I'd trade my Kingdom for a snow plow.

The downside of my first Saturday off (Non-travel related) in almost two years?

Stuck in the house with Trot doing the "shake your booty" dance, Rakes causing me to lose 7 years of my eyesight by playing the PS2 with him most of the day, and nothing, and I mean NOTHING worth watching on television.

To prove this last point?

I'm currently watching Lethal Weapon 4 for the 467th time.

This snow storm is further proof God has a sense of humor; how else can you explain it happening on the weekend between the Championship Games and the Super Bowl?

First person that mentions "The Pro Bowl Game" gets a shot to the marbles.

Legends Never Die. They Just Fade Away.

As I sit here in the warmth of my home, watching the snow fall quietly outside and praying Trot doesn't wake up with the brilliant idea to pee in his cereal, I'm feeling a bit melancholy.

One of the greatest champions of sports in my lifetime has decided to call it quits. A man who wore his heart on his sleeve, reached the pinnacle of his field, and always spoke his mind is a rare thing in athletics. Most guys speak in athlete riddled cliches hoping to avoid offending any sponsors, fellow athletes and the general public.

This guy? He lived his life and if you agreed with him? Fine. If not? That was OK too; he laid himself out there for everyone to see and much like Frank, he did it his way.

And no, I'm not talking about this guy.

Although he fits the bill as well. Kurt Warner is a First Ballot Hall of Famer; I don't care if you don't like his personal beliefs or feel like it doesn't belong on a football field. Michael Irvin, Lawrence Taylor, and Bill Parcells aren't exactly choir boys but when it comes to football? Three of the all-time greats. Just like Warner.

No, the man I'm referring to is this one.

John Daly has called it quits.

At least until the next sponsors exemption comes along.

Somewhere Beer Companies and Big Tobacco are weeping.

What Doesn't Kill You Just Makes You Crazy

In addition to random acts of urination, sudden loud shrieks that I gotta think resemble that of some ancient animal with ADD, and various attacks, punches, and hip checks to his brother the other big issue we're dealing with Trot about is getting up after he's been put to bed.

Or as I like to call it "The Trying to Send Dad to the Loony Bin Nightly Extravaganza".

Every night, after saying his prayers and tucking him into bed, Trot gets up roughly 4,599 times, sometimes only seconds after the light is turned out. He's not even subtle about it; his feet hit the floor like a paratrooper hitting earth after falling 10,000 feet, the door gets opened about as quiet as DEA using one of those battering rams busting down the front door of a crack house, and he always hides in the SAME place behind the bathroom door. He'd make a fantastic soldier and a terrible robber, but the Bull in a China Shop job is still on the table.

In other words he's about as predictable as a Yankee fan yelling "1918" every time he sees a Red Sox fan.

We've tried the Nanny 911 method of silently putting him back in bed over and over until he stops; problem is Nanny Jo never had THIS kid asking her 4,000 questions at the same time.

We've tried the George S Patton method, which involves threats, cursing, and promises of military school. He actually LIKES this one.

We've done the "I'm going to take away everything he likes to play with and let him suffer" plan; he finds a dust bunny, a band aid, and a paperclip and before you know it he's got a prototype of a Weapon of Mass Destruction erected and peeing in it while singing the theme song to the "Mickey Mouse Clubhouse" at the top of his surprisingly large and loud lungs.

I honestly don't know what else to do other than take the door down, turn it around and lock him in combined with putting a padlock on it. Rakes did this for about 2 months; Trot is turning it into a career move. Taking into account the longer this goes on the lower my patience gets this is going straight to the top five of reasons why I'm more than likely headed toward a stroke, heart attack, or multiple personality disorder.

At least I'll go laughing my head off.

Give me the Pony Express any day.

Anyone who knows me has this one fundamental fact committed to memory; me and technology just don't get along.

I don't own an Ipod, a MP3 Player, couldn't tell you the difference between IBM and Apple if Jack Bauer had a loaded gun to my head, and get EXTREMELY aggravated when I have to set the DVR.

