.sittingstill.net*

Who, in the name of all that is holy, does Wake have to kill/bribe to get that increasingly elusive 2ooth win?

This is a guy who does more for charity than any other player in Boston, had done everything from start to mop up to relieve over the years, had to suffer the indignity of Aaron Effing Boone hitting that home run off of him in '03 and handled it with more class than your average student body President, and would probably do your paper route for you if you asked him nicely.

He's 430 years old and he's still the guy I wanna be when I finally grow up, and he can't buy that win if he had Donald Trump and Warren Buffett bankrolling him. He had a 4-1 lead and before you could un-cork the celebratory bottle of Dom it was 9-4 and he was sitting on the bench with a Thousand Yard Stare on his face, wondering how in the world it came to this.

Next shot is in Texas next week, and while I want him to get that 200th win more than I want Trot to stop peeing the bed at night?

My heart wants him to get it at Fenway.

Just seems right.

And Here I Thought Vacations Were Relaxing.

My version of Clark, Ellen, Russ, Audrey, and Cousin Eddie hit the road last Saturday for a vacation at the Las Vegas of the Deep South, Myrtle Beach. After a 5 hour drive in which we stopped 6 times to go to the bathroom (my brother and I once went 18 hours to Oklahoma City stopping only for gas/bathroom breaks. I think we stopped 3 times.) and 4,599 instances of Trot asking "How much LONGER?" we arrived at the Yachtsman resort around 5 p.m.

After a few fitful hours of sleep on a Murphy bed (Yes, they still exist and yes they are still as uncomfortable as ever) we were up early to hit the beach and do some body surfing. Which we did for a few hours, then hit the pool. Not 20 minutes after that some yahoo came running in yelling about a shark in the water. Naturally, Rakes and Trot HAD to see so we headed to the pier to check it out. Sure enough, there was about a 5 foot shark swimming RIGHT WHERE WE HAD JUST BEEN.

Ciera was freaking, Rakes wanted to know if it could bite his arm off and Trot wanted to go pet it.

Not only did we have predator fish to deal with, we had Trot combined with his "No Fear" motto ALMOST do me in. In every room at the resort there is an Ocean front balcony with a rail about 3 feet high. For some reason we asked for an upper floor room, which if you're keeping score at home tops out at 11 floors.

Guess which floor we got?

We're all sitting there watching tv and Trot meanders over to the deck, opens the door, and proceeds to jump up on the rail, lean WAY over and is basically dangling 11 floors up from a very bad landing.

That's the Yachtsman, just to the right of that tall glass building. Our room was top floor, just about dead center. I'm pretty sure I lost 3 years off the end of my life and Ang turned a shade of white not seen since Powder.

The rest of the week was relatively calm. We hit the beach and saw no more sharks (Much to the chagrin of Heckle and Jeckle), ate out and some nice places, and spent the evenings watching movies, where I'm proud to say my kids watched "The Goonies" and "Kindergarten Cop" for the very first time, although I'm a TAD worried Rakes or Trot will introduce a brand new, fun to pronounce word at some point in the year. Why didn't I remember all the cursing?

We all got burned, ended up with sand in places God never intended it to be, and in general had a nice, relaxing vacation.

Or as relaxing as this crew can be.

I'm ready for another one.

In about 5 years.

There is a White Light. Trust me on this.

Trot ALMOST dealt me the death blow today.

More to come when I'm back on the grid so to speak.

Coffee is for Closers.

I'm not sure what it is about the furniture business but there are daily instances when my patience is stretched to it's very limit.

9 times out of 10 it's due to people wanting my "best price". Apparently, most of the world is convinced there is a 1000% mark-up on furniture and I'm trying to screw them out of house, home, and inheritance.

Fact of the matter is this; furniture is no more marked up than a McDonald's Quarter Pounder with Cheese. In the price of that furniture is rent, fuel, utilities, payroll, insurance, advertising, taxes, and last but not least, commission. Whether you believe it or not, it is NOT overpriced. At least where I work.

So I hope the guy who finally tripped my wires tonight took the fact that the following conversation took place.

Me: "Sir, have you ever bought an appliance from Lowes or Home Depot?"

Sir: "Yes."

Me: "When you saw that $1,200 dollar refrigerator did you tell them you'd give them $800?"

Sir: "Well, no."

Me: (addressing his wife) "Ma'am, when you bought groceries the other day did you offer to pay $2 instead of $4 for that box of Captain Crunch and tell them if they didn't let you have it for that you wouldn't buy it?"

Ma'am: "Well, no."

Me: "Then why in the world would you expect me to sell you that bedroom set for $400 LESS than I've got it priced?"

I got the sale.

Sid and Johnny Rotten. Part Duh.

I watched a documentary on the hill people of West Virginia once and I could SWEAR these two knuckleheads appeared in part of it. Barefoot, with bad Mohawk haircuts and attitude to burn.

Rakes looks demented and Trot looks like he's ready to challenge you to a game of craps AND steal your milk money.

Somehow my prim and proper wife has let these two walking disaster's convince her that they both needed a new haircut.

Right before we go on vacation.