The fact that I actually have a blog and can upload pictures to it comes close to a modern day miracle. Seriously, I once spent 45 minutes trying to figure out why the tool bar disappeared before I asked Ciera to fix it. Trust me, hearing "Dad. You just have to put the arrow THERE and it comes back" is something you don't want to hear.

So it comes as no big shock to anyone that me and my cell phone have a love/hate relationship. Especially since I went to the touch screen version. So far my friend Cyn has heard me "gently" berating an elderly gentleman for pulling out in front of me, another friend Candaon got a 10 minute rant at the kids one day, and today my brother from a distant mother JB called me to let me know I'd reached out and touched him via the phone about 10 times.

In my defense, I was at Rakes school, WITH Trot, to eat lunch and Trot was roaming the Gym where he'd picked up all the cones the PE Teacher was going to use for her next class and scattered them to the Four Winds. I'm hoping he heard the part where I asked her how Rakes was doing and she said he was one of her best students and she used him as an example to the rest of his class.

'Cause if he DIDN'T hear it and I try that line on anyone who knows us I'm getting labeled "The Biggest Liar Since That Kid Who Cried Wolf".

I'm taking this opportunity to apologize to anyone I've done this too up until now and anyone in the future.

Your confidentiality agreement is in the mail.

Thanks, Buddy.

Over the course of his 6 years and 2 months on earth, there haven't been many instances where the words "Rakes" and "made me tear up" haven't involved urine, permanent markers, and knives.

Today, 2 things happened that reminded me of how awesome it is to be a Dad and how much I love my little boy.

First thing was at lunch, when Ange related the following story from yesterday. She was taking all three kids to the grocery store (a feat I haven't yet dared to attempt) and the conversation was about what Ciera was going to do when she "grew up". While she was relating how she would someday be "America's Top Model" Rakes jumped in with the following.

"I would really miss my Dad so I'm gonna go to work with him at (Shameless plug Warning) Dave's Discount Furniture Warehouse so I can be with him EVERY day!"

Secondly, I was minding my own business and laying on the couch watching the football game when he walked in the living room, climbed up on the couch, put his head on my chest, and proceeded to take a 1 hour nap cuddled up next to me without any request from me.

And he didn't kick me in the gibleys one single time.

Mark Twain once said "It's the little things that matter". (Full disclosure? I pulled that out of my rear end. It could have been Twain, Vince Lombardi, or Lorena Bobbitt for all I know.)

I just know that today was a good day to be the Red Sox Dad.

Saturday Night in the Big Town

Ever played Extreme Zingo? (Just like Bingo, only with pictures of animals and stuff)

I did tonight. Rakes acted like it was a Battle to the Death, Ciera was trash talking like Deion Sanders in his prime, and Trot yelled "I got a (insert whatever it is you called out)!" then followed it up with "No I don't got it".

EVERY SINGLE TIME.

Did I mention we played for an hour and a half?

Truck Day is coming, Truck Day is coming, Truck Day is coming,..............

Dreaming of Florida

Captains Log: Friday, January 21, 2010.

Arrived home after a 10 hour day of fleecing the masses to find everyone in pajamas, ready for bed.

No urination on fellow siblings had occurred, all knives, fire place pokers, and light sabers were stored away safely.

A few random cries, shouts, and "Dad, tell Trot to stop messing with my Avatar man!" were heard but quickly forgotten.

Lastly, at bedtime, Trot only got up 3 times and I only had to threaten a whipping once.

It ain't the Klingons demanding control of the Intergalactic World but it's close enough to the Final Frontier as I wanna get.

Have pitchers and catchers reported yet?

Sometimes I Just Need A Gentle Reminder

Every now and then I take a break from my "Sports only" rule of surfing the Internet and take a look at the actual news sites, if only to remind myself the real world is much stranger than fiction. It usual only takes me a few minutes to remember why I decided to use my time on the Internet feeding my Red Sox obsession instead of actually trying to keep up as I remember I could just slam my head in my car door repeatedly and accomplish the same thing.

Tonight I stumbled across this particular item about the President of Venezuela, Hugo Chavez. (It should come as no surprise that he's a close friend of Ozzie Guillen. In fact, I'm 99% sure Ozzie put this idea in his head just to mess with him.)

Apparently, Hugo thinks the US has a "Earthquake Weapon" and caused the tragedy in Haiti so we could "take over". Yes. That is EXACTLY what a country involved in 2 wars, a fight against terrorism, going throug a recession, and dealing with "Jersey Shore" would do. Let's cause a massive disaster that will kill hundreds of thousands of people, spend billions in money, and commit troops who COULD be dealing with the other myriad issues world wide we're heading up and take over a country WITH NO MONEY, no assets, and several years of rebuilding before they even resemble a third world country?

Oh yeah; he thinks we also caused the earthquake's in California and China too.

Did I mention this man speaks at the United Nations on a regular basis and counts that whack job in Iran as a close, personal friend?

Screw that noise. I've got enough nut jobs living under my roof to deal with as it is.



I'll be googling "Rex Ryan quotes that make you scratch your head" if you need me.

A Picture really doesn't tell a story

I live with the boy and even I have a hard time reconciling this sweet little boy sleeping with the child who peed on his brother not 24 hours ago.

How can someone melt your heart with a "I wuv you, Dad" one minute turn around and break 7 Christmas ornaments you've had since you were 5 in the time it takes you to change the channel on the television?

This morning while I waited in line to drop Trot off at school and he fiddled with every knob and button on my radio I had an epiphany. And no, I didn't have to google that to figure out what it meant.

Ok, I did but that's beside the point. Ange and I have been wondering how we can describe Trot to everyone who hasn't met him yet and it all sort of hit me upside the head while I listened to him ask me "What does this one do?" for the 785th time.

(I'd like to apologize to Rakes at this moment. Buddy, I know you can't read yet but one day you will. And it's true; Your Dad thought you were going to be the epitome of "boys will be boys". Son, you are an Angel.)

This, in a nutshell, is Trot.

If you're looking for me I'll be spending all my free time for the foreseeable future trying to figure out how I can keep him from urinating.

I gotta say; this isn't how I envisioned my 40's playing out.

More Joys of Parenthood

Usually on Mondays it's me, Trot, a pile full of laundry and more fun that a barrel of monkeys. With today being a holiday, the whole crew including Ange was at home. You'd think this would be a good thing, but when it comes to my kids the norm goes flying out the window.

I've come with a mathematical equation that proves the more kids together at one time = an inordinate amount of chaos. The fact this equation was achieved under extreme duress and involves Gordon Ramsey, a bag full of skittles, and 4 visits to a "professional therapist" is inconsequential. The fact is? It's true.

Up until about 1:30 today however, I had high hopes that today, unlike every other day when they are all together, was going to be one of those "miracle" days. No fights, no arguments, and no instances of me retreating to a dark room and crying in the fetal position. Ange was working out, I was doing extensive research into the field of criminology by watching "Cold Case" reruns and the kids were all outside jumping on the trampoline and playing on the swing set. Throw in a pipe and a cardigan sweater and I could have passed for Ward Cleaver on a relaxing Monday afternoon.

Until I heard the 5 words that I'm pretty sure will stick with me for the rest of my life.

"Dad. Trot peed on Rakes."

Mind you, I've personally witnessed this child pee in a vase, off the back porch, in the garage, and in the tub, all supplemented by the occasional use of an actual toilet. Never, and I mean NEVER did I ever expect to hear he went on his brother; call me naive or stupid or whatever, but it honestly never crossed my mind.

Trot sees the world in a totally different way than me, you, and most 4 legged animals apparently and while Rakes and Ciera were on the swings decided that taking a whizz on his brother 6 feet below was just what the doctor ordered.

I wish I could tell you I handled things in a calm manner. I wish I could say I was the definition of composure. I also wish I could hit the power ball, ask Sela Ward "How YOU doin'?" and bat clean up for the Red Sox, all of which would be a lie.

Remember how mad Yosemite Sam would get when Bugs Bunny would make him look silly?

That was me, only on steroids, HGH, and crank.

It was all I could do to get him to his mother without killing him while I got Rakes cleaned up, calmed down, and dried out.