Between me and my slightly decaying Red Sox cap combined with these two looking like Travis Bickle in his Elementary School years I'm pretty sure Ciera is going to pretend she doesn't know any of us and tell anyone who asks that she's adopted.

All I keep thinking is wait until Trot's Kindergarten teacher gets a load of HIM.

The Dirt Dog Era Continues.

*Image courtesy of Kelly and www.sittingstill.net*

I gotta admit; after the first season of Saltalamacchia and Tek last year after V Mart was traded, I wasn't exactly sold we were set at the position.

And after watching Salty start off slow, his complete non-ability to throw out a Wildebeast stealing 2nd, and seemingly not able to hit his way out of a paper bag I wasn't exactly feeling warm and fuzzy about this year.

He's proven me wrong.

He's up to close to 30 percent of throwing out runners, hit his 11th home run tonight, and he's got a Trot Nixon/Rooster vibe about him. Tough as a brick, perpetually dirty, and he's got that whole "I could go all Travis Bickle" thing going on that may come in handy down the stretch.

He's already got caught apparently trying to bite a finger off in the bottom of a pile and that was pre-All Star Break. Imagine this guy at Yankee Stadium in September and Beckett decides it's time to bring the pain?

Things go south and I'm guaranteeing he's the first guy looking to de-cleat Arod.

In fact, with all credit to Bill Cosby for the idea, nothing would make me happier than seeing Salty charging a weeping Slappy while Pedroia sits on his shoulders, shouting "Faster! Faster! You fool! You fool!"

Can you tell I may need a vacation?

You Just Never Know

*Image courtesy of Kelly and www.sittingstill.net*

I gotta admit. After watching last nights gut busting 3-2 loss with Jon Lester on the mound I wasn't exactly feeling confident with the Lackey vs. Sabbathia match up.

Yeah, we've sort of owned C.C. going back to his Cleveland days and yeah Lackey has been on somewhat of a roll, but if you'd have given me odds before the game on whether Trot would run into his brother at full speed, causing Rakes to bite a hole in his tongue, shed about 3 liters of blood, and cause him to talk like a combination of Mel Tillis and Boston Mayor Mennino or Lackey besting Sabbathia and the Sox putting a 10 spot up I'd have STILL taken Trot as the over.

Turns out they BOTH happened just mere hours apart.

Trot, well, he was Trot and Jacoby Ellsbury's Magical Scott Boras Has Dollar Signs Dancing In His Head Mystery Tour continues with another spectacular game, Crawford goes 4-4 and Lackey goes 6 and gives up 3 and all of a sudden it's all tied up at the top of the AL East with the rubber game tomorrow night.

Beckett vs The Rock.

I'm taking the Texan for $100, Alex.

Sox. Yankees. And a Bear.

More than likely the Red Sox and the Yankees will start a 3 game series tomorrow night in a dead heat for first place in the AL East.

While I'd have loved for the Sox to have had a 5 or 6 game lead instead, let me pose a question.

Back in April, after the 0-6 then 2-10 start, if someone had told you then that the Red Sox would go on a run normally only seen while playing a Playstation and end up with the second best record in the game come August 5th, would you or would you not have thought they were completely, totally nuts?

On the flip side, what do I know? Trot peed the bed again last night, my Mom found him dancing in the window at McDonalds today, and he asked me tonight if a bear bit my arm off how long would it take to grow back.

Smells like a wild weekend series to me.

The Commander has a soft side

He may spit nails and crap lightning but Joshua Patrick Beckett, beneath all the cursing, spitting, stomping, and general surliness does indeed have a heart.

Some people were making fun of the kid for crying.

Shoot, I'd cry MYSELF if Beckett gave one.

I remember how excited Rakes was when Pawsox pitcher Billy Traber gave him a ball back in 2009 at a Durham Bulls game.



Good on Beckett for making some kids year.

Summertime Blues

Ang has come down with either what Rakes had last week or the Black Plague so while I was at work today I was moderately worried about what was going on at home.

I called a couple of times and all was well but around 4:45 Ciera called to tell me "Mom has been in the bed ALL day, Rakes and Trot keep coming in my room, and Trot is eating blueberries all over the house."

I responded with the always lame and typical male comment of "What am I supposed to do about it?"

"Talk to them, Dad!"

So I did. With threats of bodily harm, spankings, military school, and making them sleep outside for the next two weeks.

Amazingly when I got home? They were as quiet as church mice. Now, I'm not so vain that I thought my talk hit home. More like the Wendy's cheeseburgers, fries, and the fact some new, unseen Spongebob episode was on made the difference, but for the next 3 hours they were about as calm and quiet as one could expect.

It did take me about 30 minutes to clean up the house but it's summer, they are 7 and 5, and for once didn't get to go to the pool so I really can't complain.

Although if Ang doesn't feel better soon I don't know how far this Father Knows Best/ Leave it to Beaver crap is gonna last.

Trot had a weird look in his eyes when I put him to bed.

I may have to sleep with one eye open.

Mr. Mojo Rising

Sox lose, Yankees win and I've had my picture in my header up for the entire 20-6 month of July.

So, thanks to Kelly and her brilliant photography I'm changing the mojo.

The Yankees are coming to Fenway this weekend so every little bit helps.