One day, in a galaxy far, far away I may laugh about this. Right now? I'm googling "Therapists who work cheap" and dreaming of Spring Training.

Also, I'm planning a multi-million dollar law suite against Dr. Spock.

'Cause I KNOW he never covered this in any of his stupid books.

Sunshine on a Cloudy Day

In the first 2 hours of the next longest day of his life, Jack Bauer watched cartoons with his granddaughter, helped a scumbag informant try to escape, killed one dude with a fire axe to the chest while at the same time causing another dude to fall to his death down some stairs.

He then saved a guy from a RPG that took out a helicopter, had Chloe hack into a government computer system, accessed a secure armory to get a gun, blackmailed the head of CTU, and sent his daughter and grandchild back to California.

I haven't done that much in the past 6 years.

And if having my favorite tv character back for the next 22 weeks isn't enough?

Brett Farve and the Vikings beat the Cowboys and as a bonus FOX gave us numerous shots of Jerry Jones on the sidelines looking like he was getting ready to hurl while alternating with shots of the Vikings owner, who is named Ziggy by the way (How awesome is THAT? He's named ZIGGY!) chugging down some Dom at the same time.

Throw in Rex Ryan and the ragtag JETS beating San Diego and all in all?

To paraphrase that great lyricist Ice Cube?

It was a good day.

'Cause Pedro Martinez ain't walking through that door anytime soon

Tomorrow night the only thing that can take my mind off the fact we're still 3 months away from Opening Day returns.

And while I'll still be dealing with Trot using the world as his personal urinal, Rakes trying with all his might to stay on green at school every day, and the prospects of Ciera coming home and uttering the word "boyfriend" on any given day, the greatest television character ever imagined returns to my living room for two glorious hours Sunday night.

Jack. Is. BACK.

My life's goal is to get an entire wing of The Smithsonian in his honor.

And yes, this is what happens every year around this time; I slowly start to lose my mind over having no baseball and Jack and LOST pull me back from the edge.

I should note that this is the last year for LOST and could very well be the last year of 24 as well.

You've all been warned.

Mama always said "Stupid is as Stupid Does"

After months of painstaking research (In full disclosure? The last 10 minutes), extensive use of pie charts and Einstein's Theory of Relativity, and intense use of a Magic Eight Ball I've come to the following conclusion.

The more money a person makes contributes greatly to their loss of intelligence.

In spades.

From Gilbert Arenas and his brilliant choice to bring handguns into Washington DC to every lottery winner you've ever heard of, massive amounts of money equals massive levels of bad decisions and rampant stupidity. The Bible says it's easier for a rich man to pass through the eye of a needle than get into heaven; forget the needle. Most of these idiots couldn't unlock a door if you gave 'em a key, a sledgehammer, and one of those battering rams the cops use when they're busting down your door with a search warrant for "stalking the guy you thought was a Red Sox scout at your local minor league affiliate."

Or so I've heard.

Sure, you've got your exceptions; Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, and that dude who looks like Mick Foley who won "Survivor" that one year. But most of these people? Get a little money and they all turn into Earnest T. Bass from The Andy Griffith Show.

And yes, I've convinced myself this is all true just so when the end of the month comes and I'm trying to figure out which vital organ I'll need to sell THIS month to pay everything I can tell myself that I've got it good.

My name is Ted.

And I need Truck Day like a needle needs a vein.

(With apologies to Bono.)

Trot being Trot being Trot

While I was hard at work trying to convince the masses they REALLY needed a new living room group, the mailman was delivering a package on my front porch. Sent by my good friend Kelly, it consisted of Trot Nixon's autograph, a signed Trot Nixon baseball, and a hilarious letter from Kelly, complete with a picture of the Original Dirt Dog laughing at a picture of my Trot dressed up like a girl.

I have no idea what he thought about some demented 3 year old cross dressing child that bears his name, and thanks to Kelly printing off a copy of my post where Rakes called 911 and Trot practically begged the officer to lock him up, a child whose apparent greatest wish is to go to the Big House. All I know is I'm really grateful she took the time to think about us.

A huge assist goes to Cyn for snapping the picture and keeping it a secret, even though we'd texted each other after the fact and before today. Cyn, remind me to contact you first the next time I've committed a crime; I honestly believe you'd do hard time than rat me out. ;)

Finally, even though he doesn't really understand the awesomeness of it all just yet, Trot was STILL a pretty happy guy after I explained what came in the mail.


Either that or he's got some really wicked awesome gas.

It could go either way.

Funny. I didn't miss Paula one bit.

Every year I watch "American Idol" with Ciera. Not when they get to Hollywood, just the ones that stink, mind you. I think this has to do with the fact I can't carry a tune and won't even sing in the shower out of fear Ange will hear and leave me on general principle alone.

Secondly, I'm not much of a music person. I like certain groups and songs, think 80's Hair Metal should have it's own wing at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and I'd like to see U2 and Bruce live before I kick the bucket but I'd rather listen to sports talk radio than music any day of the week. I don't own an Ipod, have never downloaded music from the internet, and couldn't name 95% of the current artists if you drew me a map and gave me a text book.

All that said, as I'm watching complete tools act like idiots on national television while Rakes and I giggle like morons and Ciera feels sorry for them, I heard two songs that always give me goosebumps.

Song #1? Jeff Beck and Rod Stewart say it best. Although Rod's outfit is a tad scary.



Song #2? "Boston". Only this version was taken by my friend Cyn at the "Hot Stove" Concert a few years back, with Bronson Arroyo doing the honors. Wait for the adjusted lines toward the end; God Bless Bronson.

1998 seems like a LONG time ago

He couldn't have screwed this up worse if he'd shown up wearing a t shirt that said "I break for Juicers!" and flexing his muscles like Hulk Hogan back in the day.

The American public is a forgiving group; Jason Giambi apologizes, without saying what it is he's apologizing for, and he's forgiven. (Except for that whole gold thong thing and the unforgivable move of bringing back the Ron Jeremy porn stache.)

History is full of people who did idiotic things, yet are looked at as being OK due to the fact they owned up to what they did, apologized, and moved on. Bill Clinton, Micky Mantle, Dustin Hoffman for being in "Ishtar", and Alex Rodriguez. In fact, I bet if you asked 100 people on the street if Pete Rose should be in the Hall of Fame, 90 would say this: "As long as his plaque say's he bet on baseball? Yes." OK. Maybe not 90, but I would at least.

Mark McGwire had the chance today to totally redeem himself. He admitted he did 'roids, clearly regrets it, says all the right things, then looks Bob Costas in the eye and categorically denies thinking that steroids helped his performance, other than recovery purposes, in any way.

Either he's the dumbest human being to ever walk the earth or he's got the OJ Simpson "If I say it enough times and start to actually believe it it's the truth" disease; either way he blew whatever shot he had at total redemption right out of the water.

Don't get me wrong; I believe he's sorry, I believe he regrets what he did, and I honestly think he's a pretty good guy. But to have broken one of the, if not THE sacred record of baseball, all the while making a pants load of money while on this stuff, he wants us to believe he'd have done it anyways? Then WHY TAKE THE STUFF IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Yeah, yeah. To "recover" from injuries. That's why God invented Ibuprofen, massages, doctors, and everything else that can help with that. Whatever happened to just flat out owning up to a mistake and not having some lame excuse for it? Has the phrase "grow a set" just gone completely out of style?

I'm glad he's back in baseball; clearly, he loves the game and anyone who loves baseball is at least some point OK in my book. Like I said earlier, I think he's a good guy who just screwed up and as a guy who screws up at least 15 times a day I'm all for second, third, fourth, and fifth chances.

I just wish Big Mac had decided to stop at 2.

In a totally unrelated note Ciera informed us tonight she has her first boyfriend, Ange managed to keep me from sticking my head in the oven, and I'm applying for a concealed carry permit first thing in the morning.

To the shock and surprise of no one who knows me?

I'm not ready for this yet.

Finally, something good in Texas.

There are just a few special things that will get me to flip over during a Red Sox game to take a peek at. Any Barry Bonds at bat a few years back, Sela Ward in some random Lifetime Network movie, "Deadliest Catch" on select Tuesdays, and Vladimir Guerrero.

Any dude with a strike zone that starts at the top of his head and ends at his cleats? I'm trying to catch every one of his at bats, anytime I can.

I honestly don't know if this really happened or if I just really wish it would someday, but the image of Vladdy hitting a ball that BOUNCED in front of home plate off the wall for a double is etched somewhere in my feeble mind, although a cursory tour of Youtube makes me think it's wishful thinking on my part.

Still, watching my man wobble up to home plate on knees a retired NFL lineman would cringe at, holding the bat like some over grown toothpick, then proceeding to hit the freaking cover off the ball more times than not is one of my most favorite non-Red Sox moments on a baseball field.

So after watching the Angels let him walk, it was with great joy I read tonight he's signed a 1 year deal to DH for the Texas Rangers, making them option #2 during the season. Watching Ron Washington chewing on a toothpick while Vlad and Josh Hamilton do their 2010 impression of the Bash Brothers is gonna be fun.

Meanwhile, another day has passed and we're that much closer to Truck Day and Spring Training.

God Bless Us.

Everyone.

You Heard of him now, Man?

I may be showing my age but this may be the best "Bromance" movie of all time.

Eddie at his peak, Nolte before he lost his mind, that dude from "Sex in the City" before he went south, and after almost 28 years? STILL hilarious. If you don't believe me, go to YouTube and look for "48 Hours the movie bar scene". NSFW but classic Eddie.

This is what happens with no baseball combined with Rakes and Trot behaving like normal human beings.

Maybe tomorrow they'll steal a car.

Really, Miss. They are totally normal.

I didn't think it was possible, but tonight at bath time we had the extremely rare instance of "Two simultaneous injuries that weren't delivered to the marbles but cause both boys to leave the bathtub in tears".

I was eating at the time but the best I can figure Rakes hit Trot with some sort of bath toy and Trot retaliated with a head butt.

Honestly, I'm shocked we haven't had the need for stitches yet.

But they're still young.

That is one MAGIC loogie

The voters for the Baseball Hall of Fame are idiots.

I've honestly got no other explanation to explain how one year a guy is only worthy of X amount of votes and the next year he's jumped up 50%; he's been retired AT LEAST 5 years so he didn't hit any more HR's or win any more games or drive in any more runs. Just one year he's not worthy and the next year he is.

Case in point? Bert Flipping Blyleven. 287 wins, 60 shutouts, and 3,701 K's. And he hasn't pitched in YEARS. Last year? He got 338 votes; this year? 400. All of a sudden 62 more writers all of a sudden view him as Hall worthy? And why are writers the only ones with a voice? What about former and current players/managers/executives? Television and radio announcers for each team? For all we know the dude in Seattle with a vote hasn't seen a game not involving the Mariners since Ford was President, yet his vote counts more than Ichiro's or Griffey's?

Today it was announced Andre Dawson, former Expo, Cub, Red Sox, and Marlin finally got in. On his NINTH try. This process may be more idiotic than the BCS in college football.

To rest my case? Roberto Alomar didn't make it on his first try this year. Andre Dawson makes it after NINE tries and Alomar doesn't? Look, I realize he spit on an umpire and I also realize that was a pretty crappy thing to do. But do these dinks realize Ty Cobb is in the Hall? All HE did was go into the stands and beat up a heckler who DIDN'T HAVE ANY ARMS AT THE TIME!

Sorry, but the following stats, courtesy of ESPN.com, let anyone with half a brain know that Alomar belongs in Cooperstown.

"A 12-time All-Star second baseman, Alomar led Toronto to consecutive World Series titles in 1992-93. He finished with a .300 career batting average, 2,724 hits, 210 homers, 474 steals and 10 Gold Gloves."

Sure, he'll get in next year or the year after or the year after that. And if there is any justice Blyleven will get in as well. But the fact that decision is made by some writer sitting in a cubicle God knows where is what chaps my rear end. Let the BASEBALL people make the call and leave the writing to the writers.

Just my two cents.

And Truck Day can't get here fast enough.